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Oikawa loves a lot of things. He loves the feel of warm sand between his toes on the beaches in Argentina, and loves speaking broken Spanish; he loves his mom’s fresh-baked milk-bread, right out of the oven and waiting for him whenever he visits home; he loves the whispers and giggles that follow him wherever he goes; he loves the screams of the crowd when he takes his spot on the court. Throughout his life, the things that Oikawa loves have stayed more or less the same – as much as his friends like to tease him about being a drama queen, overly complicated, or a pain in the ass, Oikawa really is a simple man. At the top of his list of things he loves sit the two biggest pieces of his life – volleyball, and Iwaizumi Hajime. 

Oikawa has loved Iwaizumi for about as long as he’s loved volleyball – in fact, one of his earliest memories is toddling over to a ball, picking it up, and lobbing it right at Iwaizumi’s face. He’d started crying immediately, and Oikawa panicked, stumbling to him frantically and planting kisses on his nose like his mother did for Oikawa whenever he got hurt. 

That was the start of Oikawa’s love affair with Iwaizumi. 

Well, at least the one inside his head – because while Oikawa never stopped adoring Iwaizumi, even throughout the awkward growth spurts, pimples, periods of angst, and everything in between, he never told him. He doesn’t see how he could – they are best friends, and Oikawa would surely ruin that if he dared to utter a confession. Besides, Iwaizumi, though he’s a brute and entirely too mean to be charming, has far too many options to ever consider Oikawa.

Oikawa got it. He liked the attention that he got from girls, too. He reveled in their batted eyelashes and hurried confessions, but all it ever does is feed into another one of Oikawa’s loves: attention. It’s different with Iwaizumi – Oikawa spent the entirety of his young life watching Iwaizumi, so he saw his eyes catch on pretty girls, saw him blush when they gave him flowers and declared their undying love for him. 

He always rejected them, though, which were tiny victories for Oikawa, even if he knew the reason was nothing other than that Iwaizumi was too busy. Oikawa clung to whatever hope he could get, and he loved Iwaizumi from afar, masking his feelings behind the curtain of friendship. Iwaizumi was never any of the wiser.

Oikawa almost cracked, once, after their final volleyball game together. They both spent the afternoon crying, and as they walked home, setting sun in the background, he thought that it would be the perfect moment –  it was as romantic as all of the movies Oikawa forced Iwaizumi to watch with him. He could stop them in their tracks, put his hands on Iwaizumi’s shoulders and shake him, shouting something like, ‘I’m in love with you, you idiot!’

He could’ve, but he didn’t. The potential of rejection loomed too heavily in front of him. If he scared Iwaizumi away, Oikawa was sure he would die.

It turns out, it didn’t matter. Iwaizumi left him anyway, deciding to go all the way to the United States of America. Oikawa whined about it for weeks, and then, not one to be one-upped, packed his things and moved to Argentina. 

It wasn’t totally impulsive. Oikawa had been thinking about his next moves since his final high school volleyball game. Would he give up volleyball entirely? No, of course not. He was Oikawa. He wouldn’t give up that easily – and he wouldn’t deny the world of a great talent just because he was feeling sorry for himself. 

Oikawa was intertwined with volleyball just as much as he was intertwined with Iwaizumi, so he knew he would have to continue on his path. If he couldn’t have one, he could still pursue the other. The thing was, all of his fantasies of jetting off to another country always included Iwaizumi by his side. 

In the weeks leading up to their separation, Oikawa talked himself into and out of confessing at least fifteen times. He baked sweets to give to Iwaizumi, just to panic and eat them himself. His mother told him he should consider a secondary career as a baker if volleyball didn’t work out. He wrote everything down, like a preteen creating diary entries, but he crumpled them up and shoved them into the bottom of his trash can. 

He never got the words out, and their goodbye was casual – a quick hug and a pat on the back, as good friends do. They would see each other sometime, Iwaizumi promised – he would watch him on television when he made it big.

On the plane ride, Oikawa allowed himself to cry for the last time over Iwaizumi. It was a final, dramatic send-off to his feelings – after his tears dried, he promised himself that he would move past this. 

And he tried – he really did. Sure, he covered his bedroom with pictures of them, called Iwaizumi four times a week and pined from at least 6,291 miles away, but he also had bursts of clear-headedness. He was in the center of the court, after a long and grueling audition game, hearing his name called for new members of the Argentinian Volleyball League, and up until that moment, he hadn’t thought of Iwaizumi more than once. Yet, as soon as his name echoed throughout the gymnasium, Oikawa knew Iwaizumi was the first person he wanted to tell.

Sometimes, Oikawa tried for the more aggressive tactics of moving on. He would let the beautiful man with the smoldering eyes take him home, but he’d keep his eyes closed through it all. He tried to imagine that maybe Iwaizumi would feel like this too, and if he could imagine it, maybe it would be enough…

It’s not enough, and Oikawa knows Iwaizumi would be better than any nameless stranger he can pick up in a bar, no matter how pretty they are.

Oikawa is beginning to wonder if he’ll be ruined forever – if he’ll be forced to live his life lonely, probably surrounded by cats and baking milk bread for nobody to enjoy but himself. He’ll have to see Iwaizumi get married and have kids and Oikawa will be the creepy, lovestruck uncle who can’t move on. 

He could be that, though – if he has to be. To keep Iwaizumi in his life, Oikawa will be whoever he needs to be. 

It wasn’t so bad when he was distracted. While seeing Iwaizumi’s face over video-call didn’t help his infatuation, it did fill him with an ease and peace that he so desperately needed his first few weeks in Argentina, where for the first time in his life his confidence faltered. Iwaizumi enrolled in a Spanish class at his university, and together he and Oikawa made flashcards, filled out study guides, and crammed – just like they had their whole lives. He told him when Oikawa visited him in California, he could sit in on his classes, and they would go to his favorite Spanish restaurant and practice ordering. He was a comfort that Oikawa had grown entirely accustomed to – irreplaceable, and so he continued to keep his mouth shut. 

When they couldn’t call, they texted. Oikawa couldn’t do anything without informing Iwaizumi about it – how could he, when everything reminded him of the other man? He would walk into a convenience store and see a disgusting sugary snack that Iwaizumi would love, and he just had to take a picture and send it. He’d get a bruise shaped like a small country on his leg, and even though he knew Iwaizumi would scold him for hurting himself, he just had to show it off to him.

Every dog Oikawa saw on the street had to be video-taped so Iwaizumi could see their little trot, hop, or trudge – bonus points if the tails were wagging. He took selfies with each and every one of his teammates and sent Iwaizumi their stats.

It made it feel like they were home together – close in spirit, even if they were continents away. 

When Oikawa and his team took a trip to Brazil for a competition and he happened upon one familiar shrimp on the beach, he called Iwaizumi on instinct, screaming incoherently into the phone for a few seconds before Iwaizumi yanked the reason for his call out of him. 

Iwaizumi demanded a picture, and when Oikawa sent it over, Iwaizumi sent back a picture of his own – with Ushijima. 

Oikawa called him and started incoherently screaming right over again. 

It wasn’t one-sided, either – every ‘A’ or academic honor that Iwaizumi received, he would send to Oikawa. He called late at night to complain about group assignments where his partners have no work ethic, or a professor that was too impatient with his English. 

Sometimes, they fell asleep on the phone together, but neither ever said anything the next day. 

In the beginning, they visited – Oikawa took Iwaizumi to every romantic spot in Argentina as suggested by his teammates, but at the end of his trip, they were still very much friends. Oikawa got the full United States experience in California – lots of cheeseburgers and fries, an endless search for museums that had alien exhibits, an all-day hike in Yosemite, and a lot of strange, American customs. They promised they would keep this up, at least once a year, and for three years, it worked. If they couldn’t see each other in their new home countries, they timed their visits to their families for the same time, and Oikawa ached with how familiar it all felt.

He continued to stay quiet, and on the fourth year, Oikawa missed Iwaizumi’s graduation. It was an impossible decision – if he flew to California, he would miss tryouts for the Argentinian National Team. Iwaizumi swore up and down that he understood, that he wasn’t mad, and he gave Oikawa the link for the livestream. But, for Oikawa, it was the beginning of the end.

Oikawa made the team; Iwaizumi graduated, and immediately landed his dream job – he would be the physical trainer for the Japan National Team. 

They told each other the news at the same time. It was perfect -- Iwaizumi bragged to Oikawa that he would get to go to the next Olympics, teasing him that he beat Oikawa to his dream – so of course, Oikawa had to shut him up. He dropped the bomb from the parking lot of the Argentinian National Team’s practice gymnasium, hoping Iwaizumi could feel his smug smile.

The moment he heard the quiet gasp on the other end, followed by Iwaizumi clearing his throat and rumbling out a casual, “Congrats, Shittykawa,” Oikawa dropped all of his pretenses of better-than-thou behavior and promptly burst into tears. 

Oikawa wishes they were together to celebrate, but then – how would he celebrate with Iwaizumi now? When they were kids, it was pillow forts and empty pizza boxes and staying up all night watching the dumbest movies they could find. When they got a little older, it was sneaking an extra beer from the fridge to share, toasting and acting far too ridiculous for how little they were intoxicated. How would Iwaizumi celebrate with his American friends? He can’t imagine him at a club, but probably a bar, or maybe a friend’s house, cozied up next to someone on the couch –

To hell with that mental image – Oikawa needed to confess before he regretted it for the rest of his life. This was the perfect opportunity – adrenaline was high. If Iwaizumi was there with him then, he would have hugged him, then they would’ve slowly pulled away to stare deeply into each other’s eyes, and the energy in the room would force their lips together like a magnetic pull. 

His life isn’t a romance movie, but that’s something that could definitely happen to them in a moment like this! Once again, though, Oikawa talks himself out of it. Iwaizumi is thousands of miles away – he wouldn’t feel it like he needs to. Next time, for sure. 

He doesn’t next time, either, and eventually, their separate lives pull them further apart. The excuses come the next year, too, as they throw themselves into their new careers.

 They’d both tried – Oikawa ached for Iwaizumi’s presence, wanted to just be near him, even if he couldn’t touch him how he wanted, it would be enough to be in the same room. He was desperate to see him, but Iwaizumi couldn’t take time away from his job to come to Argentina, and Oikawa was at a game every weekend. Tickets were expensive, anyways, and they were struggling. Maybe next year, next year, next year…

After a while, the attempts became more infrequent, more of pipe dreams than potential plans. Oikawa didn’t want to push Iwaizumi when he was busy, so he stopped asking.

They still texted frequently, but the phone calls stopped and they no longer stayed up late, sacrificing sleep to talk about anything in the world. 

Oikawa has long since abandoned all hope of moving on, and as the Olympics draw nearer, he grows more firm in his resolve to finally just tell Iwaizumi how he feels. Soon, they'll not only be on the same continent, but the same city. Oikawa can picture it now — he’ll train harder than ever before, show up to the Olympics, destroy Japan in their match, and storm off the court to sweep Iwaizumi off his feet with a passionate kiss and a loving confession.

Still not a romance movie, so maybe he won’t actually do that – but he will crush Japan and he will tell Iwaizumi. Winning is Oikawa’s love language and it’s been a long time since Iwaizumi’s gotten to see it close up. 

-x-

Oikawa does not love airplanes. They make him nauseous and his skin sallow, and the flight attendants are far too stingy with the amount of apple juice they give out. He would fly for forty-eight hours straight to see Iwaizumi, though.

While Oikawa might not love airplanes, he does love to travel. New places, new cultures, a chance for a whole new lifestyle, even if just for a short time, has always been enticing to Oikawa. He loves staying in hotels, snuggling in the unnaturally soft comforter, living like he’s just a high schooler at an away game again. All he’s missing is Iwaizumi – his roommate for any and all games, an unspoken agreement between them. 

This time, he’ll be at the Olympic Village – a fantasy he dreamt up many years ago, and always chased, and Iwaizumi will be right there with him. Well, he won’t be in the same room, but Oikawa decides he’s close enough. They’ll be able to ogle at the height of the Scandanvian teams, and he’ll be able to tease Iwaizumi that he’s halfway to qualifying for Japan’s body-building team – he’s seen those muscles; FaceTime doesn’t lie. They can take pictures with all of the players they admire – because Iwaizumi and Oikawa have the same taste in professional athletes, of course.

He wonders what Iwaizumi is like with his team. They’ve discussed his job, and Oikawa has heard stories here and there about the funny things his players do (Oikawa demanded to know everything Shoyo and Tobio did). He’s also done his research on the Japan National Team – his very own Tobio and sweet, shrimpy Shoyo often dominate discussion about the team, but they’re hardly the most impressive. Japan’s team is stacked – Bokuto, Ushijima, Sakusa, Miya, Yaku, Ojiro, Hoshiumi – Oikawa went through his high school career with those names by his side. Some he faced and defeated, while others knocked him out of the rankings. 

Oikawa doesn’t let things lie – he’s been thinking about his revenge for nearly a decade. It’s been powering up within him, like a solar beam, right alongside his feelings for Iwaizumi. He’ll show Iwaizumi how good he’s gotten, and then he’ll make him fall in love with him. He doesn’t really have all the details figured out yet, but that’s the gist. 

He watches the screen in front of him, a live map, and Oikawa is a tiny dot hurtling towards Japan. After nearly ten years, Oikawa will see his best friend in the world. He just has to wait for six more hours and thirty-seven minutes.

When they land down, Oikawa and his teammates are shuttled straight to the Olympic Village, and Oikawa can only take it in glances as he’s jostled in the direction of where his team is staying. All he knows is that in a gathering of the most world-class, fittest athletes on the planet, Oikawa is still looking for Iwaizumi.

He snaps out of his daze momentarily when sees their personal villa – it’s like something out of a magazine, all polished granite and couches you could sink into. He sprints in, claiming the biggest room as his own and refusing to budge, even when his teammates dog-pile him and tease him about his plans for bringing girls to his bed.

Oikawa wriggles out from under the pile and scoffs at them. He’s obviously heard about all the debauchery in the Village, but he doesn’t understand how anyone manages it. The only time off he has from practices, games, and mandatory meetings and physical training is time enough to eat and sleep. Anyone who manages to get it on in the middle of the Olympics really is an athlete. 

They start off the first night with a team dinner and a strategy meeting. Their first match, as Oikawa’s luck would have it, is against Japan. 

They ask Oikawa for any information he can provide, and he spills everything he knows about his old rivals. Most of it is common knowledge – the whole world knows about the Wonder Twins and their Freak Quick, and Ushijima is an international phenomenon. Bokuto is known for his overwhelming presence on the court, and can spike a ball like he’s trying to kill someone with it. Sakusa and Miya double as models for a popular underwear company, so their names are plastered all over the planet, and there’s enough fan compilations of their games that Oikawa feels like he’s played against them. He gives information on everyone that he knows, and they watch the other team’s tapes. Oikawa catches a glimpse of Iwaizumi in the background of one of them, clapping and cheering for one of Miya’s plays, but Oikawa soldiers on.

As much as Iwaizumi is the one and only romantic love of Oikawa’s life, he’s in direct competition with his other love – volleyball. He’ll see Iwaizumi soon. Their game against each other is in two days, so until then, Oikawa will turn off his thoughts and give into carefully curated instinct. He’ll go too hard, tire himself out just like Iwaizumi has spent the majority of his life telling him not to. 

Iwaizumi told him once, when they were kids, that he had a shitty personality, and Oikawa told him that in ten years, he’d have a perfectly molded, mature adult personality. Iwaizumi proceeded to argue that he’ll be the same person throughout his whole life. His personality won’t change. It’ll just grow.

He was right. Oikawa hasn’t changed all that much at all, but he’s grown, and he’s finally come to terms with what he wants. 

Iwaizumi told him then that he wasn’t really shitty, and that his personality was fine, he guessed.

For all of his insults, Iwaizumi always made sure to stop just shy of actually hurting Oikawa’s feelings. Iwaizumi pretended he didn’t care – he teased and taunted and tormented him with mean nicknames and bad jokes, but he always made sure to punch Oikawa in the arm afterwards, promising him that he didn’t mean it. Iwaizumi would never purposely hurt him.

He’s waited too long – he’s almost let the opportunity slip away, but he won’t. He’s at the Olympics already – may as well knock out another life-long dream while he’s at it. 

-x-

Oikawa isn’t a morning person, but the next day he pops out of bed like a toaster pastry and practically leaps into the shower. The matches start next week, and so today is a free day to explore the city and take in some culture before they have to give up all free time for practice. Oikawa only has one sight he wants to set his eyes on.

He texts his teammate group chat that he’s going off to see some old friends and that he’ll catch them for dinner in the evening – he’s going to once more change their world by taking them for traditional ramen.

Oikawa texted back and forth with Iwaizumi for a bit last night before both of them passed out at 9PM (Oikawa has always been a big believer in sleep – good for beauty, good for body), and the address of the training facility Japan was assigned to sat in his inbox. Iwaizumi had sent it accompanied by a challenge – come meet the team that’s going to beat your ass.

Oikawa grins at his phone now, probably looking like a maniac wandering around smiling at his hand at seven in the morning, but those who pass by him are all in their own worlds, focused wholly on their sports and not on confessing to someone they’ve loved for twenty-seven years of life.

It’s a short train ride to the stadium, but he taps his foot like an over-caffeinated rabbit the entire time, and when he arrives at his destination, he has to hold back from sprinting in and jumping all over Iwaizumi.

Oikawa has never adhered to anything dumb and hyper-masculine, like the bro-code, so he would do it, but he doesn’t want to get kicked out of their practice. Iwaizumi was very specific when he told Oikawa he could come only if he can sit still and quietly. He still speed-walks, because he can’t entirely keep his cool – he can only manage that in games.  

There are several teams practicing, but Japan is easy to find. Their door is cracked and Oikawa spies Shoyo’s bright orange beacon of hair, bouncing through the room like he’s the volleyball.  

 Oikawa pauses at the door. He needs a minute. He hasn’t seen Iwaizumi in person in years and now he’s here. He practices calming yoga breaths while he takes in the rest of the room – all familiar. Tobio is as awkward and lost as ever off the court, following Shoyo around until they’re called back into position. Bokuto is screaming something to Ushijima, who looks serene enough that he must be used to this behavior by now. The fake-blonde with the hooded eyes – Miya – is grinning at a man with curly black hair, who manages to radiate irritation even through his face mask. Oikawa recognizes him as Sakusa. 

He could spend hours analyzing the players, especially since it looks like they’re about to start up again, but then Oikawa’s eyes fall to the side of the court, the benches, and his heart almost stops beating in his chest.

There’s his Iwa-chan – right there.

Video chatting does not do him justice. Oikawa got to see Iwaizumi’s face change over the years, but only in bursts after the visits stopped – only every so often, when they would find the time to FaceTime, or when he’d be blessed with a selfie. Oikawa liked to point out Iwaizumi’s laugh lines and Iwaizumi would glare at him, citing that not everyone had the time for a thirteen step skin routine. 

Oikawa feels the air leave his lungs, and he briefly wonders if this is what it feels like to die. Iwaizumi looks good. He’s dressed in a red polo and perfectly ironed khakis – does Iwaizumi iron now? God, that’s so sexy. Oikawa loves a man who can take care of himself. 

His glasses frame his face – accentuating that intense stare. Oikawa told him for years that he’d go blind staring at screens, but Iwaizumi always brushed him off. 

The most overarching detail, Oikawa notes, is that Iwaizumi looks peaceful, and Oikawa is good for nothing if not disturbing the peace. 

He hypes himself up for another few minutes, considers doing some warm-up stretches before deciding that no, he just needs to go in there, see his best friend, and immediately sweep him off his feet. There’s nothing stopping him; he can do anything – 

“Iwa-chaaaan.”

A soft, lilted accent drawls from across the court and wraps itself around Oikawa’s throat, probably killing him instantly. His eyes zero in on Miya, who’s walking towards Iwaizumi with one hand gripping his shoulder, a pathetic pout on his face.

Iwa-chan. Oikawa knows he heard that correctly. This – this Miya is using his nickname for his Iwa-chan. 

He may be in shock. Never in his life has he ever experienced disrespect of this level – 

“My shoulders are just still real sore,” Miya whines, like the little, bratty baby he is. Oikawa knows nothing of him outside of volleyball, but he decides he hates him. “I’m worried about tomorrow.”

Oikawa’s throat is dry. Every word Miya speaks is purposeful, accompanied by batted eyelashes and pursed lips – Oikawa knows what this is, because it’s behavior taken right out of the Hot Boy Manual. He’s utilized the same charm and mannerisms many, many times. Miya is not simply complaining about an injury – he’s flirting with Iwaizumi. 

“Again, Miya?” Even from his hiding place, Oikawa can see the clear worry on Iwaizumi’s face and he wants to shake him. He’s so gullible, so easily fooled by these juvenile tactics! Miya’s a faker – his shoulders probably don’t hurt at all!

 Miya’s eyes follow Iwaizumi’s every move – there’s a hunger there that makes Oikawa’s hackles rise. 

 “I told you to take it easy this week,” Iwaizumi admonishes him. “We need you tomorrow.”

“Ya need me?” Miya clutches his heart, pretending to be faint – the oldest trick in the book. Oikawa’s used it dozens of times – Iwaizumi’s seen it, he should know better! “Ah, I’m flattered, Iwa-chan, but ya know me. I can’t take anything easy.” 

He’s practically simmering – Oikawa can see the sex appeal spilling off of him in waves. Oikawa would be impressed if he wasn’t so focused on how he can best claw his eyes out. 

Iwaizumi just frowns harder, and Oikawa can’t even be surprised that he has no idea what’s going on. Iwaizumi is oblivious, he always has been. Oikawa’s flirting with him bordered on flamboyant, and Iwaizumi just called him an idiot, pushed him, or ignored him completely. 

“Miya,” a voice from the court calls. It’s Sakusa – he’s watching Miya with a dry expression. “Stop bullshitting. We have to get this play right.”

“How are your wrists, Sakusa?” Iwaizumi challenges, and Sakusa grimaces, showing an impressive amount of emotion with just his eyes. He slinks over to the bench and sits down, already grabbing an ice pack.

Iwaizumi laughs, good-natured and Oikawa gives his rage a break, replacing it with butterflies and a heart halfway to bursting. He catches a flash of Iwaizumi’s perfect smile – they’d had braces at the same time – and he nearly melts. Then Iwaizumi puts a hand on Miya’s shoulder, gentler than a gorilla like Iwaizumi should be capable of, and pushes him down. “Sit, Miya, I’ll get you some ice too.” 

If that had been Oikawa, Iwaizumi would shove him onto the bench before screaming at him to take care of himself. Why – why did Miya get to see this soft side of Iwaizumi? Is this unusual, or does he always touch Miya Atsumu like this?

When Iwaizumi turns his back, Miya sticks his tongue out at Sakusa and winks before inclining his head in Iwaizumi’s direction – Oikawa gasps. He’s ogling his ass. 

Damn Miya – damn him. He’s giving the Japan National Team a terrible reputation. He should be replaced immediately. 

Oikawa is looking at Iwaizumi’s very well-rounded backside too, but he’s allowed to do that – they’re best friends.

“Tooru?”

If life was a cartoon, Oikawa would have shot straight into the ceiling. Standing directly in front of him, wide-eyed and already vibrating with excitement is none other than his favorite little shrimp. Before he can answer him with some kind of clever quip, like, ‘I’ve decided to bless you with my presence’, Shoyo is on him, yanking him into the gym, and jumping into his arms. Oikawa buckles under him before readjusting. Shoyo reminds him of a Great Dane – sweet, but completely unaware of how heavy he is. 

Shoyo hangs onto Oikawa like a monkey and tilts his head towards the rest of his teammates. “Guys, guys, look who’s here!”

“I remember you!” Bokuto booms. “Oikawa!”

Tobio mumbles some kind of attempt at a greeting and Oikawa appropriately rolls his eyes at him. Iwaizumi is in this room, and yet Oikawa can’t turn his head to see him – he’s not just playing the cool stranger vibe up; he’s… afraid Iwaizumi’s reaction won’t be enough for him.

After so many years, Oikawa wants to see love in his eyes, but he’s afraid he’ll get nothing of the sort. 

But when Shoyo finally drops off of him, Oikawa turns on his own accord and meets Iwaizumi’s eyes.

He’s smiling right at him. His eyes are bright. Oikawa loses every shred of his dignity and he leaps towards him, crying out his name.

Iwaizumi grunts and pushes him off. “Stop it, Shittykawa, you’re so embarrassing.”

God, it’s just like in high school – the time where they spent everyday together. Oikawa grins, hoping it’s radiant. 

“Did you miss me, Iwa-chan? Did you?”

“Shut up – get off me.” 

“Not even an ‘I missed you’, you brute!”

Iwaizumi straightens himself up, and Oikawa recognizes a slight flush to his cheeks. “I missed you, idiot. Now, stop disrupting my practice.” 

“Isn’t this a closed practice, coach?” Miya, who is now within strangling distance of Oikawa, calls across the court. He inclines his head towards Oikawa. 

“He’s with me, my apologies.” Iwaizumi bows his head toward the team and coaches. “I didn’t expect his entrance to be so… distracting.” 

Oikawa preens. Their coach blows his whistle and everyone is back to practice. Miya, however, stays planted on the bench, ice on his shoulders, watching Oikawa with a menacing energy emanating off of him. Oikawa is tempted to stick his tongue out, just like he’d seen Miya do earlier, and make clear that Iwaizumi is off-limits, but he won’t stoop to the childish behavior of a child like Miya. Oikawa is mature now. 

“How was your flight?” Iwaizumi asks, and Oikawa smiles, dopey and lovestruck because he’s just so giddy to be here, next to the love of his life. He should’ve never let him go to California – he should have demanded they find a better idea, make a plan where they could be together. Nearly ten years with only minimal in-person contact was nothing but self-inflicted torture, and Oikawa doesn’t know why he ever convinced himself to move somewhere without Iwaizumu.

“Oi – Oikawa. Are you jetlagged? You’re spacing out.” 

Oikawa shakes his head rapidly. “Sorry, Iwa-chan, I just can’t believe we’re here right now – at the Olympics.”

“Ya sure ya should be fraternizing with the enemy, Iwa-chan?” Miya teases from his spot, shattering the cloud of love that had shrouded Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Oikawa makes a face, and doesn’t try to hide it when he sees Miya looking right at him. “Don’t go giving away all our secrets, now,” he sighs. 

Iwaizumi clears his throat, and there’s color in his cheeks again, but this time not from a surprise attack from Oikawa. Is that blonde himbo-wannabe making Iwa-chan blush ? This is simply unacceptable. If they were kids, Oikawa would be well within his rights to grab Iwaizumi by the wrist and drag him away from Miya, claiming that they had alien movies to watch and milk bread to eat, but now he’s an adult and there are stupid social rules against that. 

“This is Oikawa Tooru,” Iwaizumi introduces him and Oikawa puts on his fakest, sugar-sweet smile for Miya. “He plays for Argentina.”

“Yahoo, Miya. Nice to meet you.” 

“Ah, ‘m afraid I haven’t heard of ya, Tooru, but nice to meet ya.” Miya grins right back and he’s just – absolute evil behind all that handsome. Not only is he trying to shamelessly seduce Iwaizumi, but he’s also a liar. Everybody knows who Oikawa is – he’s a Japanese man on the Argentinian team. He’s been on the news!

Miya needs to be jailed for the safety of the public – he’s dangerous.

Oikawa is the adult here, though. He maintains his cool. “You haven’t talked about me, Iwa-chan? I’m hurt.” 

“I’m at work,” Iwaizumi mumbles. “I don’t talk about my personal life.”

“That’s not true!” Shoyo pops out of literally nowhere, like he always does, and points an accusing finger at Iwaizumi. “He doesn’t say your name, but he’s always telling stories about his best friend! Oh, that one time you burnt your mouth so bad on the cookies sounded so painful. Iwaizumi told us that one as a warning.”

Miya’s face sours. “So, yer the famous idiot best friend.”

“Be nice, Tsumu!” Shoyo scolds him, and Miya holds his hands up in the air. 

 Iwaizumi avoids eye-contact and Oikawa swells with pride. 

“Get back to practice,” Iwaizumi tells Shoyo, and he salutes before bouncing away – Oikawa isn’t going to be surprised when one day Shoyo just straight-up cartwheels onto the court. 

“You too, Miya.” 

Even Miya seems to know better than to argue with the stern tone that Iwaizumi’s taken on, and he stalks away to the center of the court. Oikawa loves this side of Iwaizumi – he’s always been bossy, but now he gets paid to do it. It must be a dream for him. 

“I expected you to already be talking my ear off,” Iwaizumi says, and he’s smiling, looking into the court. “I’m sure you have at least eight stories from the past twenty-four hours.”

“Ah, I know my stories bore you.”

“I listen to them anyway.”

Oikawa can’t stop the smile from breaking out on his face. It’s been years – years and Oikawa is practically stunned into silence. Technology is great, but it’s no substitute for the real Iwaizumi in the flesh. FaceTime can’t show the stubble that grows just faintly on his chin, or the crows feet by his eyes, or the softness of his lips. Iwaizumi must moisturize them frequently – he remembered Oikawa’s nagging. 

“You had to make a grand entrance, of course,” Iwaizumi sighs. “Distracted the hell out of my team.”

“They were distracted without me,” Oikawa grumbles. “And it was Shoyo who revealed my hiding spot. I was just going to spy the whole time so I can sabotage your team next week.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “What do you mean they were distracted without you? They’re in full focus mode. I’ve never seen them so intense.”

“Sure, Tobio looks extremely constipated and I don’t think Ushijima’s breathed in twenty minutes, but that… Miya doesn’t seem too serious about the whole thing.” Oikawa gestures vaguely to where he is now running to position. He sets the ball and Oikawa will not compliment his skills, even if he is the perfect setter and Sakusa spikes the ball down so hard it almost kills Yaku. 

Iwaizumi gives him an expectant look, as if to ask, ‘you were saying?’

Oikawa scrunches his face up. “So, he’s impressive, whatever. Still seems like he has a bad attitude.”

“You literally have the worst attitude in the world.”

Oikawa pouts. “You could be kinder to me, you know, Iwa-chan. We’ve spent a large part of our formative years apart, and I’d like to believe you matured into a much nicer man.”

“Nope,” Iwaizumi says.

Oikawa ignores him because he knows he’s a liar anyway, and because he wasn’t done talking shit about Miya. “I bet he doesn’t get along with the others.”

“We all liked you back in high school, didn’t we?” Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow, then softens. “Miya’s not so bad. He cares about his teammates and you can see that in the way he plays. He’s just a little… abrasive, sometimes.”

Oikawa’s stomach drops to the floor. Iwaizumi sounds downright fond. Does he talk that way about Shoyo? Tobio? Did he ever talk that way about Oikawa, when he wasn’t around? 

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says suddenly, forcing Oikawa to look up at him. “I’m not going to get all sappy, but...it’s good to see you.” 

“That’s extremely sappy of you!” Oikawa cheers, all despair forgotten, and he wants to throw his arms around Iwaizumi again, but he thinks he’s probably exceeded his hug quota for the day. “I’m glad to see you too, Iwa-chan. Let’s not go so long next time, okay?” 

“I’m sorry about that,” Iwazuimi mutters. “For not coming to visit in the last few years. Life is busier than I ever thought it would be.”

“That’s because Iwa-chan is a big star,” Oikawa teases. “The invitation still stands,” he adds, and he hears the tinge of sadness in his own voice, because the invitation insinuates that Oikawa will be returning to Argentina after the Olympics are over. They only have a month together – a frantic, whirlwind of a month – then Oikawa is back home; the new home he chose, without Iwaizumi.

The confession sits heavy on his tongue. He could phrase it like, ‘The invitation actually includes more than just a visit to Argentina – you can also move in with me, and marry me, and live happily ever after’. 

He bites it back, though, and waits for Iwaizumi’s response.

When it comes, it’s thoughtful. “You’re the star, Shittykawa, not me. You’re actually playing in the Olympics. I used to think you were so full of shit when we were kids.”

“You didn’t believe in me?” He pouts. “How cruel.”

“I didn’t use to,” he says without remorse. “You were always just talking big – but you could actually back this up, so I started to believe, eventually.”

“Well, you haven’t even seen me in action.” Oikawa claps his hands together. “You’re gonna be blown away!”

“What do you mean?” Iwaizumi asks. “I’ve seen you in action plenty of times – I stream all your games.”

“What?” Oikawa chokes. “You never told me you watched my games!”

Iwaizumi blushes for the third time that morning – two for Oikawa and only a measly one for Miya. Ha. 

“You never asked,” Iwaizumi says, like it’s a simple answer, and Oikawa guesses it is – it is entirely on brand with Iwaizumi, who reveals just enough to qualify as a best friend, but only when prompted. 

“Well,” Oikawa draws out the word, “You have an idea then of how I’m going to crush your team.”

“Don’t be so cocky,” Iwaizumi scolds him, like they’re kids again and he’s telling him not to run in the hall, or to eat all of his choco-shrooms, or to cheat in Mario Kart again. Oikawa loves him. He loves every piece, every aspect of who Iwaizumi is.

“Confidence is different from cockiness,” Oikawa sings. “I would never dream of getting cocky, but you know me, Iwa-chan. I’m a petty person, with a penchant for revenge. I’m feeling pretty motivated.” 

“It’ll be a good game then.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence, watching the Japan Team do their thing. They make idle commentary anytime a player does something of note, and Oikawa jokes that he’s secretly recording everything, prompting Iwaizumi to nearly elbow him off of the bench with his brute strength. Iwaizumi is right – Oikawa has at least eight stories from the past twenty-four hours, and hundreds more from the past several years, but he’s content like this. This, just existing in the same space as Iwaizumi, is what Oikawa has craved since moving away from him.

“You would’ve been on this team, you know,” Iwaizumi says suddenly. “If you had stayed.”

Oikawa blinks at him. “Is that a compliment, Iwa-chan?”

“No,” he says, blunt. “It’s just a fact.”

Oikawa remembered the days leading up to his decision to go to Argentina – they were fueled by wild emotions; fear of not being enough, despair about Iwaizumi leaving, a manic desire to prove himself somehow, somewhere, and a revere for a childhood hero brought back up to the surface. Oikawa didn’t foresee himself staying in Japan – it wasn’t big enough for him, didn’t cause enough of a commotion. If Iwaizumi was going all the way to America, then Oikawa would do him one better.

If he had known then that he would never be able to let Iwaizumi go, would he have stayed? 

He thinks of how far he’s come, and no, he wouldn’t have stayed. He could’ve never stayed, but he’s here now, with Iwaizumi, so maybe the universe is telling him that now is the time.

I’m in love with you, he thinks again, aches to say it. Instead, he plasters on his most winning smile and shrugs. “Too bad for you that I didn’t. If I had, maybe you’d get to say you have a winning team.”

Iwaizumi shoves him for, like, the fifth time since they reunited, but he smiles too, and it’s so easy. It’s always been so easy with Iwaizumi. 

Practice ends too quickly, and Oikawa knows he needs to leave and actually focus on the Olympics and not just how in love he is, but a tightness settles over his chest and his brain won’t connect to his legs to tell them to stand up.

He doesn't want to leave Iwaizumi again – now that he’s seen him, he’s not sure if he can. Iwaizumi seems to pick up on his reluctance, because of course he does – he used to joke that he had special vision and he could see Oikawa’s moods as soon as they came on; that’s why he was always prepared when he started acting like a brat. 

Iwaizumi may think he can read Oikawa like a book, but he’s still only in the prologue. 

“I’m sure you’re going to be busy with practice, but after the first game, let’s catch up,” he says. “We can go to your favorite sushi place – remember it from the time we had an away game here?”

Oikawa’s heart breaks and his tear ducts threaten to burst open again. Iwaizumi doesn’t even realize how adorable he is. 

He makes sure his voice is steady when he says, “Are you sure you’ll be up to it after you lose?” 

“I’m thinking about how sushi always makes you feel better after a loss, actually – ”

“Iwa-chaaaan.”

Oikawa’s eye twitches. He’s going to hear that damn, drawling accent in his nightmares. 

“Yes, Miya?” Iwaizumi sighs, but it’s not an exasperated sigh, like a, ‘oh my God, what are you doing now, Shittykawa’ sigh that Oikawa has grown accustomed to. This is more of a good-natured ‘haha, you’re such a klutz’ sigh.

“My shoulder still hurts. Can I get some one-on-one physical therapy?”

“Sure.” Iwaizumi nods. “Just hang back.”

“Jeez, Iwa-chan, do they pay you extra for this?” Oikawa deadpans, all but glaring at Miya. 

“Sorry, Tooru, were ya looking for your own session with him?” Miya questions, tone not unkind, but taunting – so damn taunting. “Don’t ya have your own trainer?” He cocks his head to the side. 

Oikawa won’t back down so easily.

“I like yours better,” he replies, flashing him his teeth. 

“You can join our team, Tooru!” Shoyo cries.

“No, he can’t,” Tobio hisses at him. 

“He’s still Japanese.”

“No, idiot, he’s a naturalized citizen of Argentina now.”

“Thank you, Tobio.” Oikawa nods at him, and he feels a small bit of pride that the younger man is still keeping tabs on him – as he should; he’s still a very prominent threat. “I don’t want to join your team, but I do look forward to destroying you soon.” He looks at Miya, and the unspoken end of the sentence is there: especially you. 

He takes his leave then, waving cheerfully to everybody. There’s a new fire lit in his chest. Miya wants to start a war with Oikawa – he’ll destroy him on his own court. 

At dinner that night, after Oikawa’s given his team adequate time to revel in the delicious, sensory explosion of the ramen, he gives them the best pep talk he’s ever given, and they cheer to crushing Japan.

Oikawa Toru is not somebody to be taken lightly – he’ll be the Japan National Team’s final boss. 

-x-

The day of Argentina versus Japan comes with all of the fanfare expected of an Olympic game. Oikawa’s old teammates send selfies of themselves with Argentinian flags painted on their faces, and he cries and forwards them to Iwaizumi, who promptly texts them all calling them traitors to their country. The teams line up and shake hands. Oikawa squeezes Miya’s extra hard, and makes sure to give him the most sarcastic, “Good luck,’’ he can manage. Miya, however, is unphased.

“Good luck to ya too – don’t worry, I’ll keep Iwa-chan company at the celebration.” 

Oikawa is going to aim every ball directly at his face. 

They’re first to serve, and Oikawa starts off the game. Right as the crowd quiets, he finds Iwaizumi across the court, fully focused on him. Oikawa smiles.

He slams the ball onto Japan’s court – service ace. 

Just watch me, Iwa-chan, he thinks, accepting the hugs and hair ruffling from his teammates. He sticks his tongue out at Miya, too, for good measure, and gets an ugly scowl in response.

Oikawa has played a lot of volleyball in his life – he’s given it his all in every match, no matter the stakes, gives his heart and body to every serve, set, block, and receive. This match, though – this is not just for Oikawa, it’s for Iwaizumi too. He puts a decade’s worth of words he couldn’t say into this game, making sure after every play, Iwaizumi is still watching him.

He doesn’t take his eyes off Oikawa – not once. 

In the end, Oikawa does exactly what he told everyone he would do – what he’d spent his life training for, starting the day after he lost to Karasuno. Oikawa beats them all, and when the buzzer announces the end of the game, Iwaizumi grins at him.

-x-

There were a lot of things Oikawa first had to learn about Argentinian culture when he moved – the number one thing being that they really liked to party. Oikawa thought he was a wild child, but he came across as downright tame in comparison. He learned quickly how to hold more liquor than should be humanly possible, a skill that got him through many, many a long night.

Now, riding the high from his win, the energy of the crowd, the flash of photographers, and the memory of Iwaizumi’s smile burned into his brain, Oikawa decides he needs a drink, immediately. He’s going to celebrate – but not just with his team. No, in the spirit of sportsmanship and the Olympics, Oikawa bounds over to Japan’s team to extend an olive branch and an invite (and not at all for selfish reasons, like the fact that he knows Iwaizumi wouldn’t leave his team alone to pout and cry by themselves).

They’re a dejected bunch – even Shoyo has deflated like an old balloon and Oikawa falters for just a moment, because he can be cruel, but he’s not kick-a-puppy cruel. However, when he stops in front of them, Shoyo perks up.

“Ah man, you were so cool, Tooru! Can you teach me to do that thing that you did with your hands in the second match? The one with the flippy wrist thing?”

“Of course,” he answers humbly. 

“It was pretty cool,” Tobio admits, grumbling. 

“Ah, this sucks,” Bokuto groans, “But Tooru – if we’re playing in four years, you better watch out! We’ll get you back for this!”

“Probably not,” Oikawa sings, which has the intended effect – it throws Shoyo and Bokuto into a frenzy, both shouting various promises to improve and come back at two-thousand percent. Oikawa doesn’t doubt it at all. 

He doesn’t see Iwaizumi, at first, and figures he’s off with Yaku, who had hit the ground so hard diving for the ball that Oikawa was convinced he would sustain brain damage – if it was anyone else, he probably would have, but Yaku bounced back like he was made of steel. 

He does, however, spy Miya – lying on his back next to Sakusa with a hand over his eyes. He lifts it briefly to glower at Oikawa.

“Good game, Miya!” he cries, mixing together a combination of his customer service voice and pure sarcasm. 

“Ah, thanks, Tooru,” he says from the floor, rolling out the vowels in his name like he’s an old friend. “Ya sure were showin’ off for us out there. I gotta say – smug ain’t a pretty look on you.”

“I’m not smug,” he blurts, momentarily breaking character to be annoyed. Miya smirks. 

“No wonder Iwa-chan is so patient,” he continues. “He has ta be, growing up with someone like you.” 

Oikawa gets right in Miya’s face, leaning over him. Sakusa quickly scoots away – a good idea, because Oikawa is going to tear into this bratty, pissy, obnoxious, little – 

“Oikawa?”

Oikawa looks up like a deer in headlights and locks eyes with Iwaizumi, who is towing a thoroughly iced Yaku. 

“Are you harassing my team?” He narrows his eyes. “Shittykawa, I swear, you don’t have to rub it in – ”

“Not that you asked, Iwa-chan, but I came here to formally invite your team out to drinks,” Oikawa hisses, backing up from Miya and slumping his shoulders. Miya sits up too, and dusts off his jersey like Oikawa had actually put his hands on him. Iwaizumi looks guilty, but then his attention is stolen by Miya.

“Iwa-chan, can ya please work yer magic again? Tooru musta been trying to give me a friendly push, but I think he got my shoulder.”

Oh my God.

“You’re a grown man acting this ridiculous,” Sakusa mutters from where he now lay against a backpack. Okay, maybe Oikawa’s first impression of Sakusa wasn’t strong enough – he loves him. Miya ignores Sakusa and blinks up at Iwaizumi, the picture of boyish charm and vulnerability. Damn him. It’s like looking at his high school self.

“Make sure you take an ice bath after this, and since we’re done, rest,” Iwaizumi scolds him, but then he moves to sit behind him, and puts his hands on his shoulders.

It feels as if time has stopped – like in the movies, when everything slows to a halt and the main character is left seeing their life in slo-mo. He zeroes in on Iwaizumi’s hands, touching Miya, rubbing Miya’s shoulders. Oikawa tried to get him rub his shoulders once a week, and he was always told to go fuck himself. He’s going to fling Miya out of the stratosphere.

“I’ve been restin’,” Miya promises, bringing Oikawa back down to earth. 

Iwaizumi answers him by pressing down and Miya leans into the touch, letting his eyes flutter closed. He opens one a half-second later, winks at Oikawa, and sticks a sliver of his tongue out.  

“You said you’re inviting the team out to drinks?” Iwaizumi asks and it takes Oikawa a solid second to figure out he’s talking to him. His brain was occupied with drafting defenses to murder, and wondering if he can claim he was provoked, but now he focuses on Iwaizumi and nods, indignant.

“I am trying to cultivate a friendship between cultures and you just assumed I was making fun of your losers.”

“Tooru, that’s so mean!” Shoyo shouts from probably twenty-five feet away – Oikawa has no idea how he even hears him, but nothing surprises him at this point.

“I wasn’t talking about you, Shoyo – you’re the MVP.”

“Ha! Did you hear that, Kageyama? He said I’m the MVP. Have you ever been MVP?”

“Yes, many times,” answers Tobio. “You know that.”

“Well, Hinata likes to get really drunk after losses – something about not letting the memory solidify – what do you think, Miya?” Iwaizumi saying Miya’s name brings Oikawa back to his mission and he’s really gotta stop getting distracted by the Wonder Duo – he gets that enough on the court.

“Ya know I’m always down to have a good time with ya, Iwa-chan,” Miya simpers, just to shove it in Oikawa’s face that he could.

“That makes two of us,” Oikawa says, airy. 

As if Oikawa has challenged him, Miya sticks his tongue out at Oikawa once more and stretches his arms suddenly into the air. 

“Ah, sorry, Iwa-chan. I just got the worst cramp in my lower back.” 

“I can step on it, if you want,” Oikawa offers, bordering less on polite and more on aggressively aggravated. 

“Oi, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi interrupts him. “I’ll text you about it.”  He takes it as a dismissal and deflates – Iwa-chan is too busy right now, of course, doing his job and taking care of Miya Atsumu. It’s not Iwaizumi’s fault that he can’t feel Oikawa’s heart hammer in his chest just from being near him, or can’t feel the way warmth spreads to the tip of his toes every time he hears Iwaizumi speak. He can’t know that, can’t know that being away from Iwaizumi for even a minute now that Oikawa has seen him again might just physically break him.

He can’t know that because Oikawa hasn’t told him, and so he has to stand here, watching Iwaizumi rub Miya’s completely in-tact back. Oikawa wonders if he’s making a fool out of himself. He wonders if Iwaizumi could’ve gone ten more years without seeing him.

“Yeah, okay,” Oikawa answers, and Shoyo pops up behind him again.

“Are we going out drinking?” he asks, eagerly, like he didn’t just get knocked out of the Olympics. Oikawa has to admire his spirit – Shoyo has never radiated anything less than pure positivity.

“I do need a drink,” Sakusa, the polar opposite of sunshine and cheer, mutters, finally pulling himself up off the floor. He rolls his eyes toward Miya.

“Oikawa?” Iwaizumi questions and he nearly jumps.

“Sorry, I’m just – whew, still such a rush. Okay, I’ll talk to you later, Iwa-chan! Byeee, Shoyo. Byeee Tobio!”

“Don’t forget me, Tooru,” Miya calls as he turns to walk away. “I’ll see ya tonight.” 

Oikawa smiles back. “Looking forward to it.”

-x-

Oikawa just won his first game in the Olympics, and he’s panicking over what outfit he’s going to wear to the bar – four hours from now. He hates being stereotypical, but in certain situations, he simply can’t control himself. He has Hanamaki on FaceTime.

“Dude, don’t you want to talk about, like, the fact that you could become an Olympic champion?” he asks once Oikawa has thrown out another one of his limited Olympic-worthy outfits. 

“I’ve already told every reporter in the country of Japan how I feel about my first win. If you want to know so bad, read the articles.”

“I can’t believe you still have it this bad for Iwaizumi after a decade. Like, I didn’t think you had the attention span for it,” Hanamaki says seriously, like it’s a true phenomenon that Oikawa, who has hyper fixated on the same sport for twenty-seven years of life, could ever be so committed to a person.

“I’m the most loyal person to ever exist,” Oikawa says, frowning at a top that just did not fit the pants he’d picked out.

“You left your home country to go play volleyball for Argentina, and then beat your home country in the first stage of the Olympics.”

“And you still have the Argentinian flag on your face.”

“Hell yeah I do, I love winners.” Hanamaki smirks from Oikawa’s screen. “That shirt – right there.”

“This?” Oikawa holds it up – it’s a gray, form-fitting top. “Kinda plain.”

“With the black blazer and the khakis – you’ll look like one of those streetwear models.” 

“I did do some modeling in Argentina.” Oikawa puffs his chest out.

“It doesn’t count as modeling if you’re paying for the photos.”

“Fuck off, dream killer.”

Oikawa is lucky he has Hanamaki. See, Iwaizumi spent their entire childhood bullying Oikawa ruthlessly for his lack of fashion sense – like they weren’t literal children without the first clue about fashion. Oikawa knew Iwaizumi was just a cruel person by nature, so he paid it no mind. He practically lived in athletic wear, so he never cared about dressing well, and when they got to be in highschool, Oikawa realized he was blessed by the Gods with natural good looks, so everyone could overlook his fashion faux pas.

That was until he got to Argentina, and his first roommate forced him to donate half his closet to charity.

He’s come a long way – with the help of his friends in Argentina and Hanamaki. Iwaizumi has never seen Oikawa in his final form like this -- this is Oikawa, bilingual, multicultural, Olympian. He’s going to make sure he oozes sex appeal. To hell with Miya Atsumu and his stupid sexy hooded eyes and bleached hair – Oikawa will blow him out of the water.

“You look pretty,” his teammate tells him from the hall. “For Iwaizumi?” 

“Oh my God – did he just say Iwaizumi? Did you tell someone other than me?”

Truthfully, Oikawa hadn’t even told his team that he has a heart-constricting, all-encompassing, pathetic crush on Iwaizumi, but he did tell them every mundane aspect of Iwaizumi’s life, and quoted their conversations, and prattled on about Iwaizumi’s muscles and spiking skills and adorable broken English, and – 

“I might’ve been a little obvious,” Oikawa admits. “But you’re still the sole secret keeper.”

“Until tonight, my friend. Tonight – you tell him.”

“Well, actually…”

“Don’t you fucking dare – oh my God. I’m not going through this again.” 

“Hold on,” Oikawa snaps, and he sighs. He changed his mind for the fourteenth time as soon as he got back to his room. He shouldn’t confess – it doesn’t make logical sense, because a twenty-seven year old friendship is too valuable to be risked for something that may not pan out. He’s lived without Iwaizumi’s love for the past twenty-seven years – he has never lived a life without Iwaizumi.

He tells Hanamaki as such, with less dramatics.

“Let me ask you something, Oikawa.” Hanamaki clasps his hands together. “Do you think anybody who isn’t madly in love with you could put up with you for twenty-seven years ?”

“You’ve put up with me for almost thirteen,” Oikawa argues back immediately, because he’s tried to convince himself with this line of thinking already – plenty of people have tolerated Oikawa for longer-than-necessary periods of time, that doesn’t mean Iwaizumi loves him. 

“None of those were my formative years,” he says. “And you’ve been in another country for ten of them. Iwaizumi spent his whole childhood with you – willingly, dude. He never went more than like, ten feet away from you at practice. Did you even notice?”

“He just didn’t want me to hurt myself. I was a precious asset to the team.”

“God, you’re so delusional. You just keep talking yourself out of it. What are you afraid of, Oikawa? Tell me.” Hanamaki is going all therapist on him – again. He’d only confessed to him that he was in love with Iwaizumi a month prior to arriving at the Olympics, and he’d only done so out of necessity, because he knew he’d burst if he couldn’t talk about seeing him again. Since that time, Hanamaki has subjected him to three deep talks, one intense interrogation, and so many ‘I knew it’ proclamations.

Oikawa clicks his tongue. “Obviously, I don’t want to ruin the friendship – ”

“Some friendships are meant to be ruined. You and Iwaizumi were doomed from the start. People made bets on you guys.” He sounds exasperated, and then Oikawa sees his eyes flash with an idea. “I could probably still win, actually – we didn’t specify a time limit. Get your shit together because I’m unemployed right now.”

“Learn to keep a job. I’m not encouraging your gambling habits,” he snaps, but then he takes the time to really listen to what Hanamaki had just said. “You really think so – you don’t think he’ll reject me?”

“I would be shocked and out of some yen,” he says dryly. “If you go back to Argentina without having done this, it’s going to eat at you forever. You know you can’t let things go.”

“I know,” Oikawa whines. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it then – tonight, so I can show that smarmy Miya who he’s dealing with.”

“That’s the spirit.” Hanamaki gives him a bland little cheer. “Hey, you said Miya – did you talk to him? He’s one of the greatest setters in the Olympics – one of, I said one of. Don’t hang up on –”

Oikawa will tolerate no praise of Miya in his temporary household. 

His teammates get sick of waiting for him and refuse to allow him to recoif his hair for the fifth time that night, so he’s dragged out in a frenzy of whoops and cheers and hastily downed shots. 

The Olympic Village is aglow with activity – athletes like himself who claimed their first victories are celebrating, and the air is filled with a symphony of languages. He basks in it all, wishing his eyes could see more at once.

A tall, blonde Viking runs by with a Swedish flag, screaming something that is a universal language. A pair of gymnasts greet each other with hugs and excited squealing in a combination of three languages. Brazil’s volleyball team huddles in front of one of the villas, loudly boasting to anyone who passes by about how they’re going to win it all, just asking to be heckled. Oikawa will see to it later, but now he’s a man on a mission. 

Iwaizumi had texted Oikawa, as promised, with one word – the name of a bar in downtown Tokyo. Apparently, Shoyo and Bokuto frequent it – he can barely imagine those two drunk together; it’s such a chaotic image that his brain refuses to conjure it. He’s seen Shoyo drunk before, and it’s really not all that different from when he’s sober – other than being twelve times louder and with more tears. 

He texts Iwaizumi back that he’ll be there in ten, and he piles into a taxi with as many of his teammates as will fit.

Iwaizumi texts back with a smiley face emoji, and oh God – he’s already drunk.

It seems like Oikawa has some catching up to do. 

The bar is packed – a true mishmash of people from every corner of the world like this could only be possible at the Olympics. He loves it – thrives on the smells and sounds of it all. He’s invigorated by his talk with Hanamaki and he feels less like a hopeless cause and more like an anxious possibility.

Either way, he needs to loosen up his nerves. He scans the crowd, searching for familiar faces while his teammates disperse to clusters of people, inserting themselves easily with bright smiles and expressive eyes that transcended any language barrier. He approaches the bar and orders a dozen shots and walks around with them on a tray, handing them out to his stray teammates while he looks. 

He’s looking for two people – Iwaizumi, of course, and Miya, to make sure he’s not near Iwaizumi. He does spy Shoyo, chatting up what looks to be girls from the United States swim team with Tobio by his side. He avoids Shoyo’s line of sight – he can’t get caught up in that tornado. 

Oikawa gives away his last shot (although not a teammate of his, he doesn’t mind – spirit of camaraderie among athletes) and downs his own, then he sees him.

Well, Iwaizumi clearly had the same idea Oikawa did – that is, to dress as sexy as humanly possible. Oikawa can count the number of times he’s seen Iwaizumi in fitted clothing – which, he has some real nerve, making fun of Oikawa when his wardrobe staple is joggers. He can forgive him, though, because he’s unbelievable like this.

His tight blue jeans show off the fact that he never once skipped leg day, and he wears a striped button-down shirt. Oikawa is sweating in his blazer, but Hanamaki told him he better keep it on and ‘suffer for fashion’, so he perseveres. He makes a beeline for Iwaizumi, and just as they make eye contact, Miya comes back holding drinks in his hand.

If Oikawa was going for sexy, he didn’t hit the mark quite as hard as Miya did – dressed in a way that screams, ‘look at me’. He grins at Oikawa before looking him up and down. “Nice to see ya, Tooru.”

“Hey, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says at the same time, like he’d temporarily forgotten his manners. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hi, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa waves brightly. “Hi, Omi!” He greets the other man, who could be the poster child for ‘I don’t want to be here right now’, “You do like Omi, right?”

Sakusa glares in Miya’s direction, clearly blaming him for the nickname and Oikawa figures Sakusa isn’t an immediate nuisance in his life, so he goes easy on him. “Sakusa, then.” 

He nods to Miya, plastering on a smile. “Tsumu.” He uses the nickname as a power move. If anything, it seems to egg Miya on. 

He walks right up to him, gets in his face, and asks, “What are ya drinking?”

“Whatever Iwa-chan is drinking,” Oikawa requests, and Iwaizumi watches him with a sort of cautious look on his eyes before offering a sip to him.

It’s a gin and tonic, which is disgustingly on brand for Iwaizumi and not at all for Oikawa, but he doesn’t back down. “It’s good,” he says.

“You hate gin and tonic, back in high school you said it tasted like toxic masculinity,” Iwaizumi points out. Sakusa snorts and Miya recovers, knocking the sour look off of his face and replacing it with his usual lopsided smile. 

“I guess taste buds change over the years, huh, Iwa-chan?” Miya teases. “I’ll get ya one, Tooru.”

Miya thinks he has Oikawa beat here – he thinks that he has familiarity, closeness, that Iwaizumi has a fondness for him.

Miya doesn’t know the foundation that he and Iwaizumi have. Even if he knows how long they’ve been friends, he doesn’t know how much deeper it goes than just simple friendship. Nobody can look at Oikawa and Iwaizumi and tell that they experienced their whole lives together – every high and low, every tragedy or wild success, every sleepless night and early morning, they went through it together.

 Oikawa taught Iwaizumi how to ride a bike, and stuck bandages on his knees whenever he fell off; Iwaizumi beat knowledge into Oikawa before every exam, and Oikawa kept Iwaizumi in the gymnasium until the lights went out on them on the nights before games, making sure their they were in perfect sync. 

When Oikawa’s grandmother died, he stayed the night at Iwaizumi’s while his parents made arrangements for the funeral, and Iwaizumi held his hand and told him that he had nothing to be worried about – if Oikawa was so convinced aliens were real, then it would just make sense that there was an afterlife for his grandmother to go to, right? When Oikawa cried himself to sleep, Iwaizumi kept hold of his hand.

That was back when it was still innocent. Oikawa wanted to hold his hand like that again.

Nobody could know how much the two of them grew together – how Iwaizumi knew every embarrassing aspect of Oikawa’s life, but still remained his friend, how he told him time-and-time again that he was a brat, a drama queen, had a shitty personality, but he still waited to walk him home after every practice.

Miya could bat his eyelashes all day long, and maybe Iwaizumi would fall for it, or maybe he’d fall for someone else entirely different down the road, but nobody could take away the years that Oikawa and Iwaizumi have together. 

“You okay?” Iwaizumi murmurs, quiet enough so only he’ll hear under the blanket of noises that covers the bar.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s just… overwhelming, being here.” 

“It is,” Iwaizumi agrees with a lightness to his words, which is another thing that nobody will ever be able to take away from Oikawa. Iwaizumi is a person who always has his guard up, and one day, he may lower it for someone other than Oikawa and his family, but Oikawa will live knowing that he was the first one to see a side of Iwaizumi that the rest of the world does not get to see. He has precious memories of laughing until their stomachs hurt, of Iwaizumi jumping onto Oikawa’s side of the couch when the scary movie they picked out got too intense, whispered fears about the future at late night sleepovers. 

He wishes they were at a sleepover now, in Iwaizumi’s childhood bedroom, squeezing themselves onto his twin bed because Oikawa refuses to sleep on the floor.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi begins, sipping his drink almost nervously, “I was going to ask – ”

He’s interrupted by Miya’s reappearance. He hands Oikawa his drink, and then sticks around for the conversation.

“Ya nervous for yer next game, Tooru?” He demands the attention be brought back to him, like the needy bastard he is and Oikawa just wants to know what Iwaizumi was going to say. He keeps his cool, though, and sips at his newly acquired drink, giving Miya his most nonchalant shrug. His moment of sentimentality is over – he’s back on the defense.

“Oh no, I think it’ll be about as easy as ours today,” he simpers.

“You’re full of shit,” Sakusa deadpans, speaking up for the first time. Now Oikawa knows his social weakness – shit-talking.

“He always is,” Iwaizumi offers, but it’s good-natured. Never mean to him, his Iwa-chan – not really, only in jest, and Oikawa can take a joke if it’s from Iwaizumi. “You should’ve seen him in high school.”

“I bet ya were somethin’ else.” Miya sucks on his straw. “Well, too bad yer almost past yer prime. Hope ya can make it last.” He winks.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth to say something, but holds back. Sakusa steps in instead, shooting a not-so-subtle glare at Miya.

“Give it a rest, Miya,” he sighs. “You two are just like each other. He’s more like you than your own twin.’’

Both Oikawa and Miya widen their eyes at the same time, which only makes Sakusa bark out a laugh.

“That ain’t true at all,” Miya complains. 

“Gross,” Oikawa grumbles, and in his defense, he’s starting to feel the two consecutive shots he took when he first arrived at the bar, and also the shot he took with his teammates before leaving the villa, and the gin in this tonic is really strong, so…

“You’re such a baby.” Iwaizumi hits Oikawa’s arm, and he must be feeling it too. “Don’t bully my athletes.”

“Are we yers, Iwa-chan?” Miya croons. “That’s so sweet.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sakusa puts his hand on Miya now and shakes his head. “We’re going to go find Ushijima.”

“Omi-kun!” Miya cries. “It’s like talkin’ to a tree trunk!”

“Stop bitching. We’re leaving them alone.”

Oikawa stares in wonder as Sakusa completely wrangles Miya, placating him in seconds. His entire evil plot to flirt with Iwaizumi seems to disappear into thin air, waved away by just a few of Sakusa’s words.

“Okay, okay. It was nice talkin’ to you, Tooru,” he grumbles, like it was not at all nice talking to him, and – likewise. “See ya tomorrow, Iwa-chan!” 

He lets Sakusa steer him away then, and Oikawa hears him ask, “Can we at least make out tonight, since I’m bein’ good?”

“Maybe if I get drunk enough.”

“Those two,” Iwaizumi says, a little bemused, “Will never make sense to me. It’s such a ‘will they, won’t they’ type of thing.” 

“What? They’re together?” Oikawa is still processing what just happened – he came prepared for a war with Miya, but now he’s gone, just like that. He’s not sure where to go from here, but his filter is vastly reduced from the alcohol he’s consumed, so he sighs, “Poor Sakusa. I would hate to have any sort of relationship with that fake-blonde asshole.”

Oikawa doesn’t get it at all, and frankly, he doesn’t want to get it. Having to put up with Miya in any capacity seems exhausting.

Iwaizumi laughs, then cuts it off abruptly. “Doesn’t seem like you would hate it at all. You’ve been all over each other since you met him – which is why Sakusa got jealous.” 

“What?” Oikawa gasps. “You think I was – Iwa-chan, ew. Don’t insult me.”

“He was right in your face a few minutes ago,” Iwaizumi argues. “I’ve had to watch you flirt with other people our whole lives, Oikawa, I know what it looks like.”

“I was not flirting with him – I have standards!”

“Yeah, okay,” Iwaizumi mutters under his breath, and Oikawa throws his hands up in the air, completely nonplussed. 

“Iwa-chan, you oblivious idiot, he was flirting with you ! So I was naturally trying to deter him from doing that!” 

Iwaizumi blinks at him like he’s said something absolutely ludicrous. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m his athletic trainer. He wasn’t flirting with – Wait, why would you care if he was?” he asks suddenly. 

“What?” Oikawa pretends he didn’t hear the question, putting on his most innocent face while his heart jackhammers in his chest. He’s so stupid – he has such a big mouth; he cannot be trusted in this kind of situation alone.

“Why would you not want Miya to flirt with me, Oikawa?” Iwaizumi demands, and he’s staring at him now with an intensity that makes Oikawa’s lungs freeze over. People squeeze around them; people call for drinks; bass shakes the ceiling, but Oikawa is rooted to his spot, drink halfway to his lips, staring right back at Iwaizumi.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Iwaizumi cuts him off. “Finish your drink,” he instructs him. “And then let’s get out of here. My hotel is a block away. We can talk there.”

He searches Oikawa’s face, looking for an agreement, and Oikawa swallows his fear and nods.

Oikawa thinks his soul leaves his body, because he entirely disassociates from his surroundings. He downs his drink, barely feeling the warm buzz that settles into his stomach, then finds his teammates and gives them a dazed excuse about being tired, and says goodnight. 

He sees Iwaizumi at the door waiting for him, and he makes a beeline for him, but he’s stopped by a bulky, bubbly orange-haired menace. 

“Not right now,” he tells him, before Shoyo can even ask whatever he was going to ask him – which was probably going to have something to do with shots, since Shoyo looks like he’s on about his tenth.

He frowns. “Who knows when I’m going to see you again?!”

Oikawa thinks about Iwaizumi – about the slight tint of color to his cheeks when he accused Oikawa of flirting with Miya, the barest hint of sadness behind his eyes. Twenty-seven years of friendship means Oikawa knows Iwaizumi more than he knows anybody in the entire world – he never projects his own feelings onto him, which means what he saw was real.

Iwaizumi thought Oikawa was flirting with Miya. He was jealous, and now that he knows Oikawa wasn’t, he wants to talk. Alone.

“You might see me again sooner than you think, Shrimpy.” 

-x-

It’s only a block to Iwaizumi’s hotel, but Oikawa thinks he may explode into a million tiny pieces before he gets there. He’s never been this nervous in his life. He likes to say he doesn’t get nervous, to come across as a cool and collected pro at his craft, but the truth is that he does get the jitters before his games, like everyone else – just never like this. It feels like his stomach is going to fall out of his body somehow, and he has to actively bite down on his lip to keep himself from saying something stupid and potentially ruining this before it starts.

But this is Iwa-chan, a voice in his head tells him, and the voice is right. Even if Iwaizumi tells him that it’ll never happen between them, he knows he’ll do it in a gentle way. He won’t make him feel bad, or stupid, or treat him any differently. This is his Iwa-chan – his best friend in the world, and Oikawa is not going to back down from this. 

They make their way to one of the ritzier hotels, and Oikawa takes a momentary break from his general bewilderment to admire that the Japan National Team didn’t skimp for their trainers and coaches. He doesn’t have long to ogle anything, though, because Iwaizumi is walking with a purpose, and before he knows it, he’s swiping the key card to his room and ushering them both in.

There’s no couch to sit on – only a bed. Oikawa swallows, trying to remember how to speak. 

“Uh,” he manages.

“Do you want to sit down?” Iwaizumi gestures to the bed, and God, Oikawa is going to short-circuit. How many fantasies has he had about Iwa-chan trying to get him into bed with him?

Focus, he scolds himself. “Sure,” he tells Iwaizumi, and he plops down. “I, uh – this is terrifying.” He laughs, too high-pitched.

“It’s just me,” Iwaizumi says, but he looks equally as uneasy as Oikawa feels. He’s stiff, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and planted firmly ten feet away from Oikawa. “I know it’s been forever, but it’s still me.”

“Yeah, I know, the first thing you did when you saw me was call me Shittykawa.” He snorts at that and calms down a little – Iwaizumi is right. It’s him. He can do this. 

“You tackled me,” Iwaizumi grumbles, “And at this point, it’s just a habit.” 

“Terribly mean habit to have, Iwa-chan, calling your best friend mean names,” he says lightly, then sighs. “You can sit too – you look uncomfortable.”

“I’m trying to process what’s going on – because I have an idea, but it’s hard to know for sure with you.” Iwaizumi has always been brutally honest with Oikawa, but now any filter he may have had is gone, left behind at the bar with however many drinks Miya bought for him. 

“I… I was jealous,” Oikawa forces the words into the air, and there – now he can’t take them back, and with that, the dam is broken. “I was jealous because that damn Miya, with his pretty, lidded eyes and his stupid dyed hair and that cutesy accent thing he’s probably faking – ”

“I don’t think he’s faking it,” Iwaizumi interrupts, and Oikawa glares at him.

“I’m trying to confess something here,” he says, and then flushes at the realization of his choice of words. 

Iwaizumi smiles, and he visibly relaxes. “Carry on.”

“As I was saying – I was jealous because I had to watch Miya throw himself at you, and you didn’t even notice because you’re the most oblivious idiot in the world – which is probably why you didn’t notice that I’ve been in love with you for like, our whole lives, and I always wanted to tell you but I  talked myself out of it every time because you mean so much to me, Iwa-chan, and if you don’t feel the same way, fine, just please don’t let this ruin our friendship.” 

Halfway through his dramatic monologue, he’d closed his eyes. He opens one now, cautiously peaking at Iwaizumi’s reaction.

He’s shaking his head, but he’s – he’s grinning. “Fuck. You can’t call me the most oblivious idiot in the world when you’re ten times worse.”

Oikawa’s heart stammered. There’s no way – he didn’t actually expect – 

“I practically confessed to you back when we were seventeen!” Iwaizumi throws his hands in the air now, frustrated. “That day after we lost – everyone was crying, I told you I couldn’t be prouder to have you as a partner!”

Oikawa stands up, horrified. “I thought that was just platonic bro talk!”

“What – no, what kind of platonic bro talk includes, ‘you’re the absolute best setter’? I was trying to tell you I loved you!”

There’s silence in the room – a standoff, where they both stare at each other, gaping. 

“I still do,” Iwaizumi mutters. “I never stopped. I don’t think I can, honestly.” 

Oh, Oikawa is crying. This is embarrassing, but he can’t bring himself to care. “When we started talking less – ”

“I didn’t want to hold you back from living your life. You were always bigger than the ordinary – I was afraid I took up too much of your time and you wouldn’t be able to achieve your goals. It’s true, though, isn’t it? I backed off, and now you’re at the Olympics.”

“Iwa-chan, you big dummy – like I didn’t still think about you every moment of every day.” He sniffles. “I probably wouldn’t have made it if I wasn’t so motivated by the thought of seeing you again!”

“Don’t be an idiot. You would have.”

They’re closer now – Oikawa could close the space with one step, but he has to make sure. He has to confirm that this is real. “You… you really love me?”

“Obviously,” he grumbles. “I wouldn’t have put up with half of your shit if I didn’t.”

Oh, Hanamaki is going to be insufferable about how right he’s been. 

“Why didn’t you just tell me that night?” Oikawa demands. “We could’ve – years, Iwa-chan!”

“I told you, I never wanted to hold you back. We haven’t seen each other more than four times in nearly a decade, Oikawa, you think it would’ve worked?” He runs his hand through his hair now, and takes an almost imperceptible step back, but Oikawa notices, and he makes the decision to close the space between them. He puts a hand on Iwaizumi’s wrist.

“We would’ve made it work – we can make it work. I don’t care if I have to get on a stupid, stuffy, germ-infested plane every week. I’ll make it work – and,” he sighs, because this next part is going to be met with resistance, he knows, “I’m already at the Olympics. This is what I’ve wanted my whole life, and I’m here. I’m twenty-seven, Iwa-chan.”

“Stop that.” Iwaizumi glares at him. “I would never ask you to give this up for me. You love it in Argentina.”

“I can play volleyball anywhere,” he scoffs. “And I’m going to be past my prime soon anyways. I can’t keep up with the twenty-three year olds of the world.”

“You’re a naturalized citizen of Argentina.”

“Eh, Japan will take me back.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Iwaizumi muses, never taking his eyes off Oikawa. “You would just – uproot your entire life because I told you I loved you?”

“Iwa-chan, it is easy. You know what’s hard? Being away from you. I don’t want to do it anymore. It sucks. Besides – I can’t leave you here alone with people like Miya Atsumu trying to throw himself at you. You’re too nice to stop him!” Oikawa drops his wrist, finally, but Iwaizumi one-ups him and wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. 

“I’d just given up,” he says, muffled, “I just accepted that I was going to have to have a hopeless crush on my idiot best friend for my whole life.”

“Iwa-chan, don’t insult me when we’re having a moment. ”

Iwaizumi squeezes him harder and then pulls back. They watch either other for a minute and Oikawa’s eyes flutter down to his lips. He smiles, all confidence returning to him in a wave. “We can work out everything later, but we have a lot of kissing to make up for and you know I’ve never been a very patient person, Iwa-chan.”

That breaks Iwaizumi – and he crashes their lips together. 

Oikawa can’t help the gasp that Iwaizumi rips out of him. He’s been kissed plenty of times, but this is Iwaizumi – he’s actually, finally kissing Iwaizumi. How many different times has he imagined this? Oikawa longed for years to kiss Iwaizumi in every situation he could – ecstatic, sweaty kisses after wins, slow and searching kisses after losses, lazy kisses in Iwaizumi’s bedroom, tangling their legs together on the bed.

He groans when Iwaizumi deepens the kiss, and Oikawa lets his hands fall onto his waist, gripping at the fabric of his shirt and using the leverage to pull him closer. An adrenaline rush like no other hits him, and he’s so dizzy he may fall over. Iwaizumi must sense it, somehow, maybe because he knows Oikawa better than anybody in the world, maybe because despite having never touched him like this, his hands move like he has his body memorized. He pushes Oikawa backwards until they’re back on the bed. 

“This isn’t real,” Iwaizumi laughs. 

“I know, I am like a dream,” Oikawa tries to land on sarcastic but he’s too breathless, and Iwaizumi’s smile just makes it harder to get air. He rises up on his knees and threads his fingers in Iwaizumi’s hair, covering his lips with his own, suddenly desperate to make up for the lost time. Iwaizumi responds in earnest, snaking his arms around Oikawa’s middle and holding on tight. He bites Iwaizumi’s lip and is rewarded with a small noise of approval. 

When Oikawa detaches to instead lick a stripe down Iwaizumi’s neck, he shivers and grunts, bucking his hips up into the air.

“I should’ve made you jealous earlier,” Iwaizumi manages. “If I knew that was what it would take – ”

“Mmm.” Oikawa bit down on the shell of his ear. “I’m never going to let anyone look at you like that again.”

Oikawa is almost glad that he didn’t confess to Iwaizumi before because this – this is addictive, and he doesn’t think he would’ve ever made it to Argentina if he knew this is what he would be giving up. He would’ve enrolled himself right into some sports medicine classes at Irvine and spent all his free time making out with Iwaizumi. 

Oikawa scoots closer to Iwaizumi, and he takes the hint quickly, yanking him up into his lap. He laughs lightly. “You’re too big for this.”

“Ah, but Iwa-chan is so strong,” Oikawa simpers. “You can handle it.” 

Then Oikawa grinds down against him and the sound Iwaizumi makes sends him straight to Heaven. He loses his composure quickly because they’ve wasted so much time not doing this and Oikawa doesn’t know when he’ll next get the opportunity. He told Iwaizumi how he feels, but he’s always been better at communicating with his actions. He backs up his confession with hands that drag down Iwaizumi’s biceps, fingernails that dig into the exposed skin of his neck, lips that leave soft red marks on his collarbone.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi whispers. His pupils are blown wide and he’s panting and Oikawa has truly never been this turned on in his entire life. He doesn’t know who he is right now, doesn’t know how he got here, but he can’t slow down – not with Iwaizumi looking at him like he’s made of gold. 

“I love you,” he murmurs. “My whole life, Iwa-chan, I’ve loved you so much.” 

“You were always such a flirt,” Iwaizumi chokes out the words as Oikawa goes back to sucking on his neck. “You – all those girls. I never thought I stood a chance.” 

“I flirted with you much more,” Oikawa insists. 

“Never thought you were being serious.” 

Oikawa hums against his neck. “You and volleyball are the only two things I’ve ever been serious about.” 

It’s a cheesy line, but Oikawa isn’t in much control over what comes out of his mouth right now, and it seems to resonate with Iwaizumi, because he suddenly throws Oikawa off of him so that he’s on his back and climbs above him, staring down into his eyes with that patented Iwaizumi intensity. Oikawa used to think Iwaizumi could see right through them when they were kids – he thinks it again now as Iwaizumi takes him apart with just a look. 

“You can undress me with your hands, since you’re already doing it with your eyes, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa teases, because he really wants to feel Iwaizumi’s skin on his. He craves it like a fast-growing addiction – Iwaizumi’s hands over clothes are no longer enough. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t even pause to roll his eyes, like Oikawa expected – he’s wholly transfixed and the heat of his gaze sends Oikawa up in flames. Iwaizumi helps him shrug off his jacket, and then curls his fingers along the bottom of that plain gray t-shirt and tugs it over his head.

“Now you,” Oikawa says softly and he has to remind himself again that this is not one of his fantasies when Iwaizumi discards his shirt haphazardly on the floor. Iwaizumi is beautiful in a way that physically hurts. Oikawa wants to stare, wants to memorize every plane, every expanse of tanned skin, but he can’t stop now – not when he’s waited so long for this.

There will be time to go slow later. He wraps his hands around Iwaizumi’s neck and he falls on top of him. Their skin smacking together is music to Oikawa’s ears. 

Iwaizumi is warm against him, and once he gets his lips on him again, he traces his hands down his heated body. Iwaizumi slips his tongue into Oikawa’s mouth and Oikawa teases the button of his jeans. 

Iwaizumi pulls away, and Oikawa waits for his answer. He gives the slightest nod, and Oikawa moves to undo the button on his pants and drags down his zipper. He works himself out of the tight jeans and throws them elsewhere, and ah – Oikawa is going to die. Iwaizumi is hard, straining against his boxers, a very evident wet spot forming. Oikawa wants to put his mouth on it. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa breathes, and Iwaizumi turns his attention to Oikawa’s pants, pulling them off in one swift movement. “You are so beautiful.” 

Iwaizumi’s eyes are watering, but he doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, he pulls Oikawa out of his pants, and lines himself up so that when he collapses onto him a second time, their cocks brush together, and Oikawa twitches as if he was electrocuted.

Iwaizumi kisses him again and slowly begins to rock his hips against Oikawa’s. They establish a rhythm, an ebb and flow of hot, desperate bodies writhing against each other, trying to communicate a lifetime of words. 

Oikawa wants to tell Iwaizumi he loves him one hundred – no, one thousand times a day, every day, for the rest of his life. He wants to kiss him until Iwaizumi is shoving him away, unable to take his affection. He wants to fall asleep next to him, not just the image of him on his phone, somewhere in a faraway country. Oikawa just wants to be overwhelmed with the essence of Iwaizumi.

That’s where he is now – lightheaded, overheated from everything Iwaizumi. He’s too far gone to police anything that comes out of his mouth, so the moment Iwaizumi lets him breathe, he whispers, “Do you wanna fuck me, Iwa-chan?” 

Iwaizumi groans and gives Oikawa a look like he’s in physical pain. “Fuck. Yes.”

Oikawa lets his eyelids flutter closed, and he curls his own fingers around the waistband of his boxer shorts.

“Wait, Oikawa – ”

Oikawa’s eyes snap open and his heart stutters. Oh – he was too much; he was way too much for Iwa-chan, and now he would change his mind. He watches Iwaizumi with what he hopes is not a look of pathetic terror on his face. “Yes?”

“I’ve just…” Iwaizumi is red-faced, and Oikawa can’t tell if it’s adorable or depraved – maybe some sort of combination that only Iwaizumi can pull off. He’s thoroughly fucked out of his mind, with wide eyes, dusted pink cheeks and a rapidly rising and falling chest, and – he focuses back on Iwaizumi.

“Just?”

“I’ve never been with a man before. I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

“Oh?” Oikawa raises an eyebrow. That isn’t what he expected – thank God. “I’ll be your first time.” 

He tries to be coy about it, but he’s about to cry again – because for a moment, he thought he was on the brink of slipping away from him, but no, he’s not losing him at all. He laughs, “You won’t want to go back to girls after this, I promise.”

“I don’t want to go back to anybody after this – oh God,” he cuts off when Oikawa cranes his neck up to press a searing kiss to the bulge in Iwaizumi’s boxers. He sits back on his knees, gasping out a labored breath and then yanks Oikawa up with him. “Take yours off first,” he demands.

Oikawa grins at the confidence – stern Iwa-chan is his favorite – and he obeys the command. Now, laid entirely bare, Oikawa sits back on his legs and lets Iwaizumi look. He wants so desperately to look at Iwaizumi like Iwaizumi looks at him.

“You said I’m beautiful,” Iwaizumi says, wonder in his voice, “But fuck, Oikawa – you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” 

Oikawa lets out an involuntary whine and drags Iwaizumi back over to him. He pushes Oikawa into the headboard and kisses him breathless, hands staying firmly on his hips. Every time Iwaizumi leans into the kiss, he feels his leg against his bare cock, and Oikawa resists the urge to grind against him. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sighs, “Your turn.”

Iwaizumi lets Oikawa take his underwear off, the last layer remaining between them. He goes at a languid pace, stopping over Iwaizumi’s ass to squeeze it playfully. 

He growls and bites down into Oikawa’s neck – the moan he let out afterwards is unholy. He abandons all attempts at teasing and rips the boxers down the rest of the way, and when Iwaizumi is naked before him, Oikawa unapologetically drinks him in.

“I’m going to suck your dick,” he says, “And then you can fuck me.”

Iwaizumi looks like he may faint. Oikawa takes advantage of the disorientation, and sinks his mouth down onto Iwaizumi’s cock. He gets an immediate reaction – Iwaizumi lets out an absolutely shattered moan and sinks further onto his knees. Oikawa licks up the shift, wrapping one hand around the base and jerking him leisurely. 

“Holy shit – you’re – oh my God, Oikawa.” Iwaizumi cards his fingers through Oikawa’s hair and pulls – tight. Oikawa pushes himself to the limit and takes Iwaizumi to the back of his throat. He gags a little, but he’s never been a quitter, so he stays steady. Iwaizumi keens and struggles to keep his knees pinned to the bed.

“Stop,” he tells Oikawa. “Stop, let me fuck you. I want to fuck you so bad, Oikawa.”

Oikawa’s stomach flutters – he’d let Iwaizumi fuck him however he wants, wherever he wants, whenever he wants for the first of his life. Just hearing the words are enough to push him to the edge – Iwaizumi wants to fuck him so bad that he’s begging for it. 

Oikawa nods hurriedly and holds up three fingers to Iwaizumi’s lips. “Help me out?” 

When Iwaizumi’s mouth closes around his fingers and he begins to twirl his tongue around them, Oikawa really does almost come on the spot. He manages to just barely hold back, and he pulls his fingers away with a pop.

He wants to paint a picture of Iwaizumi like this – he can be described as nothing else but wrecked. Iwaizumi is gorgeous, and completely falling apart.

Oikawa can’t say he’s faring much better, but he has to put on a show for Iwaizumi. “Watch me, Iwa-chan,” he says. “I’m going to open myself up for you.”

Oikawa hisses as he inserts the first finger into his hole, but he soon relaxes as he gets adjusted to the stretch. It’s been awhile since he’s done this, and so he works himself open slowly, reveling in the fact that Iwaizumi’s is watching him as if in a trance. He adds a second finger, and a tiny gasp escapes him.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi whispers – it sounds like praise, and Oikawa bites his lip. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long.”

Oikawa burns when he inserts the third finger, but he keeps his gaze on Iwaizumi. “You have me now, Iwa-chan, but I’ve always belonged to you.”

Iwaizumi kisses him abruptly, as if he cannot get close enough and Oikawa lets him take whatever he wants. He continues to finger himself, scissoring his fingers as Iwaizumi claims him with heavy, hot kisses.

“Tooru.” The name is just a mutter against skin, but it causes Oikawa to break out in goosebumps. 

“Please, Hajime.” He’s almost crying again, overwhelmed with a whole spectrum of emotions. He needs to be closer – aches for Iwaizumi to fill him, wants them to be connected in the only way they haven’t been yet. “Please, I’m ready.”

“Hold on,” he says, seeming to come back into reality for a moment. He reaches off the bed into his luggage and pulls out a travel-sized bottle of lube. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I hope that was just for touching yourself,” Oikawa teases. 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Maybe I was hoping for this.”

Oikawa squirms at that, and Iwaizumi fixes him with the softest expression he’s seen from him – probably ever. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, okay?”

Oikawa is touched, but he doesn’t want Iwaizumi treating him like he’s fragile. He’s waited for this too long for it to be anything but his top effort. “You know I can’t hide my dramatics, but I want you to hurt me.” 

His words have the desired effect – he’s reworded with another beautiful blush. Iwaizumi lifts Oikawa’s legs in the air and pushes them back. “You’re still so flexible.”

“Regular yoga,” Oikawa responds but the end of his sentence turns into a moan when Iwaizumi lines his cock up with his hole and teases the entrance. “ Hajime , do it.”

He pushes in, inch-by-inch, and it burns in the best way possible. As he sinks in, Oikawa chants Iwaizumi’s name, switching between Hajime, Hajime and Iwa-chan, my Iwa-chan and moans from the sensory overload. He wants to scream out, wants to cry, wants to beg for Iwaizumi to fuck him so hard he can’t remember his name. 

“Fuck, you feel good, Tooru.”

Oikawa practically wails. “Move, Hajime, you have to move.” 

“You're impatient,” Iwaizumi is trying to tease, but he’s just as desperate for it as Oikawa is.

“And you know that about me – one of my most consistent qualities, so Hajime, please. ”

Iwaizumi bottoms out, then immediately pulls almost all the way back out, just to thrust back in hard and fast. Oikawa hits his head against the headboard and Iwaizumi pauses to scold him.

“Be careful – you still have games to play.”

“Oh my God, don’t lecture me while your dick is in my ass, Hajime!”

Iwaizumi continues and Oikawa effectively shuts up, unable to form any more coherent sentences. He wraps his hand around his cock and tugs at it, uncoordinated and lazy, desperate for some sort of relief. Iwaizumi is slamming into him now, rough and without abandon, just like Oikawa asked of him, and he knows he’s falling apart beneath him. Iwaizumi grips Oikawa’s thighs as he thrusts into him. Their eyes meet, and Oikawa feels tears prickle at his eyes once more. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Oikawa sings, because he’s wanted to say it for his entire life, and now he can. “I love you, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi groans and his hips stutter. He reaches down to knock Oikawa’s hand away from his cock and takes it himself. He jerks him three times quickly and that’s all it takes. Oikawa sees white, and Iwaizumi then collapses onto his chest.

Oikawa blinks awareness back into his eyes. Iwaizumi is still inside of him, but doesn’t appear to be moving. Oikawa pokes his head up to make sure he didn’t kill the other man. 

“It’s sticky, Iwa-chan,” he whines, but he doesn’t really want Iwaizumi to get up either.

“Hajime,” he mutters. “You called me Hajime, so keep doing it. It’s about time anyways.”

Oikawa grinned into Iwaizumi’s hair. “Okay, but Iwa-chan is still my nickname. Miya isn’t allowed to use it.”

“I’m not gonna tell him that,” grumbles Iwaizumi.

“I will.” 

Iwaizumi sighs and places a weak, exhausted kiss on Oikawa’s chest. “I’m going to die.” 

“Imagine if we had done that years ago, when you had the stamina of an athlete,” Oikawa muses.

“Shut the fuck up. My stamina is fine,” he snaps. He pauses. “Tooru, I meant what I said – I don’t want to hold you back.”

“It’s far too late for that.” Oikawa squirms away from him, just enough so that he can look at him. Iwaizumi raises his head off of his chest, and there’s a sadness in his eyes. Oikawa hates it, wants to banish it away. “There is no life that I want without you. I tried that. I don’t want to do it again.” 

“But, Argentina – ”

“My teammates love it here, Hajime, they’re all obsessed with anime. They’ll come visit me once I leave, trust me. And besides, I didn’t say I was leaving tomorrow. Didn’t you hear Bokuto? He wants a rematch, and I want to destroy Miya at least one more time before I retire. You’ll just have to be more diligent about visiting me.”

“I’ll visit you all the time,” Iwaizumi promises. “I’ll go to every game I can.”

“Oh, your team will not like that.” 

“They’ll get over it.”

Oikawa smiles and Iwaizumi finally gets off of him and pulls out. They’re a mess, and they hobble to the bathroom together, pushing and shoving the other for the privilege of being first in the shower. Oikawa wins, and turns the hot water on before dragging Iwaizumi in with him.

Oikawa purposely drops the soap three times, and Iwaizumi threatens to kick him out of the shower if he doesn’t stop acting like an idiot. It’s so natural, like no time has passed between them at all, like they’ve always existed together like this. Oikawa loves a lot of things in life – he loves the fresh smell of his favorite lavender shampoo, and the feeling of soft, linen towels on clean skin. He loves the high of a victory, and the celebration to follow. He loves hotel rooms – especially when he doesn’t have to fantasize, because the real thing is right in front of him.

He loves Iwaizumi Hajime with every fiber of his being, above all else, and he thinks idly that he owes Hanamaki bragging rights for the rest of his life, because he was right – some friendships were meant to be ruined.