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Chapter Text

Over a decade of figure skating, and Tooru hadn’t hit anyone with an ice skate in ages.

He was currently considering it, but he figured that that was mostly a sign that he was a good person, on the account that he thought of it and was actively refraining. Surely, that made him a better person than someone who never had to resist the temptation.

“Thank you for that fascinating look inside your brain,” Akaashi Keiji says when Tooru voices this thought. “I hope you see a therapist about these disturbing violent urges.”

“Nobody likes a backseat psychologist,” Tooru tells him, and twists away before Akaashi can tell him he’s misusing the phrase or something else stupid like that.

It’s easy to lose himself in the motions of this routine, which is a beginner practice he chose for a cooldown. And the quieter his mind gets, the less homicidal he feels, which is probably better for everyone all around.

“Oi,” someone calls from the spectator stands, and Tooru’s mind splashes red very briefly. “I just said we booked this rink.”

Iwaizumi Hajime, the potential victim of ice-skate homicide, is looking over the stands, his jawline clenched in a way that looks very lickable.

“Didn’t you hear?” Tooru says brightly, spinning away, one foot crossing gracefully over the other. “You aren’t allowed to book the rink on the first Saturday of the month! It’s free use!” He calls over his shoulder.

He spins back around in time to see the giant Russian on their team straighten up to a full height of probably seven feet. “Oh, okay! Sorry to bother you!”

He turns to leave and is stopped by Iwaizumi’s hand gripping his shoulder.

“Lev,” Iwaizumi says, his eyes shutting briefly as if praying for patience. “Wisen up, huh?”

Tooru snickers, sliding nearer to see that angry jawline up close, but his fun is quickly spoiled by the sight of the hockey team coach approaching the rink, evidently coming to see what the hold-up was.

“Ah, well,” he says hastily, crossing to the other edge to exit the rink. “I tried!” He yells across the ice to where the team is, and he swears on his life he can see Iwaizumi try to hide a smile.

He meets up with Akaashi in the locker room, because of course Akaashi had left at the specified time instead of sticking with Tooru to piss off the hockey team.

It wasn’t that Tooru enjoyed it, really. He was just generally opposed to getting walked over. If the end result was that the delicious looking vein in Iwaizumi’s neck began to show, that was only a side benefit.

(And if Tooru and Mattsun occasionally go to their games and yell at them to take off their shirts, Tooru will maintain to his dying day that is actually to throw them off their game and not an attempt at manifestation.)

“A poked bear may stumble in its sleep but eventually its eyes will open,” Akaashi tells him.

“Keiji-chan, you really are a weird guy,” Tooru says brightly. “Repeat that with real life words, please.”

Akaashi thinks this over. “One of those guys is going to snap and hit you one of these days,” he offers instead.

Tooru scrunches his nose in disdain. “You should be more worried about me snapping.”

“I am,” Akaashi says. “I’m worried that them snapping will make you snap and then we’ll get banned from this rink.”

“Out of curiosity,” Tooru asks, swinging his bag of practice clothes over his shoulder. “Why are you getting banned in this scenario?”

“I wouldn’t cooperate with law enforcement when they came to arrest you,” Akaashi says solemnly.

Tooru stares at him, strangely touched. “Thank you. I’ll try not to get arrested.”

This resolution is tested immediately after leaving the rink, which had admittedly not been in Tooru’s plans.

“Oikawa!” Matsuda Junichi yells at him, jogging over from where he had been standing by his car parked outside the rink. “Hey, Oikawa, listen-”

“I’ll piss on your grave and listen to your corpse roll,” Tooru says, but only quietly and only to himself.

“I got two tickets to a hockey game a week from now,” Junichi says, catching up to him, smiling that horrible smile that makes Tooru want to knock his teeth out. “I got a lot of girls asking me to come, but I thought I’d take you out.”

“Oh, did you?” Tooru asks, as flatly as possible. He’s already walked to the bus stop, and now he’s stuck waiting there while Junichi talks at him.

“C’mon, we can make a whole thing out of it,” Junichi says, oblivious to the murderous vibes Tooru is projecting.

“Not interested,” Tooru says. “Take one of the girls.”

“Aw, but I want to take you,” Junichi says, almost whining. “Besides,” oh god here it comes, “you do kind of owe me, for the whole free rink access.”

There it is. There is how Tooru has been roped into accepting nearly every invitation this stupid bastard has thrown his way over the last few months out of some desparate attempt to try and buy his way into Tooru’s pants.

“I owe your dad,” Tooru reminds him, though he knows it won’t work. “Who owns the rink. Not you.”

“You know my dad wouldn’t want you to turn this down,” Junichi responds, like he always does. “He wants us to get closer.”

Matsuda-san had not only given Tooru free rink access since he was about twelve, he had helped introduce Tooru to his current coach. Tooru, in no small way, owed the man his career, a debt that mattered more to Tooru than any other chain he was attached to. And, no, Matsuda-san would not want Tooru strong-armed into going on pseudo-dates with his son, but it would make him upset if Tooru started fighting with the bitch, which was bound to happen soon because Junichi did not like to be told no.

“I can’t,” Tooru says, more out of spite than anything else.

“Why not?”

“I-” Tooru licks his lips and stares at the pimple sprouting on Junichi’s chin as maliciously as possible. He hopes it explodes. “I have a boyfriend who wouldn’t like that.”

Even as he says it, he regrets it. He isn’t even sure why he said it. He was probably distracted by that fucking pimple. Tooru hasn’t had time for a serious boyfriend since he was about fifteen. Which Junichi knows.

“A boyfriend,” Junichi echoes, his tone incredulous.

“A boyfriend,” Tooru maintains, desperately committed to his sinking ship. “He’s kind of overprotective, really.”

God, he’s fucked the second Junichi asks to see a picture. Or by next week, when Junichi inevitably asks why his so-called boyfriend has yet to drop by when Tooru practices. Or by tomorrow, when Junichi will demand to meet the boyfriend. And then he’ll have to explain that he lied, and then Matsuda-san will look at him all confused and disappointed like the time Tooru had vandalized the city centre, and then his career and all his professional relationships will be burned down and it’ll all be Tooru’s own fault because he can’t keep his huge mouth shut and he apparently likes to self-sabotage.

Tooru feels like he’s going to vomit. He feels like the sidewalk he’s standing on is starting to cave in beneath him, like the sky is suddenly bearing down on his shoulders, too heavy to carry, so close to pushing him to his knees.

“Hey!” A familiar voice calls from behind him. “You forgot your skates, moron!” Tooru manages to turn on shaky legs to see Iwaizumi jogging towards him in sweatpants and his hockey jersey. He’s carrying an orange bag that had been a present from Hanamaki, which Tooru uses to store his skates when he’s taking the bus. His shoelaces are untied.

“Ah, Iwa-chan,” he manages to say through the depths of his spiraling thoughts. Part of him surfaces long enough to wish he was more present in this moment, because Iwaizumi is making a particularly good face right now. Partly disgruntled, partly concerned, partly that semi-permanent frown that pulls his lips downwards. He’s got a light sheen of sweat on his forehead- he’s probably been practicing, Tooru thinks dizzily- and his shoulders seem especially wide with that jersey on.

“Here,” Iwaizumi says, holding the bag out. When Tooru doesn’t make a move to take it, he clicks his tongue and, in a shockingly gentle movement, pulls Tooru’s hand up himself, so that he can place the bag on his palm. Then Tooru takes it, clumsily adjusting his grip so he’s holding it properly by the handles. His breath is still coming too fast, his lungs burning in his chest.

A heavy hand settles on the top of his head, fingers nestling in his hair and tilting his face up from where it’s angled towards the ground so that Iwaizumi can peer up into his eyes. “Hey,” he says, in a voice so soft it could have given Tooru a boner in other, much different, circumstances. “What’s wrong with you?”

Iwaizumi’s hair is in it’s usual bizarrely tousled style, standing up at all sorts of angles, like someone had very aggressively run their hands through it. He’s got nice eyes, Tooru’s noticed them before. Sort of hazel coloured, shifting from green to brown. His eyebrows are currently pulled down low, making the skin of his forehead wrinkle. He’s got big ears, Tooru thinks, and his front tooth is chipped.

Junichi, who had been blissfully silent, up until now, decides to chime in. “Is this the guy?”

Iwaizumi steps forward, frowning. “Who’s this?” He asks, and he’s talking to Tooru but he’s looking at Junichi, and Tooru’s never been quite this grateful for Iwaizumi’s resting bitch face before. Junichi backs up, because he’s a dick but he’s also shit in a fight, and a weight seems to lift off Tooru’s shoulders.

“Just a friend,” he says smoothly. “Tooru, properly introduce us sometime, okay?”

“Sure thing!” Tooru says, as nicely as possible, which makes Iwaizumi’s head turn towards him again. It doesn’t matter because Junichi is already slithering back into his car that cost way too much money, not to mention insurance premiums, making excuses about why he has to leave.

It’s only once Tooru can’t even see the fumes created by that hideous fucking car that he lets his shoulders drop, his forehead drooping to rest on Iwaizumi’s shoulders. A little voice in his brain pops up to tell him that, in normal circumstances, he would rather die than be this vulnerable in front of this man. But right now, in these circumstances, Tooru has just barely avoided having a panic attack in public and Iwaizumi’s jersey smells sweaty but not dirty, and his shoulders are such a steady place to rest his tired head.

“Um.” Iwaizumi says, and then a hesitant hand is rubbing his back, up and down in broad, warm strokes.

“Thank god you’re so scary, Iwa-chan,” Tooru mumbles, fisting his hands into jersey material on both sides of Iwaizumi’s chest, unwilling to pull away just yet. Fortunately, Iwaizumi doesn’t try to move, just keeps running his hand down Tooru’s back. It’s oddly comforting, Tooru’s breath starting to level out again.

“Don’t tell me you were letting that guy bully you,” Iwaizumi says, disbelieving. “You? I once saw you make Kuroo cry. Actual tears!”

Tooru laughs, despite himself, and finally stands up straight. He reluctantly releases the jersey he had clenched in his fists, and watches the material stay gathered where he had grabbed it.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says. “And I think your teammates are looking for you.”

Bokuto has, in fact, wandered out, his hockey stick held out in front of his chest like a protective barrier.

“They were probably worried we’d killed each other,” Iwaizumi says, and makes a gesture Tooru can’t see at Bokuto, who beams and gives him a thumbs up before running back inside.

“He did look glad to be out of the crossfire,” Tooru says, amused.

“Ah, you scare him,” Iwaizumi says dismissively, and then looks at him carefully. “Hey, uh-”

Tooru’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t for Iwaizumi to step forward and chuck him under the chin. “Cheer up, alright?“

“You’re ridiculous,” Tooru says exasperatedly. He doesn’t say thank you, but he hopes Iwaizumi can see it in his eyes. Maybe not. Either way, Tooru thinks, watching the man lope away, he had been a temporary solution to a much bigger problem.

“It’s not a problem,” Hanamaki tells him that evening. Tooru thinks he might be rolling his eyes, but he can’t tell because his face is smashed into his couch cushion, so all he can see is the thin cracks beginning to line the fabric. Hanamaki is prone to rolling his eyes when Tooru complains to him, so it’s a strong possibility.

“It is a problem,” Tooru says into the couch, not budging from his comatose position. “I’m never leaving my apartment again. My body will atrophy and my flesh will rot, and you’ll find it here, on this couch, being eaten by flies.”

“You sure have a talent for dramatics,” Hanamaki says, blatantly unsympathetic. “If figure skating doesn’t work out, I’m sure you have a career waiting for you in monologuing.”

“I think you would make a great Hamlet,” Matsukawa adds helpfully, perched on Tooru’s armchair like an overgrown crow, black curls tumbling over his forehead.

“Or the evil witches in Macbeth,” Hanamaki says.

“I wish you guys were dead,” Tooru says, and rolls over onto his back so he’s looking at the ceiling instead. God, his ceiling is so fucking ugly, and he can’t even get it fixed because he’s never going to the Olympics, and he’s going to be poor and useless and tragically beautiful for the rest of his life-

“What is wrong with you?” Hanamaki says, and Tooru realizes belatedly that he’d been saying all of that out loud.

“I’m so fucked,” Tooru says, and his voice shakes more than he had meant it to. “What do I do?”

“You could confess you lied,” Matsukawa suggests. “And say it was a spur of the moment thing, whoopsie.”

“And then what?” Tooru says glumly. “I’m stuck following Junichi anywhere he wants to go for the rest of his life, and being polite to him even when he starts acting like I’m some kind of Oliver Twist orphan his father took in and nurtured and I owe him my first born child and also my dick.”

“Christ,” Hanamaki says. “Just get your little hockey player to pretend he’s your boyfriend.”

Tooru sits up at that, tousled strands of hair falling into his flushed face. “Are you completely insane?”

“I think it’s a good plan,” Matsukawa says, unerringly loyal to the end. “You’re so smart, babe.”

“It’s an awful plan,” Tooru hisses. “What am I supposed to say? Sorry I’ve been actively antagonizing you and your team for a bit, please pretend to be my boyfriend to keep my career alive, and also if you notice I get hard when you’re near me, don’t pay it any mind, I just think you’re mega hot?”

“Not exactly like that,” Hanamaki says. “But yeah, that’s the gist of it.”

Tooru stares at him for a minute, trying to will Hanamaki’s hair to burst into violently pink flames. When it doesn’t work, he collapses with a huff back onto the couch. “I’m fucked,” he repeats.

Bokuto’s the first one to notice him the next day, hovering awkwardly around the entrance as the team wraps up. Tooru remembers what Iwaizumi had said about Bokuto being scared of him, so he tries his nicest smile, giving a small wave with his right hand.

“Hey!” Bokuto says easily, coming up to him. He’s still in his hockey gear, but his ice skates are off. “Are you looking for Iwaizumi?”

“I am, yeah,” Tooru says slowly. “How did you know that?”

Bokuto blinks at him, his head tilting slightly to the side in silent question. “You’re always looking for Iwaizumi.”

“Am not,” Tooru says, too defensively but he’s saved from hearing whatever Bokuto has to say about that when Kuroo comes up to them, slinging an arm over Bokuto’s shoulders, and making a mean face at Tooru.

“Don’t bully Koutarou, his nerves can’t handle it,” Kuroo says and then takes a closer look at his face, and stops, eyes narrowing. “Woah, what’s wrong with you today?”

Tooru can’t imagine what he looks like right now. He has trouble sleeping at the best of times, and last night had been one of the worst. He had spent most of it lying on his back and picturing himself penniless and destitute, until the swirling darkness had seemed to take on a physical shape and that shape had started to laugh at him. By the time he’d gotten up, he hadn’t even had time to fix his hair, or cover up the dark circles that had formed under his eyes.

He pictures himself, his hair tangled and his skin greasy, and a new zit starting to pop-up over his cheekbone and just about turns himself around and walks out of the building all together.

“Oikawa,” Kuroo says, “Oikawa, Oikawa, Oikawa.” He’s waving a hand in front of Tooru’s face, concerned eyebrows and terrible hair visible through the gaps in his fingers.

Tooru flinches and smacks his hand away. “Listen,” he says, and runs his hand through his hair in a last-ditch attempt to flatten it. “I’m not in the mood to argue today. Is Iwaizumi here?”

Kuroo and Bokuto have matching flabbergasted expressions, which is less than flattering. “You’re not in the mood?” Kuroo asks, like Tooru has just told him the Earth is going to get flattened by an asteroid in thirty seconds.

“I’m just-” It’s occurring to Tooru that this is possibly a really terrible plan and he should go home and think it over some more, without Makki’s cackling laugh in his ear, or at least come back with his hair brushed properly. “Yeah, I’m not in the mood, I’m gonna go, honestly-”

“No, don’t go!” Bokuto says quickly, his hand lashing out to wrap around Tooru’s arm. Tooru stares at him, dead-eyed, and he winces and repeats, quieter. “Don’t go, Iwaizumi’s just changing out. He took a hard hit today, so we let him off without helping clean up. He should be here any second.”

“Oikawa?”

“Speak of the devil!” Bokuto says, sounding relieved and steps fully away from Tooru so he can see Iwaizumi approaching them, a long bag slung over his back. His jacket is nice, Tooru notices, an expensive brand Tooru sees at competitions sometimes. It’s zipped up fully, the black fabric clinging tight to every defined muscle in his arms and chest.

“You don’t practice here today,” Iwaizumi says. He looks concerned too. Tooru is getting a little tired of these hockey players looking concernedly at him.

Tooru can think of fifty million different things to say here. Maybe a ‘how did you know that?’ or a ‘what do you care?’ or ‘hey can I talk to you?’

What comes out of his mouth is, “are you okay?”

Because Iwaizumi’s got a red, swelling mark on his jaw, sure to darken into a bruise over the next hour. He seems a little surprised by the question, his thick eyebrows lifting. “Yeah, just took a hit this practice. It happens.”

“Right,” Tooru says, because he knows that, because he’s seen a hockey game before. He shifts from foot to foot carefully. He’s become horribly aware of how his tongue is sitting in his own mouth. “Happens.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says slowly. He looks like he wants to check Tooru’s temperature. “Do you want to sit down?”

“No,” Tooru snaps immediately, his shoulders rising up to his chin. “Do I look tired to you?”

The answer is yes, probably, and it would be right. Tooru is exhausted, and he does want very badly to sit down. Still, something in his eyes must show that Tooru is running low on straws to grab at, because Iwaizumi doesn’t say yes immediately, just pauses and shakes his head slowly.

Bokuto and Kuroo are both still there, Kuroo draped over Bokuto’s back, watching the two of them like he’s seeing a particularly rough tennis match.

“What are you guys still doing here?” Tooru says, irritated.

Kuroo only smiles insufferably, lips curling up. “There he is. All back to normal. C’mon Bo, let’s leave the kids alone.”

Tooru watches them traipse off, his irritation rising inexplicably when he sees they’re holding hands.

“I actually fell when I got hit,” Iwaizumi says apologetically, distracting him. “So if you’re here to see me, I’m going to need to sit down. For my leg. Which hurts.”

Tooru fixes him in place with a hard glare, his feet firmly planted where they are.

Iwaizumi’s eyebrow twitches, just a little. He grabs his leg, completely unconvincing. “Ouch.”

The glare is getting a little hard to keep up.

“Fuck,” Tooru says, after a moment, feeling the burning frustration in his throat subside. It hits him suddenly, as his mind clears, what he must look like to Iwaizumi, and his lips twitch. Iwaizumi’s eyes widen in alarm and Tooru breaks into laughter, a genuine laugh, rising up from his chest, his shoulders dropping back down, his body relaxing like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Sorry,” he says to Iwaizumi, who is staring at him. “That wasn’t hysteria. Sorry. I just realized I was being stupid. Also, you suck at lying. Let’s go sit down.”

Tooru kicks absent-mindedly at the legs of Iwaizumi’s chair, too nervous to look up and meet his eyes. “So, that’s the situation,” he says. It sounds more insane when he says it out loud than it had when he’d practiced it.

“Sure,” Iwaizumi says. They’ve sat down in a dingy little fast food place next to the ice rink, empty at this time of day, which is good for professional athletes who need to discuss crazy people schemes in relative privacy. A packet of limp fries sits between them, grease saturating the packet, spreading in blobs across the thin paper.

“Sure,” Tooru mimics. His kicking grows faster, the chair legs squeaking as he hits them harder and harder.

A hand wraps around his ankle the next time it flies to kick the seat and Tooru finally looks up to meet Iwaizumi’s eyes.

“If you break it, I’m not paying for it,” Iwaizumi says warningly, and then releases Tooru’s leg.

Tooru kicks the chair one more time for good measure and then sweeps his legs under his own chair. “Can you just say something?” He asks, trying to cover the flush rising to his face. “And if the answer is no, that’s okay, but just so you know I’m trusting you to not tell anyone else that I asked you-”

Iwaizumi runs his hands over his face, groaning, and for the first time Tooru notices that his ears are bright red.

Knowing they’re in the same boat makes him inclined to be kinder, and Tooru settles down in his seat, determined to wait him out.

“Alright,” Iwaizumi says. “We need to talk about this somewhere else. People could walk in here any time and the last thing I need right now is to become tabloid fodder.”

“Ah,” Tooru says knowingly, both of them standing up. “Olympics selection is coming up.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says, scrubbing a hand through his hair, making it stand even more on end. “Also, I generally don’t like seeing my face on newsstands.”

Tooru considers that, as someone who loves to see their face on newsstands and even more so on tabloids. “If you say so.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Iwaizumi says, leading them out into the parking lot. “You’re always doing all those modelling campaigns. I guess you see yourself a lot, huh?”

Tooru smiles, a small pleased smile. “I took two medals at last year’s Grand Prix,” he says. “I’m in high demand, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi looks skeptical. “Oh really? Ask one of your model friends to date you for real.”

“Why do that, when I could hang out with you?” Tooru asks, cheerful once again. They’ve reached Iwaizumi’s car, which is apparently the more private place Iwaizumi had been talking about.

“The windows are tinted,” Iwaizumi explains, as they both climb into the vehicle. It’s a nice car, Tooru thinks jealously, trying not to stare too obviously at the smooth, expensive-looking interior.

“Do you think any of the players from your team are going to get selected?” Tooru asks, leaning against the passenger side window to look at Iwaizumi.

“Well,” Iwaizumi says, slanting a crooked grin in Tooru’s direction. “Me, obviously.”

Two small dimples appear in Iwaizumi’s cheeks and Tooru tries to remember how to breathe properly. “Obviously,” he says, and if it doesn’t sound half as sarcastic as he meant it to, Iwaizumi doesn’t mention it.

“Bokuto, too,” Iwaizumi continues, thoughtfully. “Hinata, maybe as an alternate. He’s good, but he needs more practice.”

“I guess I’ll see you there,” Tooru says, and watches those two dimples make a reappearance.

“Why can’t you just use another rink?” Iwaizumi asks. “If you won two medals already, you can probably afford it.”

Tooru tips his head back and tries to think of the best way to explain this. “Figure skating isn’t like hockey, or football, or basketball. We don’t get contracts for the season. We get paid if we win, and the costs of equipment and training add up. A lot of professional figure skaters rely on their families, or work side jobs. Plus, we retire early, so I need to save up while I’m ahead.”

Iwaizumi is watching him steadily, hazel eyes giving Tooru his full attention. Somehow, Tooru hadn’t expected him to be this good of a listener.

“And this rink is private, so no fans show up to watch you practice, and it’s near my house.”

“It’s near mine too,” Iwaizumi shares and Tooru stores that information away in a small folder of his brain with a picture of Iwaizumi’s face taped over it.

“That’s not even it, though,” Tooru continues. “Figure skating’s hard to get into, if you don’t have any connections. When me and my family moved here- our last city didn’t even have an ice rink. I learned to skate on a frozen over pond. When we moved, I used to practice before school, after school, weekends, whenever we could afford it. Matsuda-san set everything up for me, he got me a good coach, he made all the right introductions. I do owe him, whatever he might think about it. I don’t want to make him upset.”

Iwaizumi is silent for a moment and then slumps forward over the steering wheel, making a noise like a dog throwing up, his forehead hitting the top of the wheel.

“Iwa-chan?” Tooru says, immediately concerned. “What the fuck?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t lift his head up, just mumbles to the floor. “Have you just been secretly cool this whole time and I didn’t know it?”

It’s enough to startle a laugh out of Tooru, the second time today.

“I feel like there’s definitely a less insane solution,” Iwaizumi says, straightening up. “But I can’t think of it, so I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do it?!”

“Just said I would.”

“Oh my god,” Tooru says, beaming so hard his cheeks are starting to ache. “Iwa-chan, you are a lifesaver. I will never bully your hockey team again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, you asshole. Do you want a ride home?”

Tooru nods, so incandescently happy, he thinks he might be glowing, practically bouncing in his seat as he turns to buckle his seatbelt.

When he looks back at Iwaizumi again, Iwaizumi is already looking at him.

Tooru blinks. “What?”

“Nothing,” Iwaizumi grinds out through gritted teeth as he starts the car. “Nothing.”

“By the way,” Iwaizumi says, as the two of them inch through the weekday traffic. “Why do you take the bus anyway? Aren’t you worried you’ll be recognized?”

“No one is looking for a figure skater on public transport, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says. “Besides, I never learned how to drive.”

Iwaizumi looks over at him, incredulous. “You never learned how?”

“I was busy,” Tooru says defensively. “I’m only twenty-two, you know. And there’s lots going on in my life.”

“I wasn’t judging,” Iwaizumi says, “just surprised. I failed mine like three times.”

Tooru sits up straight in his seat. “Three times? How do I get out of this car?”

Iwaizumi tsks disapprovingly. “Relax, it’s fine. I passed in the end, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, on the fourth try,” Tooru mutters. “I’d probably pass the bar exam if I took it on the fourth try.”

“You are such an asshole,” Iwaizumi says, but he’s smiling as he says it. “Better to try and fail than never try, right?”

“Personally,” Tooru says, as haughty as he can manage. “I’d rather try and succeed.”

When they pull up in front of Tooru’s apartment complex, Tooru is nervous again, fidgeting with the hems of his sleeves as Iwaizumi parks.

“Should we like,” he winces even as the words leave his mouth, “come up with rules, or a plan or something.”

“We could,” Iwaizumi says dubiously. “But if you say some corny shit like ‘rule one is don’t fall in love with me’ I’m gonna break up with you.”

“I wasn’t going to say that!” Tooru snaps. Then because he can’t help himself, he adds, “Anyway, that would be the last rule. For dramatic effect.”

“I can’t believe people think you’re scary,” Iwaizumi says. “You’re moronic.”

“Shut up,” Tooru says, ineffectively, as he pulls out his phone. He opens up his Notes app, and types in ‘Rules’ into the header.

“Nerd.”

“Hush.” Tooru types in ‘Rule 1’ and then stares at it.

“Well?” Iwaizumi prompts.

Tooru scowls at him. “Rule number one is don’t be mean to me.”

“Rejected,” Iwaizumi says, and unbuckles his seatbelt to settle a little more comfortably into his seat.

“Fine,” Tooru says. “Rule one is, we have to keep going for about two months. That’ll be enough time to convince Junichi the relationship is real, and for him to get off my case.”

Iwaizumi agrees, so Tooru moves on. “Rule two is you have to go with me to weekly dinners at Matsuda-san’s house.”

Iwaizumi sits up at that, alarmingly straight. “Every week?”

“Well, not if you’re super busy,” Tooru says, a little taken aback. “I can try to get you out of the first few, but we’ll definitely have to go to a few.”

“It’s just,” Iwaizumi pauses, and then looks at Tooru, seeming incredibly pained. “I’m like, a really bad liar.”

The earnest worry on his face is too much to bear, and Tooru turns his head to stifle his laughter into his shoulder.

“I can still see you laughing, dickhead,” Iwaizumi says heatedly. “I’m serious!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Tooru says, still giggling a little. He holds up his hands. “Not laughing at you, I swear. I’ll do most of the talking, you can just sit back and nod along. I’ll tell them you’re shy.”

“Of course you will,” Iwaizumi says, shaking his head. “Fine, yeah, that’s alright then.”

“Rule number three is,” Tooru hesitates, trying to think of something that’ll annoy Iwaizumi to just the appropriate level. “Rule number three is you have to drive me home from practice everyday.”

He looks at Iwaizumi expectantly, hoping to see that thrilling neck vein start to stick out, but the other man just looks thoughtful. “I probably can’t everyday,” he says.

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, staring at him, wide-eyed. “I was just kidding, I obviously don’t expect you to just drive me around.”

“I guess it depends on how our practice schedules line up,” Iwaizumi continues, like Tooru hadn’t spoken at all. “Send me yours, and I’ll see, alright?”

“Iwa-chan-” Tooru says, bewildered by how quickly this conversation has gotten away from him, but Iwaizumi keeps speaking.

“Rule four,” he says. “Since we’re already doing this, I have a family function to go to about two months from now too. If I do this, you have to come pretend to be my date for that.”

“Ooh,” Tooru says. “Iwa-chan can’t get a hot date on his own?”

“You’re one to talk,” Iwaizumi says, impassive.

Tooru sticks out his tongue, but adds it down into his notes. He isn’t sure what to do with rule number three, so he leaves it on there, and then shows the list to Iwaizumi.

“Sure,” Iwaizumi says affably. “There we go.”

Tooru hesitates. “Just like that?”

“Do you want us to spit and shake?” Iwaizumi says, amused.

“Definitely not.” Tooru looks at the list of rules in his phone again, chewing on his lower lip. “Just like, should we sign something?”

Iwaizumi sighs heavily, and then holds out his fist, pinky finger extended. When Tooru doesn’t move, just looks at him, he wiggles the finger impatiently. “C’mon.”

“Just checking- Are you seven years old, by any chance?” Tooru asks, but holds out his pinky anyway.

Iwaizumi doesn’t respond, but his eyebrows furrow slightly in focus as he loops their pinkies and then touches their thumbs together. “There. Now we’ve pinky promised.”

Tooru wants to pull on this man’s cheeks. He wants to chew on his cheekbones. He wants to take Iwaizumi’s face between his two hands, and pepper little kisses over his nose. “Yeah,” he says helplessly. “Pinky promise.”

Tooru shows up at the rink again the next day, late in the evening after practice, and Iwaizumi waves him over from a bench where he’s wrapping up his gear and stuffing it into a bag. He’s wearing the same expensive jacket Tooru had seen yesterday, and for the first time, Tooru wonders just how much Iwaizumi earns in a year. Their team is good, he knows that, so he imagines it’s a lot. Definitely more than he earns, Tooru thinks bitterly. Nobody so much as questions his approach as he makes his way over, making Tooru wonder what Iwaizumi’s told his team. They had never really discussed it, so he guesses it’s fine if they know that Tooru needed a fake boyfriend, even if it ruins the reputation he’s been trying to build for over a year.

“What’s that face for?” Iwaizumi asks as he gets closer, so Tooru makes an even worse face, scrunching up all his features and sticking out his tongue.

“Gross,” Iwaizumi says, and he looks like he’s going to say more but Lev and Hinata are both coming over, the two of them together creating an almost overwhelming whirlwind of energy. They don’t question Tooru’s presence at all, looking vaguely eager as they approach.

“Hi Oikawa-san, Iwaizumi-san,” Hinata says. “Are you coming out with us for drinks next week, Oikawa-san?”

Tooru turns to Iwaizumi, who shrugs as if to say up to you. 

“I might,” Tooru says, uncertainly, and in an effort to be nice, he adds, “sounds like a real party.”

“The last time I was at a party was when my sister got kidnapped,” Lev says thoughtfully and Tooru isn’t sure which part of that statement should be addressed first.

“What?” He settles on.

“It was a search party, obviously,” Lev amends. “Not like a ‘ha-ha’ party. We were all very worried.”

“Sorry,” Iwaizumi says, looking as dazed as Tooru feels. “Did you say your sister got kidnapped?” 

“It was a misunderstanding!” Lev says brightly. “You know, KGB agents and stuff. She was alright in the end.”

“Good for her!” Hinata says, evidently not bothered by this story at all. 

As the pair leave, Tooru turns to Iwaizumi and mouths kidnapped? Iwaizumi shrugs helplessly.

“What did you tell them anyway?” Tooru asks once the two of them are out of earshot. “About like- this whole thing?”

“About you propositioning me?” Iwaizumi asks, and Tooru winces at the word choice. “Nothing. I was going to lie and say we were dating if someone asked, but no one’s asked.”

Tooru pauses. “You were going to lie to your teammates for me?” He asks, feeling strangely warm at the thought.

“I would’ve tried,” Iwaizumi says, grinning. “I think I overestimated how much attention they pay to their surroundings.”

He pats the spot on the bench next to him. “Are you getting back from practice?”

“Yeah,” Tooru says, sliding onto the bench, so that he’s straddling it, facing Iwaizumi, one leg on either side. “Mats today.”

Iwaizumi hums a questioning noise, his eyes still focused on the tape he’s wrapping around his stick.

“When you do like jumps and stuff,” Tooru shares, feeling strangely shy. “You have to practice somewhere you won’t get hurt as bad before you try on the ice.”

“Can you get the same effect?” Iwaizumi asks, seeming genuinely interested. “Like, isn’t it different on the mats versus the ice?”

Tooru is struck, just then, by how strange it is to be sitting here, talking to Iwaizumi like a normal person, explaining the details of figure skating to him like they’re friends.

“Um,” he says out loud. “Yeah, it’s different. But it helps to get the footwork down.”

Tooru keeps talking, feeling like he’s separating a little from his body as Iwaizumi keeps working on his equipment, nodding along at all the right places, asking questions when Tooru stops speaking.

When Junichi slams a hand down on his shoulder, it feels like a sharp and unwelcome return to reality.

“I thought I’d drop by, but you weren’t at the bus stop,” Junichi says, in a stupid long coat that makes him look like three children stacked on top of one another. Tooru frowns.

“Iwa-chan’s driving me home today,” he says, and Junichi turns to look at Iwaizumi’s who’s briefly paused his work to observe their interaction.

“So this is the boyfriend, huh?” Junichi says brightly.

Tooru nods, and stands up, moving to stand behind Iwaizumi, nudging his back gently. He feels a little jittery already, and he mostly just wants Junichi to leave, to let Tooru return to the conversation he had been having before he arrived.

“We actually have to leave,” he announces, and he can see Iwaizumi start to place his equipment into his bag again, starting to pack up. “Sorry to ditch as soon as we see you.”

“I was just wondering,” Junichi says, ignoring this, “because you guys don’t seem very coupley at all. Not to judge, or anything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tooru says sharply. “What does ‘coupley’ even mean?”

Couple things, he thinks desperately, what are couple things?

His smile beginning to twitch at the corners, he reaches down and very hesitantly places a hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. His face immediately begins to burn, blood rushing upwards so fast he’s starting to feel dizzy. That was so fucking stupid.

Straight-faced, Iwaizumi reaches up and pats Tooru’s hand. Pats it. Once, twice, and stops, returning to his task.

Tooru isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. This is where their attempt at public displays of affection ends, apparently. Tooru slowly lowering his hand onto Iwaizumi’s shoulder like he’s touching a hot stove, and Iwaizumi patting that hand twice.

He looks down to see Iwaizumi’s face and Iwaizumi looks back up at him, and when their eyes meet, Tooru can see that for once, they’re in complete agreement. We are terrible at this.

Junichi doesn’t seem to miss the terrible awkward exchange (it would be like missing an especially bloody train wreck, in Tooru’s opinion), judging by the narrowed suspicious eyes he’s aiming at the two of them.

“Strange,” Junichi comments, casually, so casually. “Tooru normally goes for taller guys.”

That is both underhanded and untrue. He does not go for tall guys. Tooru doesn’t “go for” guys at all. Guys go for him. They might as well just show up at his house and form an orderly queue.

Tooru is currently less worried about the slander of his reputation and more worried about whether Iwaizumi would get worked up and hit Junichi over this.

“Really?” Iwaizumi asks, tipping his head back to look at Tooru for confirmation.

“I don’t chase,” Tooru says lightly. “I attract.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, not meanly- something Tooru could mistake as fond if he didn’t know any better. “Well, there you have it,” he tells Junichi.

“He doesn’t like hockey players much, either,” Junichi says, clearly still on this. This part, at least, is true.

“Are you trying to ask a question?” Tooru asks, his tone biting.

Junichi is not phased by Tooru’s biting tone. “Just seeing if he’s really up to your usual standards,” he says, and Tooru wouldn’t even blame Iwaizumi if he hit him for that one. Still, he tightens the hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder in warning.

Tooru shouldn’t have worried because Iwaizumi doesn’t even blink, just lifts his eyebrows, slightly sardonic. “Are we having a dick measuring contest? I would've brought my ruler.”

“Not a contest,” Junichi says, that fake smile slipping off his face. “I was just asking some questions.”

Iwaizumi snorts, continuing to pack up his gear. “Ask away.”

“Ask away later,” Tooru says hastily. “Because we have to go right now. No time for an interrogation.”

“Not an interrogation, either,” Junichi says, sticking his chin in the air. “Alright, I’ll go. Give you two some privacy.”

He looks at the two of them as though he’s expecting them to tell him to stay. When nothing is forthcoming, he turns on his heel and strides away, hands tucked into the deep pockets of that flaring coat.

“Looks like fucking Vader in that thing,” Iwaizumi comments, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “Cartoon supervillain.”

They start walking towards the exit, the small musty hallway that leads into the parking lot.

“You handled that surprisingly well,” Tooru says. “I kind of expected you to hit him.”

Iwaizumi glances at him out of the corner of his eye, that familiar scowl on his face again. “I’m not that easy to piss off, dickhead. It takes a little more than that to rile me up. Give me some credit.”

Tooru stares at him, mouth agape. “Are we talking about the same Iwaizumi? You’re so easy to rile up. Incredibly easy. It’s thrilling every time.”

Iwaizumi comes to a stop, and turns to point a thick finger at his chest. The two of them are standing alone in the dark hallway leading to the exit door, one dusty light bulb flickering on and off above them. The bruise on his face is turning a nasty colour, unlikely to fade for another week.

“You,” Iwaizumi says, squinting at him accusingly, “are just a special breed of irritating.”

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving Tooru standing still behind him, watching his retreating back.

“Was that a compliment?” Tooru yells after him, not moving from his spot. The sound of Iwaizumi’s answering laugh echoes off the walls, bouncing back towards him, Tooru’s lips pulling up in response, as he runs to catch back up.

“Wait,” Iwaizumi says, once they’re in the parking lot. Night has already fallen, early in the wintertime, the pavement around them lit up by tall streetlamps, casting yellow light over their faces. “Here, I’ll get in the passenger seat, and you drive.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Tooru asks, not moving.

Iwaizumi shrugs, already moving around to the passenger seat. “Come on, the lot is empty, I’ll teach you how.”

“Do you even know how?” Tooru asks, reluctantly accepting the keys Iwaizumi is proffering towards him, “I kind of figured that you just annoyed the test takers with your persistence until they let you pass.”

“Bitch,” Iwaizumi says mildly. “Go on, get in.”

Once Tooru’s sitting in the driver’s seat, he just stares at the wheel. There seem to be an awful lot of controls.

He turns to Iwaizumi. “What now?”

“Well, first you have to buckle your seatbelt,” Iwaizumi says, and Tooru scowls.

“I know that.” He doesn’t move.

Iwaizumi sighs. He seems to do that a lot around Tooru. Then Tooru is frozen for a different reason, as Iwaizumi leans over him, one hand gripping Tooru’s shoulder as he reaches for Tooru’s seatbelt, smooth muscle shifting under his skin as he brings it over Tooru’s body and buckles it.

“Dear god,” Tooru whispers. Iwaizumi smells good.

“Relax,” Iwaizumi says, taking his mumblings for nervousness. “You can’t possibly mess up that bad.”

Tooru frowns. “How do you know that? I could be the worst driver you’ve ever met.”

“I doubt it,” Iwaizumi tells him. “I crashed the car the first time I took the test.”

Tooru stares at him. Then he starts the car.

“Right pedal is gas, left is brake,” Iwaizumi says. “You have to put the car in reverse to get out of the spot, and then press lightly on the gas.”

“Right,” Tooru says, and moves the gear stick accordingly before pressing on the gas. The car lurches forward, coming to a jerky stop right before hitting the curb in front of them, Tooru’s blood draining entirely from his face.

“So, that was actually drive,” Iwaizumi says calmly, one hand braced on the window. “Reverse is lower.”

Once Tooru gets used to the controls, they manage to go in large bumpy circles around the parking lot.

“How did you fail the second time?” Tooru asks, carefully executing another terrible turn.

“Try to stay on the right side,” Iwaizumi says, unbothered by the possible damage Tooru is inflicting on his car. “I almost hit a stop sign. They got really mad about that one.”

“I would be making so much fun of you over this if I wasn’t so tense right now,” Tooru informs him. "Remind me to do it later."

“Looking forward to it- make sure you’re slowing down before you turn.”

“What about the third time?” Tooru says. He presses too hard on the brake, and the car nearly comes to a full stop in the middle of his next turn.

Iwaizumi seems to be pouting, by the sound of his voice. Tooru debates taking his eyes off the road long enough to check. “I waited almost a full year before taking it the third time. I practiced basically everyday. It went so well, the instructor was telling me I was one of the best drivers he’d tested that year.”

Tooru snickers. “And?“

“And on the way into the test center parking lot,” Iwaizumi says, “I hit the curb. Automatic fail. They wouldn’t even let me test at that center anymore, I had to go out of the city. Never trusted a driving instructor since.”

Tooru gives up on trying to hold back and bursts out laughing. To his surprise, the car doesn’t immediately crash.

“You’re laughing,” Iwaizumi says, and his face is stony but Tooru can hear the smile in his voice. “I share my deep, personal, insecurities with you, and you’re laughing at me.”

Tooru shakes his head, small giggles still escaping him. “Those poor test administrators, you must have made them miserable.”

He can imagine it very easily, a smaller, angrier Iwaizumi, marching into a testing center with the energy of a Marine off to combat. The thought makes him snort with laughter.

“You look nice when you laugh,” Iwaizumi says, and it’s that soft, honest voice, so rare to hear from him. Tooru's laughter breaks off as he turns to look at him, captivated by that gentle sincerity, so unexpected from this man, so sweet to hear.

“Tooru- the brakes!”

The car rolls over a curb, and comes to a slamming halt right before a small tree, the branches brushing the windshield, leaves already fallen off in the winter cold.

He called me Tooru, he thinks, and presses his forehead into the steering wheel and smiles- a small giddy smile, just for himself.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck,” Iwaizumi says that following weekend, staring at Tooru’s chest, as Tooru climbs into his car. “You understand we’re going outside, right? Like, where other people are?”

Tooru looks down at his outfit. “Yes? What’s wrong?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t move, even though he had been the one texting Tooru to hurry up. “Is this some kind of hazing ritual?” He asks finally. “Are you putting me through some kind of initiation thing to test how dedicated I am to the cause?”

Tooru looks down again, trying to see where the issue was. He’s wearing a black hoodie, Bella Swan poorly superimposed over an image of a galaxy. Small white text at the bottom reads “Twilight is Coming”. He’s paired it with pink camouflage pants he’d stolen from Hanamaki, and his favourite pair of shoes- simple brown Oxfords. 

“I thought it was cute,” he says. “Like an homage to Hollywood or something.”

Iwaizumi makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Okay. Sure. I guess I’ve just never seen you in not athleisure before.” 

“Is it the shoes?” Tooru asks. “I have some with a galaxy print, should I go change?”

Iwaizumi looks pained by the idea. “No. Definitely not.”

“It would match the hoodie,” Tooru explains, and Iwaizumi grimaces and turns away, leaving Tooru grinning at his back.

“Can you tell me what we’re doing now?” Tooru asks, as Iwaizumi starts his car. 

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says. His hand comes around the passenger seat as he looks behind him and reverses, his arm stretching behind Tooru. Whatever he says next is lost to Tooru entirely as he watches the subtle flex of Iwaizumi’s biceps, tanning skin bulging just slightly. Tooru’s mouth feels dry. 

“-and it just feels like it’s not going well,” he hears Iwaizumi say once the arm is removed and he tunes back in sharply. 

“What?”

Iwaizumi sends him that stern look Tooru’s gotten so used to over the last few days. “This whole thing- we just are really not good at it.”

“Oh,” Tooru says, and lets his head fall back against the passenger seat. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Junichi, who’s stopped by twice over the last three days, is clearly suspecting Tooru of lying. The only thing keeping him from accusing Tooru outright is probably some sick twisted urge to catch him in the act, vindicating himself forever in the process. Tooru isn’t sure how many more questions he can nervously stammer out fake answers to until he ends up contradicting himself in a truly catastrophic way. 

The situation was so terrible that Akaashi had turned to Tooru before leaving the locker room yesterday and said, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, “Are you and Iwaizumi-san pretending to date?”

Tooru had spluttered, the water he had been drinking dripping down his chin. “We- I can’t-”

Akaashi had only studied him, in that blithe way he occasionally studied Tooru, like Tooru was a particularly strange insect he held trapped in a jam jar. “You aren’t very good at it,” he had said, cutting off Tooru’s babbling denials.

“We’re practicing,” Tooru had said in response, his pride stung.

“You both seem a little uncomfortable.”

Tooru hadn’t even known what to say to that and had eventually mustered up a defensive, “We’re still working on it!”

“The pretend relationship,” Akaashi had said, as though confirming. 

“Yes.”

“Ah well,” he had said, vague and incomprehensible as usual. “No one laps before learning to swim.”

The strange exchange had been weighing on Tooru’s mind for hours afterward.

The problem is that Iwaizumi is a really, truly, exceptionally bad liar. And Tooru, who is meant to cover for that, hasn’t been in a serious relationship since fifteen. To his deep embarrassment, he’s forgotten what dating someone even looks like, much less how he should act in a relationship. Much less how to act when he’s pretending to be in a relationship with someone who he’s actually incredibly attracted to. The whole thing is beginning to seem like self-inflicted torture, a slow bleeding-to-death kind of torture. 

"It’s fine,” he says, like he’s said the last three days. “We’ll get it eventually.”

“I think I have a solution,” Iwaizumi says, making a right turn that would have sent Tooru careening through the side of the car, if not for the seatbelt. “Oops. Sorry. Anyway, I think we just have to get to know each other better.”

“Know each other better,” Tooru repeats dubiously. 

“Yes, exactly,” Iwaizumi says. He parks with a screeching of tires, and turns to Tooru with the battle-ready focus of a military general. “I’m going to pick up a pizza. You go into that liquor store and pick out some packs of alcohol. We are going to get drunk and figure this out tonight.”

“Ah, wait-” Tooru says, but Iwaizumi, having given his orders, is already heading into the pizza place.

Tooru sighs and obediently walks into the liquor store. Twenty minutes later, he obediently walks out to explain to a baffled Iwaizumi that he needs to come inside with Tooru and vouch for his age so the man behind the counter doesn’t confiscate his ID. 

Then he patiently waits for Iwaizumi to stop laughing.

By the time they get the pizza and the bottles of alcohol back to Iwaizumi’s apartment, it’s six in the evening and the sun has set. 

“I’ve never seen your apartment before,” Tooru muses, standing at the entrance as Iwaizumi unlocks his door. “But your building is nicer than mine.”

The apartment is nicer than Tooru’s too. Bigger for one thing, and with huge windows in the seating and dining areas that make it seem more spacious than it is. The space is set up to entertain, enough chairs to seat any number of people, complete with matching soft, plush cushions.

“It’s weird seeing you quiet,” Iwaizumi says, locking the door behind them. “I think I prefer it when you’re unimpressed by everything I do.”

Tooru studies the giant plasma television hung on the wall of the living room. “Trust me, I’m not impressed. I just hate when people other than me are successful.” 

Iwaizumi whacks him in the back of the head, and then smooths over the sore spot when Tooru whines. 

They set up the pizza and glasses to pour drinks into on Iwaizumi’s big expensive-looking carpet, leaning against the sofa as they eat. 

Once they’re several drinks in, the empty pizza box lying between them, Iwaizumi gets up and comes back with a sheet of paper. Tooru can make out blocky handwriting going all the way down. 

"Is that a list?” Tooru asks, taken aback. “Are those all questions? Did you write me a list?”

“We’ll start easy,” Iwaizumi says, just a little flushed. “Favourite colour?” 

Tooru winces. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know your own favourite colour?” Iwaizumi asks, exasperated. “It’s just the one you like best. Which one do you like best?”

“Can’t we just talk about everything that went wrong in my childhood or something?” 

“No,” Iwaizumi says firmly. “What is your favourite colour?” 

“I don’t know!” Tooru protests. “I never think about it. What’s yours?”

“Blue,” Iwaizumi says immediately, and Tooru nods. 

“That’s a good one. Okay, that’s my favourite too.” 

Iwaizumi stares at him, and Tooru stares back, gleefully. That jawline muscle is working again, he notices. Life is worth living after all. 

“Fine.” Iwaizumi snaps, petulant. “What’s your favourite animal?” 

Tooru smiles innocuously. “I don’t know. What’s yours?”

There’s a moment of silence, Tooru batting his eyelashes innocently and Iwaizumi’s hard stare fixed on him. Then Iwaizumi pulls a cushion off his couch and throws it at him, and Tooru bats it away, breaking into laughter.

“You bastard,” Iwaizumi complains, but he’s laughing too. “You can’t just steal all my favourites! Are you twelve?”

“Don’t ask me such stupid questions, then!” Tooru says, still snorting, in a way he's sure is very unattractive. “I bet your favourite animal’s like a dog or something. You’re so basic.”

Iwaizumi makes a buzzer sound with his mouth. “Wrong. It’s a cicada.”

“That’s not an animal!” Tooru says, and dodges the half-hearted kick Iwaizumi throws at him. “It’s an insect!”

“Insects are in the kingdom animalia,” Iwaizumi shoots back, and Tooru stops moving and sits up straight to squint at him. 

“What?” Iwaizumi says, adorably confused. His hair is even messier than normal, giving him the outline of a man recently electrocuted. 

“God,” Tooru says, mournfully, “you’re kind of a loser, huh?” 

Iwaizumi shoves a cushion over his face and pushes him to the ground. 

They abandon the questions after that and start a movie instead, Tooru complaining about bad hospitality until Iwaizumi caves and pours them both wine. The movie starts to play, both of them sitting very appropriately on two separate couch cushions as some men in suits start fighting on screen.

Ten minutes through the movie, Tooru’s wine glass is empty and he’s already migrated into Iwaizumi’s space, squirming until Iwaizumi lets him squeeze into the narrow spot between him and the arm of the couch, Tooru’s legs swinging over Iwaizumi’s lap, Iwaizumi’s arm coming up to encircle him.

This is Tooru’s favourite, he decides instantly, when Iwaizumi is all around him, and all Tooru can smell in any direction is his cologne, and they’re pressed up so close together that Tooru can feel his chest rise and fall with each breath. He’d forgotten, at some point, what it was like to be so close to another person, so that their space became his space, their breathing evening out into the same rhythm. 

“Iwa-chan,” he says, not looking up from where a man in a suit is now yelling something on the television. “I’m letting myself look very uncool in front of you, okay? So we’re friends now.”

“Weirdo,” Iwaizumi says, but his hand on Tooru’s hip squeezes a little and Tooru is glad for the darkness, so that Iwaizumi can’t see how his face flushes at the fondness in his voice. He leans his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He thinks about kissing him. Tooru is suddenly very aware that he could be kissing him right now, could be pressing his tongue up against that chipped tooth and those pink lips, and he isn’t. 

He’s still considering it when Iwaizumi kisses him.

It’s exactly the kind of kiss Tooru would have expected, except better because it’s real, because it’s flesh and blood moving underneath him, warm hands holding his jaw gently in place. 

“What,” Tooru says, pulling away slightly, his breath coming heavier than it should be, “are we doing?”

Iwaizumi smiles at him, a little crooked, his face a little red. “I thought that part was kind of clear, honestly.”

Tooru is fairly sure he should move away. It’s only that he can’t really remember why at the moment.

Tooru is really terrible at denying himself anything, he realizes a little later. 

“It’s fine,” he says, panting slightly. “We are just two adults. Two adults pretending to date. If anything, this is just convenient.”

“Right,” Iwaizumi agrees, though he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention, his hands slipping down Tooru’s back to squeeze at his ass, fingers tightening in a grip that is almost bruising, making Tooru gasp. “Take your shirt off.” 

Tooru shifts where he’s kneeling over Iwaizumi’s lap, and leans back, away from the hot mouth at his throat. 

“You first,” he says, pushing up ineffectually at the gray hoodie Iwaizumi’s wearing. He only succeeds in wrinkling it, until Iwaizumi makes an impatient noise and pulls it off himself, exposing a long stretch of brown skin, thick hair gathering over his pectorals, trailing downwards to a sharp ‘V’ at his hips. Tooru groans, overwhelmed and thrilled all at once. Iwaizumi’s already got both hands up Tooru’s shirt, tracing over his ribcage, the feeling making Tooru shudder. 

The urgency doesn’t disappear, not when Tooru pushes away to breathe, not when Iwaizumi gasps a shaky exhalation into the curve of Tooru’s neck as he rolls their hips together. Not when he lays Tooru down on the couch, looking up at him through his eyelashes with his eyes dark, and his hair messy, making Tooru whimper uselessly into his hand as he swallows him whole.

Afterwards, with sweat cooling, tacky on both of their skins, Tooru reaches down off the couch and grabs the sheet of paper Iwaizumi had brought in, now lying discarded on the floor.

“Did you handwrite all of these?” He asks, amazed, pushing Iwaizumi’s face away with a hand as he tries to take the paper back. “Stop that, I’m reading this.”

The questions range from general- his favourite colour, his favourite band- to Tooru-centric; questions about the routines he likes to perform, how he met Matsuda-san, where he practices when not on the rink. Tooru’s jaw goes progressively more slack as he looks through the list, floored by how much attention Iwaizumi has been paying to him, how much interest he's taken in him, somehow keeping him unaware of it.

“Careful, or I might start to think you like me after all, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says lightly, hoping it distracts from the obvious affection he’s sure must be inscribed all over his face.

“You asked me for help,” Iwaizumi says, apparently giving up on trying to grab the sheet back. “I wasn’t going to half-ass it.” Tooru shifts to look at him, and flails, nearly falling off the narrow couch space they’ve squeezed themselves onto, far too small for two athletes. Iwaizumi’s arms come up fast, pulling him back up, shifting so Tooru is halfway on top of him, their legs tangled together. 

“Do you ever half-ass anything?” Tooru asks breathlessly. 

“I’m a whole ass kind of person,” Iwaizumi tells him, and his hand strays lower from where it’s resting on Tooru’s back, as if to prove his point.

Tooru ignores this, as well as he can with the heat flooding his face. “Since you made the list, it’d be a shame to waste it,” he says, and passes Iwaizumi back the paper. “You can ask three and then it’s my turn. Make them count.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t seem inclined to play along, lethargic from sex, his eyelids drooping over his eyes. “I thought you said they were stupid questions,” he says. “What happens if I don’t answer?”

“I’ll kill you,” Tooru says, and then amends. “For every three you answer, I’ll give you a kiss.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes snap back open. “Is that a reward or a punishment?” He grumbles, but he’s already holding the paper up, scanning the list for questions. 

Two questions later Iwaizumi has learned that Tooru’s favourite move to incorporate into his routines is a Bielmann spin- lifting one leg over his head- and that he has an older sister who lives closer to his mom, outside the city.

Iwaizumi clears his throat, not looking up from the list. “Last one- why’s that Junichi guy so obsessed with you?”

Tooru furrows his brows. He didn’t remember seeing that one on the list. “Not sure,” he answers anyway. “Matsuda-san and his wife are divorced, and Junichi’s mostly only stayed with his mom, somewhere in Europe. I only met him about a year ago, when he came to help out with the business.”

“Did you not get along?” Iwaizumi asks, and Tooru shakes his head.

“Actually, I thought he resented me at first, for taking up so much of his dad’s attention because he’d never talk to me. He only got weird later.” 

“So you didn’t date or anything?” It’s a casual question, thrown out as a follow-up but there’s something sharply honest in Iwaizumi’s voice that makes Tooru look up at him. 

“That’s been two extra questions,” he points out. “But no.” 

Iwaizumi smiles, a little sheepish, and lets the paper drift off the couch onto the floor, calloused hands cupping Tooru’s cheeks.

“Here,” he says, his fingers finding a hold in Tooru’s hair. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Their first kiss (and a few kisses following that) had been harsh, frantic. Teeth digging into lips, hard nails digging into flesh, desperate kisses followed by fumbling fingers. 

This kiss is softer, sweeter. A hello, I’m home kiss and a goodbye, I’ll miss you kiss and a honey, you made it kiss. Tooru presses in a little closer, small sounds leaving his lips, trapped between their mouths. Iwaizumi kisses him like he’s trying to memorize him, mapping out the spots that make him melt, until half-formed whimpers are pushing their way out of Tooru’s mouth, tingling heat tracing its way up his spine.

Tooru pulls away with a wet sound that’s almost embarrassing. Iwaizumi’s lips are kiss-red, slick with spit and slightly swollen.

“If you keep doing that,” Tooru says, his voice raw. “We’ll never get through this list.” 

He must look similar, because Iwaizumi’s eyes are heated as he scans Tooru’s face. “We’ll have time,” he murmurs, and pulls Tooru in again. 

Tooru is in the midst of trying to get his key in the lock of his apartment, the only light to see by two small lamps on either side of the door. He keeps missing the lock, his hands a little shaky, scratching up the sides of the metal, creating loud noises every time he messes up.

“Well, well, well,” Hanamaki’s voice says from behind him, “look what we have here.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Matsukawa says when Oikawa turns around. The two of them are standing in the doorway of Matsukawa’s apartment, right across from Tooru’s, Issei’s chin resting on top of Hanamaki’s head. “Do your walk of shame with pride.”

“Why don’t you guys ever go to Takahiro’s apartment,” Tooru says, more to the area at large than to either of his friends. “Do I deserve this?” 

“What has little-wittle Tooru been up to, coming back all disheveled?” Hanamaki coos, ignoring him. 

“It’s late, you know,” Matsukawa adds, faux disapproval lining his voice. “You have practice tomorrow.”

“Are you my parents?” Tooru asks snidely. “One of you come get my door open for me,” 

Hanamaki steps forward and takes the key from him, unlocking the door, and then entering his apartment before Tooru can even get in. 

“Go on,” Hanamaki says, taking a seat on his carpet, uninvited. Matsukawa sits next to him, both of them peering up at Tooru. He feels a bit like a kindergarten teacher. “Tell us about your date.”

Tooru makes indistinct grumbling noises and flops down beside them, cross-legged on the floor. His socks are two different shades of black, he thinks, staring down at his feet.

“He’s stressed about his crush,” Matsukawa whispers conspiratorially to Hanamaki.

“I don’t have a crush on him,” Tooru says, wincing. “That makes it sound so middle-school.”

“Oh, sorry,” Matsukawa says, not sounding very sorry at all. “What would you call it? A lust-induced apoplexy?” 

Tooru stares very firmly at the carpet. Nice long wiry fibres in his carpet. “I don’t know. I think he’s hot, yeah. I like to make him a little angry but that’s just attraction, you know? I have eyes, so obviously I’m attracted to him.” 

His voice trails off. Iwaizumi’s carpet was plush. You couldn’t see each individual rug fibre in it, like you could with Tooru’s. It probably cost a lot more.

“He’s a good listener too,” Tooru continues, “Better than you’d expect. I mean, you’d think he was a total musclehead, but he’s really smart. And he remembers things I say, like even small things. I like talking to him. I don’t know what you would call that.”

 He finally looks up from the floor, hoping to see some understanding, maybe some compassion in his friends eyes-

“Are you guys kissing?!” 

Impressively, Hanamaki and Matsukawa don’t jump apart immediately at the sound of Tooru’s screech. They’re still making out a few moments later, until Tooru inhales, preparing to start screaming. 

“Ah-ah,” Hanamaki says, finally pulling away and wiping his mouth. “No more yelling.”

“I think,” Tooru says, in the tone of Socrates preaching to the youth, “that you two are probably the worst friends on the planet in the history of mankind.” 

Matsukawa does not look particularly offended by this. “Sorry. Got caught up in the moment.”

Tooru stares. “‘The moment’ being the moment that my life choices start falling apart before my eyes?”

“Your life is always falling apart,” Hanamaki says soothingly. “If I waited to have sex until you were free from crisis, I would still be a virgin.” 

Tooru stares harder. Matsukawa pats his head, ruffling his hair. “There, there. Do you want a hug?”

“No,” Tooru says, pushing his hand off. “God knows where your hands have been.”

“Not God,” Hanamaki drawls, “but I could give you a thorough recap.”

“I’m throwing up,” Tooru states flatly. “I can literally feel it rising in my throat.”

“Funny that you’d mention throats-” Hanamaki starts, pointy incisors flashing when he smiles. Matsukawa covers his mouth with a hand, cutting him off, and possibly preserving Tooru’s sanity for the time being. 

“So, was the date good?” Matsukawa asks, raising his eyebrows. “Are the fake boyfriends now real boyfriends?”

“No!” Tooru says. “It was, you know, it was casual sex.”

Silence rings in Tooru’s living room.

“Uh-oh,” Hanamaki says, muffled from behind Matsukawa’s hand. 

“You’re terrible at casual sex,” Matsukawa says, dropping his hand away. “Oikawa, you are seriously bad at casual sex.”

“Oikawa,” Hanamaki says, horrifically sympathetic. “The two times you have tried to have casual sex have gone terribly. Please tell me you aren’t trying this again.”

“Tell a guy you want to die in his arms one time, and you get branded as bad at casual sex for life,” Tooru says. 

“It was two times,” Hanamaki corrects, which is unhelpful. 

Tooru tips his neck backwards, stares at the patterns on his ugly ceiling. It had actually been three times, but he’s not going to volunteer that information. 

He had taken a cab home, alone, despite Iwaizumi’s slightly tipsy attempts to come with him. He had kissed him goodbye at the door, breathless and giggling, peppered small kisses across his face the way he had wanted to earlier, and then gotten in a cab and come home alone, pink with the rush of it.

“Third time’s the charm?” He tries instead. It doesn’t seem to be a comfort to anyone, much less himself. 

“It’s fine,” he says into the quiet. “Seriously. I’m not jumping into anything.”

Unbidden, an image of Iwaizumi's face- smiling up at him, dimples and all, his hair splayed out against the carpet- flashes into his brain.

“You’re thinking something stupid,” Hanamaki says, squinting at him. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Don’t you have a house you need to go back to?” Tooru answers, tetchy.

Tooru’s sitting on a bench, pulling his skates off of sore feet when Iwaizumi finally approaches him the next day, worn out after a long practice. His fingers are trembling, the laces remaining stubbornly tight despite his efforts. 

It’s only when Iwaizumi steps in front of him and kneels to the ground, taking Tooru’s ankle in one hand and unloosening the ties with the other, that Tooru even notices his presence.

“How long have you been here?” He manages to ask, his head feeling tight and too full, stuffed with cotton. 

“A while,” Iwaizumi says, and adjusts his grip to pull the first skate off. “You’re really good.”

Tooru smiles. “I know.” 

Iwaizumi finally looks at him, hazel eyes locking onto his with a sort of amused irritation. “Of course you do.”

“Hey,” Tooru says, as Iwaizumi stands back up, passing him his skates. Iwaizumi looks down at him, and Tooru feels that awful shyness again, making him want to duck his head, hide behind his hair. He resolutely maintains eye contact. “About, I mean, you know. We can, um, keep it casual. The whole thing, I mean, we can just have it be, you know, part of the, um, situation.”

He’s babbling, unsure of what he’s saying or what he’s meaning to say, too afraid to break eye contact, as though Iwaizumi will disappear forever once he does. 

Iwaizumi smiles at him. “Do you want to add sex to your little rules list?”

“It’s not a rule,” Tooru says indignantly, the nervousness slipping easily away from his body. “It’s just, you know- if you want to.”

“Trust me,” Iwaizumi says, endearingly quickly. “I want to.” 

Tooru takes a second to process that, struck by the easy honesty, and then buries his head in his hands.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says, nudging Tooru’s head with his hand. “You good?”

“You’re adorable,” Tooru says, lifting his face back up, slightly more heated than he would prefer. “I can’t stand you.”

He had meant to create some distance between the two of them today, a preemptive measure before the fluttering feeling in his chest became too big for Tooru to handle. Except, Tooru was beginning to realize that he missed Iwaizumi when he wasn’t around.

He had created a space for himself in Tooru’s life, so easily and quickly, filling an emptiness he hadn’t even realized was there. 

He’s still looking at Iwaizumi when a familiar figure brushes into his periphery. Junichi’s still got that terrible coat on, long and sweeping his ankles, heading towards Tooru like he’s got an agenda. One that involves asking Tooru multiple jagged little questions, that Tooru will inevitably have no answer for.

“Fuck,” Tooru murmurs, and grabs Iwaizumi’s elbow to yank him in front of him, a last-ditch attempt to hide himself. “Junichi’s here, pretend we’re, I don’t know-”

He cuts himself off when Iwaizumi sits down on the bench beside him, his back to the door, his face hovering next to Tooru’s, his hand covering the curve of Tooru’s jaw. 

The kiss is quick, a fleeting touch of lips that leaves Tooru wanting more, his eyelashes fluttering shut and then back open to where Iwaizumi is still so close to him. 

“Is he still watching?” Iwaizumi murmurs, lips against Tooru’s skin. An unpleasantness twists under Tooru’s skin, an unwelcome reminder that they’re only putting on a show.

His eyes dart over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, to the entrance of the rink. It’s empty.

“Yes,” he lies, and pulls Iwaizumi’s face back towards him.

It’s in that interest of getting to know each other better that Tooru ends up at a bar, two weeks into their fake relationship, sharing a booth with Kuroo, Hinata and Lev. Bokuto was away from the city, leaving Kuroo slightly moody and no one around to interrupt him and Tooru from sniping at each other. 

(Tooru has too much pride to admit that he likes the group of them after all, but he can grudgingly acknowledge that they aren’t the worst company he’s ever had on a weekend. Even Kuroo.)

“I have a question,” Kuroo says, just as Tooru takes a sip of his daiquiri. “Didn’t you say that hockey was a sport for imbeciles who were bad at skating and football but decided to do both at the same time?” 

Tooru chokes on the alcohol going down his throat. 

“Must have been someone else. I would never say that,” he says, wiping his mouth. “I actually have a lot of respect for the career of hitting people with big sticks, believe it or not.”

“We hit people with big sticks for money,” Kuroo says dryly. “While I assume you just do it for fun.”

“You assume correctly,” Tooru says, smiling sweetly. “On an unrelated note, I’m going to take this knife and go into the parking lot for a minute.”

Iwaizumi’s arms wrap around him as he moves to stand. Tooru is pulled down with a yelp, one hand landing heavily on the edge of the table, his ass falling directly into Iwaizumi’s lap. 

“No slashing tires,” Iwaizumi says, unphased. “Kuroo is not afraid to sue.”

Tooru thinks he must be flushed all the way from his chest up to his hairline, but he doesn’t move out of Iwaizumi’s lap, just shifts to get more comfortable. “I wasn’t going to slash his tires,” he sniffs. “I was going to key his car. With a knife.”

Iwaizumi presses a kiss against the nape of his neck, right where it meets his shoulder. “No property damage.” 

Tooru feels unbearably hot, the press of Iwaizumi’s chest around the curve of his spine impossible to ignore. He’s starting to feel like he’ll have to kill someone by the end of this, even if that someone ends up being himself.

“This is a booth,” Kuroo says. “Are you aware I have to look at you?”

“Should have brought your own boyfriend,” Tooru says, red in the face and smug and spoiled. 

“I’m just glad you guys are finally dating,” Hinata says, halfway through the seventeen pounds of wings he had been focused on devouring.

“Yeah,” Lev agrees. “I was getting a little tired of all that flirting before and everything.”

“All that flirting?” Tooru echoes, sitting up straighter in Iwaizumi’s lap. He hadn’t started flirting with Iwaizumi until two weeks ago. “What flirting? I don’t flirt with people, they flirt with me.”

“You know,” Hinata says, even though Tooru definitely does not know. “You were always talking to him, and calling to him across the room, and making little jokes with each other. Every time you came over, you’d start looking for him.”

“That wasn’t- I-” Tooru splutters. “I was bullying him!” 

“Right,” Hinata says carefully, biting into another wing. “If you say so.” 

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, turning determinedly to Iwaizumi, who winces upon hearing his name called. “Explain to them that I was bullying you.” 

Iwaizumi presses a kiss to his cheek placatingly. “And you were doing such a good job, baby.”

“Whatever. You guys are crazy,” Tooru says, leaning back in his seat, only slightly mollified. “That’s crazy.” 

“I believe you, Oikawa-san,” Lev says brightly. “If you say you weren’t flirting, I’m sure you weren’t.”

“Thank you,” Tooru says, a little surprised at the admittedly misplaced faith.

“Of course!” Lev says. “I know you would never lie to us!”

This statement is so baffling, even Tooru has to stop and stare. 

“What universe do you even live in?” Kuroo asks after a moment, but he seems more impressed than anything else. 

“Remember when he sold me that dead snake?” Hinata says, with the air of a much older man reminiscing fondly on days long past. It had been about a month ago.

“That’s on you,” Kuroo says. “Why would you buy a dead snake?”

Hinata shrugs, unconcerned. “He was very convincing.”

They stumble out of the bar at nightfall, and Tooru has only had two drinks but he feels drunk, nonetheless, blindingly happy with the comfort of Iwaizumi’s company, always touching, always in close contact.

As if on cue, a broad hand settles into the dip of his waist, strong arm molding itself along his back like it belongs there. He smiles to himself, and turns to look at Iwaizumi, unable to hold back a shiver at the warm weight of his arm around him. 

“Are you cold?” Iwaizumi says immediately, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. “You should have brought a thicker jacket, idiot, or at least a scarf. Do you even own a scarf? I’ve never seen you wearing a scarf.”

Tooru hasn’t even had time to say anything in his defense before Iwaizumi’s draped his own jacket around Tooru’s shoulders. And, well, once it’s there, what’s he going to say? No, I’m not actually cold, please take your incredibly nice-smelling jacket back, even though I like how it drapes over my shoulders? As if.

“I’m freezing, actually,” he says instead, forgetting instantaneously about the discussion that the rest of their group had been having. “My hands are really cold, too.”

This is true, because Tooru’s never been gifted with great circulation. More importantly, it’s an incredibly transparent excuse to get Iwaizumi to hold his hands. 

Iwaizumi seems to catch on, raising one disbelieving eyebrow at Tooru, who only bats his eyelashes, aiming for guileless and landing somewhere around pouty.

He takes Tooru’s hands anyway, and flinches as he holds them, sandwiched between his. “Jesus, you weren’t kidding.”

“Iwa-chan, would I lie to you?” Tooru lilts, his eyes fixed on where their hands are joined.

“Yes,” Iwaizumi responds, and Tooru has just opened his mouth to complain, when Iwaizumi brings their hands up to his mouth, and blows on Tooru’s hands. 

“I- um,” Tooru stammers, and hopes it doesn’t sound as shrill out loud as it did in his head. He’s unable to look away from Iwaizumi’s mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ right next to where he’s holding Tooru’s hands. “I resent that. What are you doing?”

Iwaizumi looks up at him through his eyelashes, his head still bent over Tooru’s hands. “This? My mom used to do this to me when I was a kid.”

“Oh,” Tooru says, slightly disoriented. “Of course.”

“Do your hands feel warmer now?” Iwaizumi asks, his mouth moving away. 

The answer is no, because the instant he had started doing that, all the blood in Tooru’s body had rushed straight to Tooru’s head. Mostly he feels dizzy.

“Are you guys finished?” Kuroo asks, considerably more irritable than he had been five minutes ago. Conversation with Lev and Hinata can do that to a person, Tooru thinks, and tries to smile commiseratingly at Kuroo.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kuroo says instead of appreciating it. “It makes me feel like you’re planning something.”

“Alright, that's it,” Tooru snarls, but Iwaizumi’s still got one of his hands held captive, and he doesn’t let go. Instead, he turns his hand, until his fingers slide between Tooru’s, his thumb stroking over the back of his knuckles.

“We’re heading back now,” he tells Kuroo, who is watching them with fascination. “See you guys later.”

Tooru is quiet on the way back to the car, subdued into silence by the firm grip Iwaizumi has on his hand. He remembers those same hands holding his above his head, fingers interlocked as Iwaizumi had fucked him on tangled bedsheets, sweat beading on his brow. 

“You know,” he says, as Iwaizumi presses unlock on his car keys, “I was just kidding about the hockey thing. I like to watch your guys’ games sometimes.”

“Trust me,” Iwaizumi says, smiling at him, “I know. Your presence was noted. And loud.”

“Just letting you know,” Tooru says, his voice fading into an almost whisper. Iwaizumi is stepping closer and closer towards him, and Tooru allows himself to be backed up against the car door, his back hitting the metal gently. “So you don’t think I’m, like, a hockey hater.”

“No?” Iwaizumi hums, and he lets go of Tooru’s hand to cover Tooru’s waist, his hands slipping down the dip, over his hips and back around to his ass. His thumbs run in small circles over Tooru’s hipbones, slow and petrifyingly intimate. “What’s your favourite part?”

His lips press against Tooru’s, gentle, almost timid. It’s a brush of a kiss, feather light, before pulling away. Tooru follows him instinctively, his neck straining, but Iwaizumi’s already stepping away, outside of his space entirely.

“Well?” He asks, back to a normal volume, a corner of his mouth tilting upwards, and Tooru scowls.

“I like it when the other guys hit you in the face,” he says, waspish. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Iwaizumi’s mouth opens and then closes again. “Jesus, you’re vulgar,” he says, half shocked and half laughing.

“I’m vulgar?” Tooru says, his own jaw dropping. “Remember when you literally told me to beg-”

Iwaizumi slams his hands over his ears, his collarbones glowing a red that’s visible even under the dim orange streetlights. 

“I can’t hear you,” he says loudly. “Lalalala!”

“Oh, fine time to be embarrassed,” Tooru says, entertained beyond measure. “But not last night when I was-”

“You’re awful,” Iwaizumi interrupts, taking a hand off his ears to point an accusing finger at him. “We’re in public!”

“Oh yeah?” Tooru says, his smile stretching wider as he leans a little closer to Iwaizumi. “Are you going to teach me a lesson?”

“My god,” Iwaizumi says, mock scandalized or possibly real scandalized. “Who raised you?”

“Have I been-” Tooru chokes trying to hold back his own laughter enough to finish the sentence. “Have I been a bad boy, daddy?” He manages to gasp out, his ribs aching.

Iwaizumi makes a noise that’s more feeling than word, something like ‘Gah!’, already moving to the driver’s seat of the car. 

Still laughing to himself, Tooru gets in the passenger seat. 

Iwaizumi complains on the way back that Tooru is unbelievable and awful, but he smiles when Tooru laughs, and his hand keeps a soft, firm grip on Tooru’s thigh. Tooru counts this as a victory.

He takes them both back to his apartment, and then insists on making them both tea, despite Tooru’s persistent attempts to take his clothes off. 

(“I can tell you think this is sexy,” Iwaizumi tells him when Tooru sticks his hands up his shirt. “But your hands are so fucking cold. I’m a little concerned for your health.”)

Now, he’s padding around the bedroom in bare feet, packing up equipment and clothes, setting them aside in different drawers. Tooru had never thought he could be so attracted to seeing a man do laundry.

“You are so impatient,” Iwaizumi says, watching him wiggle restlessly on the bed.

“Be honest,” Tooru says seriously. “Are you impotent?”

Iwaizumi’s laugh is nice, Tooru thinks helplessly, watching him throw his head back. It builds out of his chest, fills up the room, the sound of it dissolving the tension in Tooru’s shoulders. 

“You’re just stalling a lot,” he says, watching Iwaizumi approach the bed. “If you’re feeling weak, I can do all the work.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Iwaizumi says, so close to Tooru now, but not near enough to touch. His lips are curving upwards in a way that makes Tooru squirm unconsciously, sparks of heat starting up in his gut and spreading.

“Iwa-chan,” he says, and then stops because Iwaizumi is unbuttoning his shirt.

“You were so brave a minute ago,” Iwaizumi croons, peeling off that button up to reveal a white undershirt that clings to defined muscles, highlighting the tanned skin of his shoulders in a way that makes Tooru’s eyes widen. “Where’d all your big talk go?”

Tooru hates being out of control probably the most in the world, hates not knowing exactly what’s going to happen in any given situation, and still he can’t convince himself to move from the bed. He just watches Iwaizumi approach, the bright lighting of his bedroom room buzzing softly as it dances across his figure at strange angles. 

“Iwa-chan,” he says again, but he doesn’t have the will to go past that, unwilling to take any steps that will mean the broad expanse of Iwaizumi’s muscled shoulders moving further away from him.

Tooru’s trying to work up the nerve to place his hands on Iwaizumi’s shoulders, when Iwa grabs him by the waist and, with a grunt of effort, shoves him off the bed.

Iwaizumi pokes his head over the edge of the bed, his smile almost impish. “What were you saying earlier?”

Tooru’s landed on his knees, his hands splaying against the floor automatically to brace his fall. Briefly, he takes a minute to close his eyes and thank every god possible that he hadn’t gotten a boner.

Then he leaps back on the bed, and tries to drive his elbow into Iwaizumi’s stomach. 

Iwa’s arms come up fast enough to deflect him but he succeeds in knocking him flat on his back, and abandons the first plan in favour of straddling his thighs and slamming a thick pillow over his face.

“Suffocate, stupid bastard,“ he crows, willing the flush that’s risen to his cheeks to go away.

Iwaizumi makes a muffled sort of yell under the pillow and Tooru presses down harder. Hands come up to land heavily on Tooru’s thighs and that’s all the warning he gets before Iwaizumi is twisting to get Tooru off him, forcing Tooru to release the pillow as his back meets the mattress, driving all the air out of his lungs.

Somewhere between trying (and failing) to judo flip Iwaizumi off the bed and trying (and succeeding) at pinning him to the mattress, Tooru realizes he’s laughing. High, shrieking breathless laughter, his cheeks warm with colour, and his lungs aching. Worse, he realizes Iwaizumi’s laughing, his dimples flashing attractively, and gets a pillow to his face for his distraction. 

In the end, the two of them are lying, breathing heavy, on the now dishevelled bed. The sheets are slipping off the corners, gathering under their bodies, and the thick comforter has fallen to the ground completely. Iwaizumi is spread flat on his back, head on the bed’s single remaining pillow. Tooru’s head is on top of Iwaizumi’s stomach, one arm wrapping around Iwaizumi’s waist, tracing warm skin where his shirt has risen up. His feet dangle off the edge of the bed.

Iwaizumi’s hand nestles comfortably in Tooru’s hair, careful fingers threading gently through the strands.

"‘m cold,” Tooru mumbles, after a few minutes.

"Get the blanket then. Idiot.” Iwaizumi’s words slur at the edges, a sure sign that he’s slipping into sleep, his fingers having already stilled their movement through Tooru’s hair

“Yeah,” Tooru replies, but only buries his closer into Iwaizumi’s stomach and keeps his eyes closed. 

He wakes up during the night in a start, and realizes that his feet have become bricks of ice. It’s only two in the morning, he thinks, staring blearily at the alarm clock on the nightstand, the bright green of its lighting giving him a headache. 

Tooru closes his eyes briefly and then opens them again to Hajime’s soft features, peaceful in his sleep, outlined in silver from the moonlight streaming through a crack in the curtain. He doesn’t move for a moment, fearful of waking him. He doesn’t think he would be able to hide his affection just then, rising in him barefaced and unashamed under the cover of the night. 

When he moves, he disentangles himself from Iwaizumi’s body carefully, hissing at the loss of warmth, and leans over the edge of the bed, hand fumbling around on the floor to find the lost comforter. 

Finding it, he pulls it and himself back up. He can’t be bothered to grab the other pillows, so he just tucks his head on Iwaizumi’s chest, under his chin and spreads the blanket over the both of them. Iwaizumi’s arm wraps around him immediately, like it’s instinct, and Tooru feels his body relax into the mattress, sleep returning to him once more.

When he wakes up again, he’s alone in Iwaizumi’s bed. The bed, like the rest of Iwaizumi’s apartment, is nauseatingly cozy. The sheets are soft in a way that suggests they’re expensive, the comforter huge and downy, pillows upon pillows piled on the bed, the mattress soft enough to sink fully into. Tooru thinks that if he opened the hall closet, he’d find extra blankets stacked, one on top of the other. The windows next to the bed are huge, sunlight streaming in through the translucent curtains, falling lightly over Tooru’s body, warming the bed. 

Iwaizumi is shaking his shoulder, unconcerned about the violent thoughts Tooru is trying to send in his direction, keeping his head buried in a lump of blanket.

“I hate you,” Tooru says into the blanket. “I hate you and I wish you were dead. Consider our fake relationship terminated.”

“Boohoo,” Iwaizumi says. “Get up, I’m making breakfast.” 

Tooru sticks his head out of the blankets, squinting suspiciously at Iwaizumi’s face. He looks- clean. Fresh out the shower, drops of water drying on his thin t-shirt, sweatpants hanging low around his hips. 

“Breakfast?” He asks. “Like, actual breakfast? Not just coffee?”

“There’s pancakes,” Iwaizumi says. “Though I’m beginning to question if you deserve them.”

Tooru ignores the last sentence, already bounding out of bed. “Should have said that to start.”

When he steps into the kitchen, freshly cleaned and showered, wearing borrowed pajamas, it’s to the sight of Iwaizumi’s broad back facing him, the smell of pancakes and syrup in the air. 

Tooru can’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him that wasn’t his mother or Matsuda-san. He can’t remember the last time he had done this, let himself into another person’s house, learned their space, their routine. He toys with the image in his mind, of himself here, knowing which drawers keep the spoons, and which cabinet stores the spices. Learning the shape of Iwaizumi’s life and adjusting his to fit within it, until it became as familiar as his own.

“Can I help?” He asks, and Iwaizumi turns around to look at him, two plates of pancakes already set out. 

“You can wash some fruit,” he tells him. “There’s knives in the drawer by the sink, and berries in the fridge.”

Tooru obligingly rinses off some raspberries, and slices up a bowl of strawberries to go along with it. He finds the kettle and makes tea, finds some mugs and pours the cups- adds sugar but no milk for Iwaizumi, adds both for himself. 

Iwaizumi washes the dishes afterwards, and Tooru sits on his counter to dry them. There’s flour dried in a small patchy circle on Iwaizumi’s temple and Tooru resists the urge to press his lips to the spot.

“Come here,” he says instead, and uses his thumb to rub away the splotch, leaving slightly red skin behind, and Iwaizumi’s eyes watching him, smiling slightly.

“Stop that,” Tooru says nonsensically and pokes his finger at the indent on Iwaizumi’s left cheek. 

“Can I help you?” Iwaizumi asks, and Tooru’s watches in fascination as his finger moves along with the motions of Iwaizumi’s mouth. 

“Yes,” Tooru says. “I want to stick my tongue in it.”

It’s hard to catch Iwaizumi blushing, Tooru’s learned, but he’s also learned where to look for it, and it’s with a smug satisfaction that he watches the tips of Iwaizumi’s ears start to burn. 

“Do not,” Iwaizumi says warningly.

“Sounds like a challenge,” Tooru responds. 

“Heathen,” Iwaizumi says, batting Tooru’s hands away, leaving soap where he touches. “Take your sexcapades somewhere else.”

“Are you trying to seduce me by using words that you know I’ll make fun of you for using?” Tooru asks. “I didn’t realize people actually said sexcapade out loud.”

“I think you’re too easily seduced,” Iwaizumi tells him, and passes him another plate to dry. 

“Oh, Oikawa-san, you’re on the floor,” Akaashi says later that day, stepping over him on his way into the changing room. 

“Yes,” Tooru agrees. “I definitely am.”

“Any particular reason?” 

“Not really,” Tooru says. “I think I’m getting bacteria in my hair.”

“One way you could fix that is by getting off the floor,” Akaashi tells him. 

Tooru shrugs, as well as he can with his back flat on the floor. “What’s a little bacteria to the crushing weight of my overwhelming despair?”

He’d meant to do this at his house, but Hanamaki had become increasingly comfortable with simply barging into his apartment now that Tooru had given him a spare key. Tooru didn’t have the courage to explain his emotions today. He didn’t think he even had the words. 

“Yeah,” Akaashi says, like this is perfectly reasonable, and possibly even understandable. “Have you tried writing your issues down? I keep a journal with my theories about the end of the world as we know it. Helps me not lie down on the floor and cry about it.”

“Really?” Tooru asks, lifting his head up to squint. “Wait, theories, plural?” 

“Would you like to read it?” Akaashi asks, peeling his practice shirt off of his body. He sounds almost enthusiastic, which Tooru hadn’t thought he was capable of. 

He considers replying with a withering ‘no’. “Sure,” he says instead. “Does that actually help?” 

“You know,” Akaashi says vaguely, “sorrow on the bosom of the earth, or whatever.” 

Tooru lets his head fall back on the floor with a thunk. “Totally.” 

That evening, Tooru gets a text from Iwaizumi of a shaved poodle crossing the street. The picture is blurry but Tooru can make out that the dog is wearing a red beret and a plaid vest, its tongue hanging happily out of its mouth. 

iwachan: this is literally what you dress like 

Tooru stares at his phone. Then he sighs and goes to search for a notebook. 

Iwaizumi’s busy the next week, as hockey season begins to take off in earnest, thrown into long practices in anticipation of the real games beginning. 

“Hey,” he says to Tooru, half-asleep and sweaty under the shitty buzz of Tooru’s terrible ceiling lights. “Come to our game on Wednesday.”

“You know I have things to do right?” Tooru asks, though he isn’t sure who the token defense is for. Something a little ravenous keeps building in him whenever the two of them do this, and he’s been having a hard time pushing it down recently. “I can’t just come out to every one of your fifty million games.”

Iwaizumi presses a kiss to the curve of Tooru’s shoulder, unoffended. “Please?” 

And well, Tooru thinks, what is there to say to that?

“Well,” Mattsun says as Tooru approaches him ahead of the stands. “Don’t you look-”

“I have very sharp figure skates in my bag and I will throw them at your head,” Tooru warns.

Matsukawa raises his hands in mocking surrender. “Romantic. I was going to say romantic.”

Tooru looks down at the autographed jersey he was wearing a little larger than he would normally wear, slipping slightly over his collarbones. Iwaizumi’s name was printed across the back, right above the number 4.

Bokuto had pressed it into his hands before the game had started with a whispered ‘trust me’ and a wink, beaming so brightly at him Tooru hadn’t been able to refuse. 

“Look,” Matsukawa says, apparently deciding to be unhelpful, pointing at a group of teenage boys streaming in. “You guys are matching.” 

"Die,” Tooru says, unamused. “Come on, we have seats in the front.”

“Seats in the front,” Matsukawa says, pretending to swoon slightly. “The things you get for sleeping with the players.”

Tooru feels a little shy, unused to being so close to the front. The jersey feels strange too, bringing with it a sense of belonging that was verging on too real for the fakeness of their relationship. 

It wears off.

“Bad call!” Tooru yells, almost lost in the booing around him. “Are you fucking blind?!”

He’s not sure but he thinks Matsukawa is filming him.

“Someone tell Number 14 to pull his head out of his ass!” Someone jeers behind him, and only Matsukawa pressing his shoulder down with one heavy hand keeps him from turning around and jumping over the seats to defend Iwaizumi’s team.

“Why do I still come to these with you?” Matsukawa says, to no one in particular. “Do you think I’m a masochist?”

“No one wants to hear about your sex life, Mattsun,” Tooru says, giving on up trying to escape his grip to instead project malicious thoughts towards the man behind him. 

“Stop trying to curse that man and pay attention,” is all Matsukawa has to say in response, his hand lowering cautiously. 

“No,” Tooru says petulantly. “I hope he dies.”

He’s distracted by the sight of Iwaizumi colliding with a player from the other team, sending both of them crashing to the ground. The referee whistles, and the other player is sent to the penalty box, much to the ire of their supporters.

“Fuck off, he should’ve just watched where he was going!” The man behind Tooru yells, and Matsukawa’s arm doesn’t reach Tooru fast enough. 

“Why are you bleeding?” Iwaizumi asks in shock after the game, faced with a smug Tooru and a split lip. 

“You should have seen the other guy,” Tooru says cheerfully and leaps into Iwaizumi’s arms, which circle his waist immediately, lifting him off the ground, surrounding him in red jersey material. Iwaizumi’s cheek is still sticky with sweat as Tooru presses his own against it. “You did so good,” he babbles, caught up in the rush of the game. “Holy shit, you were so impressive, that last fucking shot- I was ready to scream-”

“Thank you,” Iwaizumi says, and sets him back down, his voice slightly muffled by how hard Tooru is pressing them together. “Seriously,” he says, pulling away with some effort. “Are you okay?”

“Seriously,” Tooru mimics, and breaks into a wide grin, ignoring how it pulls at the torn skin of his lip. “You should have seen the other guy.”

Iwaizumi gives in and laughs, bringing Tooru back to him with a hand on the back of his head, and Tooru goes eagerly, burying his face in Iwaizumi’s neck.

“You smell awful,” he says, but he’s smiling too hard for Iwaizumi to take him seriously, jittery with adrenaline and affection.

“Dude!” Someone calls, sounding slightly panicked, and Tooru pulls his face away from Iwaizumi with a frown-

Cameras go off in front of them, lights flashing so bright Tooru can’t see anything else for a second, the sound of clicking shutters too loud to hear anything else. When his sight readjusts, it’s just in time to see Iwaizumi jolt backwards, like he’s brushed too close to Tooru and gotten burned, his features unreadable for a moment, before they twist into panic.

Chapter Text

Someone is pulling Tooru to the side, a hand digging into the meat of his upper arm, hard enough to bruise. He’s having a hard time registering anything over the noise and lights. It feels like there’s a hundred people surrounding him, pushing him off to the side, crushing him by the borders.

Then the crowd falls away, and Iwaizumi’s in front of him looking harried. The press continues to shout from the side, the noise a little quieter now that they’ve moved, a crowd of people in front of them like a barricade.

“Ah, man,” Bokuto says, next to the two of them. “Bad luck.”

“I’ve got to go back out and do press,” Iwaizumi says, and he looks upset, running a hand jerkily through his hair. “Can you get someone to take Oikawa out the back way?”

“It’s only the tabloids,” Tooru says and stays where he is. The situation is mixing badly with the insecurity in his chest, his head. Something selfish and angry has taken up residency in him, curling and twisting unpleasantly. 

“That’s the problem,” Iwaizumi says, not even looking at him, his face scanning the crowd, like he’s already searching for a way to get Tooru away. 

Like a picture of them together would be something so dreadful. 

“They’re already here,” Tooru points out, not moving. “Who cares if they get a picture or two?”

Iwaizumi frowns. He’s gotten fully ready to act within seconds, Tooru’s coat clutched in his hands. “They’ll come to the wrong conclusions,” he says, and Tooru’s heart sinks. 

The unpleasant feelings in his stomach give a sharp twist, and Tooru feels himself smile and knows it must look off.

“As long as they’re here,” he whispers, leaning in closer to Iwaizumi. “Let’s give them a show.” 

Iwaizumi’s eyes drop to his lips, like Tooru knew they would; for an instant, their faces are inches apart. He hears someone yell, and the camera’s go off again, too many bright lights to see, photographers moving around the crowd in front of them to get a picture. Iwaizumi steps fully away from him, panicked expression twisting into something sharper.

“For fuck’s sake, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, viciously angry, and Tooru steps back too, taken aback by the reaction.

“I didn’t mean to,” he starts, and he isn’t sure what he didn’t mean to do so he lets that sentence trail off and starts again. “I didn’t mean it.” 

This doesn’t seem to make Iwaizumi feel much better, judging by the volume of his retort, his eyes angrier than Tooru’s ever seen them, as he shoves Tooru’s jacket into his arms. “You can’t just fuck around with my life when you get bored. Those pictures are going to be everywhere by tomorrow, asshole.”

“Don’t yell at me,” Tooru says back, his face burning hot with what might be anger, or might be shame. He’s off-balance, tilting too far one way and then the next. I don’t understand, he wants to yell. He wants, selfish as it seems, for Iwaizumi to understand him, without Tooru having to explain. 

Is it that awful to be seen with me? Tooru thinks, his head buzzing miserably.

Bokuto’s got him by the arm, then and they’re both heading down a dark little hallway, leading out to the parking lot. 

“I practice here too,” Tooru snaps, and yanks his arm away. His jacket is gripped in his arms, and the jersey suddenly feels tight and humiliating on his skin. “I know the way, dickhead.”

Bokuto doesn’t seem to take offense, which makes Tooru feel worse, just nods good-naturedly, his head ducked to avoid stray cameras. “That makes sense.”

Tooru swallows, hard. “I’m sorry,” he says, and that at least, is sincere. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bokuto tells him, and then hesitates as they exit out into the employee’s only section of the parking lot. Someone must have told Matsukawa, because Tooru can see his car heading towards them. “Hey, and- um, Iwaizumi just kind of hates cameras more than the rest of us, so, I mean, try not to-”

“Whatever,” Tooru says, cutting him off. He doesn’t really need the reminder. 

It’s freezing outside, thick dark clouds rolling over the sky, threatening snow at any minute. Tooru shivers, and then steps away from Bokuto as Matsukawa pulls up, nodding goodbye stiffly. 

To Mattsun’s credit, he doesn’t ask any questions as Tooru angrily peels the jersey off the second they get onto the road, leaving him in only the thin sweater he had been wearing underneath. For good measure, he throws it on the floor and stomps on it, his dirty sneakers creating a bizarre black mark over the fabric, before throwing it to the back of the car. 

He considers slipping on the jacket, which at least doesn’t have Iwaizumi’s name written on it, but the image of Iwaizumi’s white knuckles around it as he tried to usher Tooru out as quickly as possible rises to mind and he chucks it to the back too. 

“So,” Matsukawa says casually, reaching over to turn the heating up in the car. “After game jitters?”

“Fuck you,” Tooru says bitterly. “Actually, fuck him. Let’s turn around so I can go slash his tires.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Matsukawa says, like a hint. 

“No,” Tooru says. “I already told you what I wanted to do, but you missed the turn.”

White flurries are starting to drift down outside the window, the wind picking up speed. Some of the flakes drift against the glass, individual specks so that Tooru can get a brief glimpse of the small symmetrical patterns making up each snowflake before they melt away against the window. 

“I’ve been trying so hard to make him like me,” Tooru says suddenly, into the quiet of the car, “and he doesn’t.”

“I’m sure he does,” Matsukawa says, accepting this too, without question. 

“He was such an asshole, just now,” Tooru seethes. “It’s one picture, will the world end? Will the sky fall?”

“I’m sure you already know this,” Matsukawa says, “but it was probably a bigger deal to him than it was to you.”

“I piss him off all the time,” Tooru points out. The anger is separating into hurt, a needle digging under the skin of his ribs. “He’s never reacted like that.”

Matsukawa doesn’t respond to this, as they pull into their neighbourhood. “You want to come over?” He offers. “Hanamaki’s away for the day.”

Tooru is still considering this when his phone rings in his pocket, making him jump. He keeps meaning to set it to vibrate. He looks at the caller ID and considers hanging up. It would make him feel good, he reasons, give him a little vindictive pleasure. He’s aware of Matsukawa’s eyes still on him.

“Yes?” He says tersely, answering the phone. 

“Hey,” Iwaizumi’s voice sounds a little hoarse on the other end. “I ditched the press conference. I’m on my way home. I thought, maybe we could talk?”

Tooru stares out the window. The temperature’s dropped fast, and the wind has picked up, white snow starting to cover the sidewalks, clinging to the window and the windshield. 

 “Talk about what?” He asks, forcing himself to lean back against the seat. 

“Um,” Iwaizumi says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like- I wanted to apologize.”

“I don’t want an apology, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says coldly. “I want to finally lay this humiliating chapter of my life to rest.”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says. “We won’t get anywhere if you refuse to talk about it.”

“There’s nowhere to go,” Tooru snaps. His split lip stings as he speaks, newly scabbed over skin starting to split again. “We were never going anywhere to begin with.”

There’s a silence over the phone, only Iwaizumi’s breath filling the space, still so fucking steady. “You don’t mean that,” he says finally, voice charged with a bone-deep tiredness.

“This was always temporary,” Tooru says, always clawing his nails into wounds that are already bleeding, both his own and other people’s. “Sorry that you thought otherwise.”

“Fine,” Iwaizumi says into the phone, frustration jagged in his voice. “The dating part is fake, yeah, but- Christ, Oikawa- I thought we were at least friends.”

Tooru is breathing too fast, too heavy. He wants to cry. He wants to scream some more. He wants to put his head on Iwaizumi’s solid chest and just breathe in the familiar smell of him, until they’re in sync again, inhaling and exhaling in the same rhythm. He doesn’t want to be friends.

“Go home, Iwaizumi,” he says, and feels the cavity in his chest split open a little further. There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, so vulnerable it nearly rips his determination into shreds. The next thing he hears is the dial tone. 

The car is horribly silent. Tooru doesn’t look, but the sound of Matsukawa’s disapproval is nearly audible.

“Don’t start,” Tooru moans. “I just- fuck, do you think I fucked up?”

Matsukawa is quiet for a moment, long enough for Tooru to turn and see hesitation lining his face. 

“I think you would feel better if you were honest about your feelings,” he says finally. “Even if it doesn’t end up getting you what you want.”

Tooru lets his fingers fall, tracing over the material of his sweatpants. “It was going so well too,” he says, trying not to sound like he’s whining, and not quite succeeding.

“It’s not a real relationship, though,” Matsukawa says, and Tooru’s head snaps up in irritation.

“Thank you for that,” he says, curt. “Exactly what I needed to hear.”

“What I mean is,” Matsukawa sighs and then starts over. “It’s not real. It’s easy to have a great relationship if you don’t have as much to lose. You’ve been living in fantasyland.” 

“This is like, the most unhelpful you have ever been,” Tooru tells him. “And that is saying something.”

“All I’m saying is, if you want to have a relationship with him after this whole thing is over-”

“I don’t,” Tooru interrupts, and Matsukawa closes his eyes like this whole thing is horrible for him, personally.

“Sure. But if you do, you need to figure out whether this is all it’s going to take before you give up.

“Ugh,” Tooru says. He glares out the window again. The snow is starting to blow in heavy gusts outside, and when Matsukawa parks, he can see that it’s piling up on the staircase leading up to their building. The snowfall is starting to pick up speed, thick, soft heaps of white beginning to form, deep enough to get in your shoes, sink into your socks. 

The cab driver stops before turning into the long, narrow street leading to Iwaizumi’s building, and tells Tooru that with the current road conditions, he’ll either have to pay extra or walk the rest of the way. Tooru looks at the storm starting to rage outside, the snow swirling on strong winds, until he can barely see anything other than white through the window. He looks at the still-running meter. He decides to walk. 

About thirty seconds in, he’s regretting it. He didn’t bring a jacket with him, so the snow is flying everywhere, landing in any available gaps in his clothes and melting into ice cold water on contact with skin. His feet are suffering the worst, the snow piling up inside his shoes, melting and then piling up again until he can’t feel his toes anymore. 

“Iwa-chan,” he says when he reaches the building, hitting the buzzer for Iwaizumi’s apartment. “Iwa-chan, if you don’t let me in, I’ll die. I’ll die, seriously.”

“Oikawa?” Iwaizumi says over the intercom, static blurring his voice, and he says something that sounds like a question, but the locked door clicks and unlocks, and Tooru misses the words as he shuffles eagerly into the heated building. 

It’s only once he’s in the elevator, a minute away from Iwaizumi’s door that he realizes that he has no plan, he’s forgotten his speech, and the snow collected in his hair and clothing has melted, leaving him sopping wet and creating a puddle of dirty water where he’s standing. 

It’s all he can do to keep himself standing when Iwaizumi opens the door, his eyes widening as he takes in Tooru, sniffling only a little pathetically in his doorway, soaked to the bone in a thin sweater and sweatpants. 

“I’m sorry,” Tooru says, before Iwaizumi has the chance to say anything. “I didn’t mean to say- I just- we are friends and I want to keep being friends and I don’t want to fake break-up, and I’m a really terrible fake-boyfriend, but I want to keep being your terrible fake-boyfriend.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth opens. Closes again. He seems, for the first time since Tooru’s met him, to be at a total and complete loss for words. 

“And I’m sorry for pushing it about the picture thing,” Tooru continues nervously. A patch of melting snow is sliding down his back. “I didn’t want to- You hurt my feelings, a little, so I wanted to hurt your feelings and now I feel bad about that-”

“You are the dumbest person alive,” Iwaizumi says, and he grabs Tooru’s wrist and yanks him inside. 

He closes the door behind them, almost as an afterthought, his hands fluttering over Tooru’s body, his fingers, his neck, his cheek, bringing a moment of blissful warmth wherever they land. “You’re shaking, Jesus Christ. How far did you walk like this? There’s a blizzard warning out, are you stupid?”

Tooru peels his shoes off and then stands in the entranceway, unsure of where to go or what to say, his hair dripping water onto his already wet socks. 

“Unbelievable,” Iwaizumi is saying, already halfway across the living room before he realizes Tooru isn’t following. “Go, sit,” he says, and gestures at the stools across the kitchen counter. 

Tooru obediently takes a seat. 

It isn’t long before Iwaizumi returns to stand in front of him with a towel in his hands, and chucks it over Tooru’s wet hair, his hands scrubbing at it like he’s planning on taking Tooru’s whole head off. 

“What is wrong with you?” Iwaizumi is asking him, though it seems to be rhetorical, his hands still busy drying Tooru’s hair, none too gently. “No jacket, no scarf, not even any decent shoes. Did you look outside before you decided to come running to apologize? You know how long it takes to get frostbite?-”

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru interrupts and Iwaizumi stops, both the lecture and the scrubbing, tilting Tooru’s face up so their eyes meet. Tooru’s tongue flattens at the expectant look in his eyes, and it’s with considerable effort that he manages to start again. “Iwa-chan, you forgive me, right?”

For the second time in as many minutes, Iwaizumi looks absolutely floored by the words out of Tooru’s mouth. Tooru can’t explain it to himself, any more than he can explain it to Iwaizumi, but he needs to hear the words, needs to see the shape of them in Iwaizumi’s mouth. 

“Yes,” Iwaizumi says finally. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I know,” Tooru says, a shaky smile lifting the edges of his mouth. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t move for a second, just watches Tooru, his green eyes contemplative. Then he starts drying Tooru’s hair again, a gentler set to his mouth, if not to his technique. 

“You have qualifiers in a couple days,” he continues, as if nothing had happened, Tooru’s neck aching from the directions it’s being pushed and pulled in. “What would you have done if you’d gotten sick? Would you have sat out? Idiot.”

  “I would have won anyway,” Tooru mumbles, a little guiltily, and then screeches at a particularly rough yank on his head. “But I won’t if I go bald! Iwa-chan!” 

“Oops,” Iwaizumi says, not sounding very regretful. “Was that one too much?”

“Obviously, you fucking-” Tooru wails as Iwaizumi does it again. “Iwa-chan, my hair!” 

Iwaizumi snickers, and pulls the towel away completely, tossing it into Tooru’s lap. “Drop this off in the laundry. And find some clean clothes and take a warm shower. I’ll get you some hot water with lemon and honey, so you don’t catch a cold. Fucking idiot.”

Tooru doesn’t answer, busy trying to feel his aching scalp for possible bald patches. 

“Don’t worry,” Iwaizumi tells him, pushing him off the stool. “I promise you’re still pretty.”

Tooru whips around, beaming, ignoring Iwaizumi’s increasingly forceful attempts to shove him in the direction of the laundry room. “You think I’m pretty, Iwa-chan?” 

He says it as half a joke, mostly expecting Iwaizumi to roll his eyes and push him away. It catches him by surprise when Iwaizumi’s expression softens instead, as he reaches up to push a strand of damp hair behind Tooru’s ear, the pad of his fingertip brushing softly over the shell of Tooru’s ear. 

“You’re very pretty,” he says indulgently, his hand falling back to his side, Tooru staring at him wide-eyed. “Even when you’re at my door looking like a drowned puppy.”

Tooru goes to take a shower without further comment. 

When he pads out, significantly calmer, in barefeet and a soft bathrobe, Iwaizumi is squeezing some lemon into a glass, the hot water creating condensation along the sides of the glass, fogging it up. It tastes honey-sweet going down Tooru’s throat, warming him up where the heat of the shower didn’t reach. 

He feels warmer still when Iwaizumi presses him up against the kitchen counter, rough hands slipping inside the bathrobe, spreading across his back, as he licks into Tooru’s mouth like he can taste the remnants of honey and lemon lingering on Tooru’s tongue.

“Your lip is bleeding again,” he murmurs, pulling away from Tooru, kissing the corner of his mouth in apology. “Sorry.”

Tooru licks over his lower lip, tastes metal in his mouth and grimaces. “Oops.”

Iwaizumi is already grabbing a tissue, and running it under the tap. He squeezes water out into the drain and presses the damp tissue to Tooru’s mouth, wiping away where the blood has smeared. Tooru winces at the contact, and Iwaizumi holds his chin between a finger and a thumb, keeping him in place. “Stay still, baby.”

Baby, Tooru thinks delightedly, lets the sound echo inside his brain. He’s still thinking about the word choice when he realizes Iwaizumi’s stepped away. 

“Does it hurt?”

Tooru blinks. “Huh?” 

Iwaizumi stares at him. Tooru stares back.

“Your lip?” Iwaizumi prompts, after it becomes clear that Tooru won’t be answering, a small smile playing at his own mouth. “It’s bleeding.”

“Oh,” Tooru says. He’s lost it. “Yes. The lip. It was bleeding. Still bleeding?”

Iwaizumi just looks at him, his eyes blinking slowly, like Tooru is the most fascinating person in the world. If this was anyone else, Tooru thinks, he would probably be embarrassed. But Iwaizumi just smiles at him, and Tooru can only muster up the smallest hint of sheepishness at being caught out so directly.

“Yes,” he amends, and wraps his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck. “It hurts lots. Kiss it better.”

Iwaizumi groans, his hands landing on Tooru’s shoulders, resisting his attempts to pull them back together. “You are insufferable. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” Tooru says again, honestly, and he nudges his cold nose into the space between Iwaizumi’s shoulder and collarbone, drinks in the smell of Iwaizumi’s terrible cologne. “But here you are. Suffering.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes meet Tooru’s and hold eye contact, his face unreadable. Then he sighs. “You have no idea.”

Tooru doesn’t know what to make of this insult that doesn’t sound like an insult. He doesn’t respond, he presses cold feet against Iwaizumi’s shin in retaliation, grinning at his put-out expression.

“I can’t believe your toes didn’t fall off,” he says, and tugs Tooru over to his fireplace using the belt on his borrowed robe.

Tooru settles cross-legged in front of the blazing heat, lets it sweep over his back, feeling thrillingly, deliriously happy, sparks running up his still damp skin, making his heart beat faster in his chest. 

“What do you look so happy about?” Iwaizumi asks, when Tooru grabs him and tugs him closer. He goes willingly, his head settling in Tooru’s lap, wincing as Tooru’s cold hands come around to pull at his cheeks. 

“I’ve accepted my fate,” Tooru tells him.

“Your fate as what, exactly?” Iwaizumi says, the words mumbled as Tooru tugs on his face.

Tooru doesn’t answer, just leans forward and plants a kiss on his forehead, right above the bridge of his nose. 

Has Iwaizumi’s New Relationship Gone Cold? Hockey Player ‘Iced Out’ by Figure Skating Fling!

Oikawa’s Out On His Ass! ‘Hit the Slopes!’ Says Iwaizumi! “On Thin Ice” Says Exclusive Source.

Oikawa Tooru, Cold on the Ice, Colder in Bed?! Insider Sources Speak Out About Skating Couple’s Frigid Romance!

“Makki,” Tooru says, interrupting Hanamaki’s dramatic reading. “You could read these in your head.”

“Good literature deserves to be shared,” Hanamaki tells him, and holds up a new one. “A source close to the couple reveals the relationship has been on the rocks for months. Did you know that?”

“Where are they getting all these sources from?” Tooru wonders out loud. 

“Beats me,” Hanamaki says mournfully. “I’ve been calling offices all day to tell them you’ve got mad cow disease. Nobody even cares.”

Tooru pauses, looking up from the suitcase he’s packing at Hanamaki, who’s draped over his bed. “You know humans can’t get mad cow disease, right?”

Hanamaki, who is ostensibly meant to be helping Tooru pack, stops flipping through tabloids to look at Tooru, horrified. “Are you serious? I’ve wasted so many phone calls, man.”

“It’s literally called cow disease,” Tooru says, and Hanamaki is still complaining when the door swings open, creaky hinges announcing Matsukawa’s arrival. 

“There was a whole section about you guys on my way home. Like a whole section of a newsstand with just your faces on it,” he calls, already halfway into Tooru’s apartment. Tooru does not remember giving him a key. 

“Did you bring any back?” Hanamaki asks, already bounding up in excitement.

“Breaking!” Matsukawa reads, walking into the bedroom. He hasn’t changed out of the branded shirt he wears to work, a cartoonish smiling skull peering down at Oikawa from under his own face, pressed against Iwaizumi’s on a magazine cover, bold lettering over their bodies.  “Oikawa Tooru Withholding His ‘Icicle’ From New Boyfriend?! ‘Not Until Marriage’ New Sources Report.”

“Who is writing these?” Tooru asks in amazement. 

“And who is doing their fact-checking?” Hanamaki says, peering down at the page over Matsukawa’s shoulder. “They should be fired.”

“Are you guys breaking up?” Matsukawa asks, and both him and Hanamaki are staring at Tooru, expressions nauseatingly similar. “I need to know where to place my bets.”

“How’s the casual sex going for you?” Hanamaki adds, looking irritatingly knowing. “Still no feelings?”

Tooru looks back down at his suitcase. It’s too full. If he adds anything else to it, he won’t be able to get it closed, but he hasn’t even packed any clothes yet. “No,” he says to the peanut gallery, an answer to both questions. He adds his folded clothes and takes the performance makeup out. He can probably put that in the carry-on.

 “I’m starting a six-year plan to make him fall in love with me,” he says casually. “Can one of you come help me close this?”

“I love being friends with you,” Hanamaki says, neither of them moving. “Every decision you make is worse than the last. Like a slow-motion car crash. Thrilling.”

“Why is it taking him six years to fall in love with you?” Matsukawa asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tooru says. “At the end of the six years we get married. The suitcase?”

“Thrilling,” Hanamaki repeats, and comes over to plant his full body weight on top of the suitcase so that Tooru can zip it closed. 

Tooru is staggeringly drunk. Mind-bendingly drunk. Everything is swirling into pieces around him and then swirling back together, the noise pounding in his eardrums reverberating through his entire body. It’s loud, sweaty, hot, crowded. The smell of alcohol is stinging his nose, a too-expensive bottle of champagne still staining his clothes, sticky where it touches his skin. 

Every now and then, the realization comes back to him and then he’s smiling again, his cheeks aching with the force of it, his throat raw from screaming. 

“I made it!” He yells to Akaashi. The two of them are so close together but his voice is carried off in the noise regardless, and he can see Akaashi blink as he tries to process. 

Then Akaashi is grinning back at him, just as wide, an unusual expression for him. “We made it!” He yells back, and Tooru throws his head back to laugh, giddy. 

Someone pulls him away and Tooru goes willingly, out of his mind with joy and nearly deaf from the music.

The quiet of the evening, when he stumbles outside, is an ice-cold shock. The sudden stillness surrounding him, the indiscernible noise of screaming teenagers in the background. It had been a struggle to extricate himself, a tugging push and pull until he made it out into the night air. He’s pressing the call button before he can talk himself out of it. 

“Oikawa?” He hears Iwaizumi say, only a dark blurry shape on the small screen of his phone. There’s rustling movement, the click of a lamp, and then Iwaizumi’s face is peering blearily at him, illuminated by soft yellow light. “Are you wearing bunny ears?”

“I think I got them from a fetish store!” Tooru tells him, and it’s only when Iwaizumi flinches away from the phone screen that he realizes he had been yelling. He lowers his voice abashedly. “They wouldn’t let you in without a costume,” he whispers, like he’s letting Iwaizumi in on a secret. “But I didn’t have one.”

Iwaizumi falls back and Tooru can hear him laugh tiredly, voice still gravelly with sleep. He must have set the phone down, because all Tooru can see now is the ceiling of the hotel Iwaizumi must be staying at. His team had left for a series of away games, both of them now far from home. 

“Iwa-chan,” he says to the ceiling. “I can’t see your face any more.” His words are starting to blur together, but he can’t concentrate enough to pull them back apart.

“Sorry, sorry,” Iwaizumi mutters, and there’s another rustle before his face returns, now with headphones. “Are you out celebrating?”

The word celebrating reminds Tooru why he called to begin with and he beams back at the camera, exhilarated once again. “I made it! I’m going to the Olympics!”

Iwaizumi is laughing again, though Tooru isn’t sure why. “I know,” he says. “You texted me.”

“Oh,” Tooru says. Then, “What did I say?”

“Um,” Iwaizumi says, and then his video is paused. “Hang on. You said ‘i made it’ and then ‘Olympics baby’ and then ‘can alcohol absorb through your skin?’ and then there were a bunch of letters.”

“Oh,” Tooru says again. “What did you say?”

Iwaizumi’s face returns to the camera once more, his smile fonder than usual, the planes of his face carved out soft in the mellow light. “I knew you’d make it.”

Tooru thinks that if it’s possible to be crushed by sheer affection, he’s feeling it now, a building pressure in his chest that pulls his accelerating heartbeat back to ground level.

“Thank you.” Now that he’s calmer, he notices for the first time how Iwaizumi’s eyes are fluttering closed, how his voice is sleep-rough, and he feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Iwaizumi says, clearly lying. “I couldn't sleep anyway.”

“Liar.” There’s that soft, tired laugh again, and the phone shifts to a view of the ceiling again, like Iwaizumi has set it down beside him. Tooru can hear the sound of him breathing, each breath slipping slowly into a steady rhythm.

“S’Okay,” Iwaizumi mumbles. “I like the sound of your voice.” 

This is enough to stun Tooru back into silence. His brain feels slippery from how much he’s had to drink, the hot pink lighting of the club he had been in still dancing across his feet, a glimmering haze over his field of vision. He’s so aware, all of a sudden, of how cold the night air is, biting into exposed skin, how tightly the headband of the bunny ears is pressing into his scalp, of the hair falling over his forehead-  of how much love is piling up inside him, scrubbing him raw and threatening to drown him under its weight. 

If Iwaizumi liked the sound of his voice, Tooru would read him a novel, would read him a dictionary, would write him a new love letter every morning and recite it to him every night. 

As it is, he whispers into the phone, “Goodnight, Iwa-chan,” and lets himself wait five full seconds before hanging it back up.  

That night Tooru crashes on the sofa of a hotel suite he could have never afforded by himself, legs too wobbly to make it to a bed. He doesn’t sleep, he just lies there, the bright glow of his phone across his face the only light in the dark room, and he drafts drunken texts and deletes them, writing out confessions he’ll never send. 

Are you still awake? He writes to Iwaizumi, and deletes it.

Good luck tomorrow.

Recently, you’ve been in all of my dreams. Do you think that means something? 

I wish you had been here today. 

In a hazy space of his brain, it starts to register to Tooru that this is possibly a little bit embarrassing. He doesn’t feel embarrassed- he feels giddy in a way he hasn’t for years, caught up in the middle-school thrill of having a crush, something that reminds him of drafts of love letters on pink stationary, of leaving gifts in lockers and roses on desks. It’s the indulgent happiness of allowing himself to get caught up in the push and pull before a relationship, both of them on edge, neither willing to slip first. 

It’s enough, he tells himself. For now, it’s enough. They’ll have time. 

The sun is just beginning to set when Tooru walks back to his apartment days later, a plastic bag of groceries crinkling in one hand, the other holding Iwaizumi’s hand. The heat is starting to return after a long winter, and there’s sweat collecting between their hands, but neither one moves to disentangle their fingers. 

“You don’t have a fucking clue,” Iwaizumi is saying heatedly, and Tooru scoffs but doesn’t interrupt. “You have no idea how much I’ve suffered because of this. It’s the worst possible-”

“Not the worst,” Tooru interjects. “I’ll take a lot but I won’t let you lie to me right now-” 

“It is the worst, it’s the laziest way out, it never makes sense, it creates so many plot holes-”

“I think it’s fun and creative,” Tooru says, and passes the bag of groceries to Iwaizumi, who takes them unquestioningly, as Tooru fumbles one-handed with the lock. “And the plot holes wouldn’t exist if you didn’t think about them.”

“That’s the target audience,” Iwaizumi says grimly, as Tooru pulls him into his apartment via their connected hands. “People who don’t think. Like you.”

“Time travel is an old, respected, trope,” Tooru says. “Just because you don’t understand it-”

“Boo!” Iwaizumi says, setting the bag of groceries onto the counter. He starts unloading them without Tooru asking him to, taking out the eggs to place them into the fridge, not even pausing in the flow of conversation. “There’s nothing to understand, because it sucks.”

“Not enough things getting blown up for you?” Tooru asks snidely, and pulls out a cardboard pink box, wrapped with matching pink ribbon before Iwaizumi can respond. “Are you ready for your present?”

Iwaizumi comes to stand beside him, reaching out a hand to pull at the strings of ribbon and pouting when Tooru slaps it away. “I don’t know why you had to make me stand outside the bakery. It’s not like I can’t guess it’s a cake.”

“Hush,” Tooru says. “As long as it’s not open, it could be anything. Like Schrodinger's cat.”

They had only had Valentine’s Day cakes available at the bakery, so when Iwaizumi opens the box, it’s to a mess of pink and red frosting over a small heart-shaped cake. In cursive script over the top, white lettering reads ‘C U @ O.V.’

“They were charging per letter,” Tooru says. “O.V.  stands for-”

“Olympic Village,” Iwaizumi says, grinning. “I get it. I love it.” 

Tooru beams at him. Iwaizumi had cleared the team selections for the national team yesterday, when he had still been away for a game. He had made it back last night, the pair of them reuniting for a private celebration that left bruises that ached pleasantly along Tooru’s hips, his chest, his thighs. 

“Here,” Iwaizumi says, in a suspiciously innocuous tone. “Taste.”

Tooru narrows his eyes. “What-”

Iwaizumi runs his finger through the icing as Tooru starts talking and then sticks his finger into Tooru’s open mouth. 

Tooru clamps his teeth down around the finger immediately, glaring at Iwaizumi. He’s hoping the look in his eyes communicates something like a threat, like I could bite through your finger like a carrot right now and not holy shit, I want to suck your dick. It’s always so hard to figure out the line between the two with Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi tries to pull his finger away, testingly, and his eyes widen as Tooru bites down a little harder. 

“Hang on,” he says, his wrist falling a little limp. “I’m trying to figure out if this is turning me on or not.”

Giving in is against Tooru’s principles but this is beginning to seem torturous, so he lets his mouth close, keeping his teeth back to let his lips close gently over the first knuckle. Iwaizumi makes a strangled noise and it feels like victory. 

“Yeah. Definitely turned on,” he says decisively. 

Tooru can’t speak, just swirls his tongue around the pad of his finger, tastes sugar and strawberries, lets it dissolve in his mouth, relishes in the way Iwaizumi’s lips tug up in exasperated acceptance.

He’s thinking of abandoning the cake entirely and starting up those celebrations over again, or maybe just dropping to his knees in the kitchen, when the doorbell rings. 

“Ugh,” Tooru says, pulling away reluctantly, turning toward the door. 

He’s stopped by the firm grasp of Iwaizumi’s hand around his jaw, bringing Tooru’s face back to his own. Tooru thinks about complaining about the hand Iwaizumi’s using to do it, feeling his own spit touching his cheek, sticky and off-putting and gripping hard enough to bruise.

But Iwaizumi’s lips are already on his, tongue slipping into Tooru’s mouth with a proprietary confidence that makes Tooru’s hands clench tight around the edge of the countertop, keeping him on his feet. 

The doorbell rings again, and Iwaizumi pulls away with a sigh and a wet parting of mouths, Tooru’s eyes fluttering back open in slight shock. 

Iwaizumi is watching his lips, looking all too pleased with himself. “Yum,” he says, letting go of Tooru’s jaw with a pat on the cheek and a wink. “Strawberry.”

“Suck my dick,” Tooru says, both an insult and a suggestion. 

The doorbell rings for a third time, aggressive in how long it lasts, like the person outside is leaning on it, impatient.

Iwaizumi’s eyebrow twitches slightly at the noise but he steps fully away from Tooru, looking entirely regretful at his own actions. “Tell them to go away and maybe I will,” his eyes flicking down to Tooru’s crotch meaningfully. 

“Stop saying words,” Tooru says, flustered beyond measure, and tries not to rush to the door in order to do exactly as told.

He opens the door, flushed and still half-laughing, the remnants of a smile on his face fading away as he sees Junichi outside his apartment, still in that ugly fucking coat, the human personification of a cockblock.

“Yes?” Tooru asks, leaning against the door. He doesn’t want Junichi taking a step inside. He doesn’t want Junichi here at all, encroaching on a moment Tooru was enjoying, his presence a reminder of a truth Tooru would rather forget. He very selfishly hopes Iwaizumi doesn’t see him. He wants Iwaizumi to forget about Junichi all together, forget that two of them had ever been together for a reason that wasn’t so they could watch old science fiction and argue about director’s cuts. 

“Just thought I’d drop by,” Junichi says. “You’re not going to let me in?”

“I’m a little busy,” Tooru says coolly. “You should really text first.” 

“Busy?” He’s smiling a condescending little smile that makes Tooru’s eyebrow twitch. “You aren’t at practice?”

“I’m hanging out with my boyfriend.” If he places more emphasis than is strictly necessary on the last word- well. 

If Junichi is surprised to hear this, he covers for it well, only a slight blotchy red flush to his cheeks giving away a reaction. “I thought- I heard that you’d broken up?”

“Been reading a lot of tabloids recently?” Tooru drawls, letting his head fall to rest on his door frame. 

“You haven’t brought him around for dinner,” Junichi counters, still mostly placid. “I didn’t think it was that serious.”

“We’ve both been busy,” Tooru says, eyes narrowed. “It’s the season for it.”

Junichi smiles a little wider and it feels like an accusation. “I’m sure my dad would love to meet him.”

They will never find your body, Tooru says with his eyes. 

With his mouth he says, “We’ll see you guys Wednesday.”

Once the articles had come out, it had become impossible to ignore Matsuda-san’s hints about meeting his new boyfriend. Tooru hadn’t expected to be able to avoid it for long but he had gotten away with it for longer than he expected.

He didn’t know how he felt about the dinner now that it had arrived. Somewhere inside him, something was screaming that this was too serious, too much, too fast. That the unsteady foundation of their little show couldn’t hold up under any more serious inspection. Another part was screaming that Tooru hadn’t been acting for a long time. 

A month and a half had passed easily under the guise of their fake relationship. A month and a half, so much time and almost none at all. 

At no point during those forty-five days had he prepared himself for seeing Iwaizumi waiting in his apartment for him to finish getting ready, complaining on Tooru’s terrible couch, wearing a white sweater, the thick knitted pattern off-setting the deep tan of his skin. 

He’s used to seeing Iwaizumi in sharp angles and hard muscles. Like this he looks almost soft. Huggable.

“I bet you’re just a natural-born parent pleaser, aren’t you?” Tooru says, eyeing the gentle cling of the fabric to his shoulders. “Bitch.”

“What are you ever talking about?” Iwaizumi responds. “Come on, I brought some flowers and they’re going to wilt if we don’t hurry.”

“Flowers,” Tooru says, to himself, as Iwaizumi takes his hand and drags him along. “Of course he brought flowers.” 

“Listen,” Tooru says, once the two of them are in the elevator heading down to the main floor. “We need to bring our best game tonight.”

Iwaizumi does not seem to be listening, his eyebrows a little furrowed as he responds to a text on his phone. Tooru can feel his blood pressure spike. 

“Iwaizumi,” he says, and Iwaizumi’s head lifts immediately, the look he sends Tooru endearingly nervous. “As far as I’m concerned, this is a competition,” Tooru continues, very seriously. “And if I lose to Junichi of all people, I’m killing you and then myself.”

Iwaizumi slides his phone into his back pocket as the elevator doors open, and takes Tooru’s hand again instead, pulling them both towards where his car is parked. His thumb is tracing small circles over the back of Tooru’s palm, a motion that he assumes is meant to be calming. Insultingly, it works, the tense slope of Tooru’s shoulders relaxing into a less rigid line. 

“It’s fine,” Iwaizumi says. “I’m sure we’ll nail it.”

“That’s a lot of baseless confidence,” Tooru says. “Especially for someone who can’t lie.”

Iwaizumi only sends him that familiar exasperated look as he starts the car, like he can see right through Tooru’s bullshit but likes him anyway. Tooru smiles back, a little helpless in the face of that familiar affection.

By the time they arrive at Matsuda-san's house, the effect has worn off, and Tooru is a stretched out ball of nerves all over again, his leg bouncing against the floor of the car so fast it’s nearly vibrating. 

“Seriously,” Tooru says again, grabbing onto Iwaizumi’s sleeve as he moves to open the car door, the two of them still parked in Matsuda-san’s driveway. “If they ask any serious questions, I’ll take it. You just- tell the truth unless absolutely necessary.”

“I’m not that bad at lying,” Iwaizumi complains, but Tooru isn’t amused, his hand still tightly gripping Iwaizumi’s sleeve.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says, a little softer, and extricates his sleeve from Tooru’s grip, just to replace it with his own hand. He lifts Tooru’s hand up, and presses his lips to the knobby bone at Tooru’s wrist, looking back up at Tooru with a smile. “Relax. It’ll be fine.”

Tooru tries to maintain a scowl, but his hand untenses in Iwaizumi’s grip, against his will and he gives in.

“Fine,” he says, ungracious but accepting. “But if this all goes wrong, the murder-suicide is still in the plans.”

“Like you could kill me,” Iwaizumi snorts, and Tooru makes a sharp dissatisfied noise as they both finally exit the car, a large wrapped bouquet of orchids in Iwaizumi’s arms.

“I so could.”

“Maybe if I let you,” Iwaizumi says, and Tooru licks his finger and sticks it in Iwaizumi’s ear. 

Iwaizumi is still squawking in disgust, his neck forced down by the pressure of Tooru’s elbow, as Tooru cackles, when Matsuda-san opens the door.

“I thought I heard yelling,” the old man says, the sharp clean lines of his white haircut unforgiving against the bright light shining from behind him, the doorway lit up against the darkness of the night sky. “Tooru, is the impression you want to make on your guest?”

“Sorry,” Iwaizumi says instantly as Tooru scowls, his head bowed.

Matsuda-san’s expression changes so fast it’s almost comical, a beaming smile overtaking the thin, wrinkled face as he turns to Iwaizumi.

“No, no,” he says dismissively. “Don’t apologize. I know a Tooru antic when I see one. It’s good to meet you. Please, come inside.”

“He started it,” Tooru mutters, only a little sullen as the two of them enter the large house, the foyer illuminated in white by bright lights set into the high ceiling. His breath leaves him with an ‘oof’ as Iwaizumi elbows his gut in silent response, smirking at the betrayed look Tooru sends him.

“Nonsense,” says Matsuda-san, who has apparently decided to miss that entire interaction. “Here, let me take your jackets.”

“It’s alright,” Iwaizumi says quickly, and smiles that white smile again and Tooru is suddenly struck by the image of a newspaper ad, ‘Perfect Boyfriend’ scrawled in large expansive lettering over the top. $9.99 a month. 

“I brought flowers,” Iwaizumi says, doing nothing to dispel the image, and holds out the bouquet. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh,” Matsuda-san says, and takes the offered flowers. “These are lovely, thank you.”

Tooru is expecting Matsuda-san to return to the kitchen to put away the flowers, leaving him some time with Iwaizumi in the hall before the trial begins, but the man just lingers, watching Iwaizumi hang up first his jacket, and then turn to Tooru for his. 

“You’re so polite,” Matsuda-san croons in a voice that Tooru considers unseemly for a man of his age. “Not at all like the last boy Tooru brought home.”

Both Tooru and Iwaizumi freeze, Tooru in the middle of handing his jacket off to Iwaizumi. 

“I was fifteen,” Tooru splutters, blood rushing to his face. He feels hotter now than he ever did with the jacket on.

Iwaizumi places the hanger with Tooru’s jacket into the closet, his voice seemingly casual, but Tooru can hear the glimmer of laughter underneath his words. “Oh, really? What happened?”

“What didn’t?” Matsuda-san sighs dramatically, leading them into the kitchen where Junichi is seated at the stools lining the kitchen island, slicing up cucumbers for the salad. “Never said thank you or please, stared at the wall the entire night. He wouldn’t have brought flowers. Actually, I think he stole my vase.”

“He did not,” Tooru says, and then pauses. “He probably didn't.” He amends.

“Do you see?” Matsuda-san says, and Iwaizumi nods. Tooru takes the opportunity the instant the older man turns his back to elbow Iwaizumi, returning the favour from earlier with a bright smile on his face as he drives his elbow into Iwaizumi’s stomach. 

Iwaizumi wheezes and manages to disguise it as a cough when Matsuda-san turns back around. The wide table is already set, and the four of them start to settle around it, Junichi bringing over the salad, surprisingly quiet. 

They manage to make it to the end of dessert without incident.

“It’s alright,” Matsuda-san is saying graciously, now empty bowls sitting in front of them. “Now is the time to make mistakes. Around your age, I got engaged to this lovely young woman. Turned out, she was already married.”

  Iwaizumi gasps and Tooru thinks about banging his head on the table. 

“Not this story again,” Junichi says glumly. “Please.”

“She was married,” Matsuda-san says, and pauses for dramatic effect. “To an Earl. In England.”

Junichi and Tooru groan in unison. Iwaizumi, damn him, seems genuinely interested, his mouth dropping.

“No,” he says, hushed. “And you had no idea?”

“None,” Matsuda-san says, puffed up with the pleasure of a willing listener. Both Junichi and Tooru exchange long-suffering looks over the dinner table, and for a moment it feels normal, for the two of them to be complaining light-heartedly as the old man relays a story both have already heard too many times. Then Junichi’s eyes cut to the side, where Tooru’s hand is resting next to Iwaizumi’s on the dinner table, their pinkies interlocked. His expression hardens, leaving Tooru blinking. 

“So, how did you two meet?” He asks loudly, cutting off a question Iwaizumi had been asking. Matsuda-san frowns at the interruption, but also turns to the two of them, looking between expectantly. 

“We skate at the same rink,” Tooru says, taking a careful sip of water. “We ran into each other all the time. Practice times overlapped sometimes.”

“Ah, go on,” Matsuda-san says, looking unfortunately engrossed. “Tell us the details.”

Tooru forces a little laugh, his hand on the glass tightening. He’s talking to Matsuda-san but he can feel Junichi’s eyes on him, stinging wherever they reach.

“It’s nothing interesting,” he says. “We got along, I asked him out, we went to dinner.” 

“Ah,” Matsuda-san says, lying back in his chair a little. “How unromantic.”

“It’s still pretty new,” Tooru says. He thinks he might be starting to sweat.

As if on cue, Iwaizumi’s hand wraps around his fully, squeezing a little before letting go. 

“Tooru is answering all the questions,” Junichi says, a sharp smile directed at the two of them. “We could at least let the man talk a little.”

Tooru thinks about propelling himself over the table, and slamming his fist into that smug little face. It’s a comforting image, if nothing else.

“Hm?” Matsuda-san says, looking between them. “How did you meet Tooru, Iwaizumi? What did you think?”

“I don’t-” Tooru starts, his voice a little high with nerves, but Iwaizumi just squeezes his wrist again, gently. 

“I thought he was beautiful,” Iwaizumi says, before Tooru can start to panic. He smiles at Tooru and adds, “And very talented, of course. Maybe a little sharp around the edges, but it was part of the appeal. And I knew I had to talk to him that day, or I’d regret it forever.”

Tooru’s face feels burning hot. He thinks it’s probably a good thing Iwaizumi isn’t holding his hand anymore, because his palms feel clammy. 

“What?” He asks and his voice sounds shaky in his ears. 

“That’s romantic,” Matsuda-san says, nodding. He says something else and Tooru can hear Junichi’s voice, but it’s all faded a little to background noise, as he stares full-on at Iwaizumi’s profile, turned away from to address a comment Matsuda-san made, and Tooru feels like his heart is going burst entirely out of his chest.

“I’m going to go take a breath,” he says abruptly, standing up. “Outside. Be right back.”

He can feel everyone staring at him, but at this point, he’s pretty sure his face can’t get any more red than it already is. 

He steps out into the night, the glow of the porch light dancing across the wooden slats at his feet. It’s happening again, he thinks, where just as soon as he’s starting to feel like he’s got everything under control, scheduled neatly into his calendar, Iwaizumi comes along with that honest little smile and his dimples flashing and Tooru starts to feel like he’s swirling apart again. 

Footsteps sound behind him, and Tooru turns, mostly expecting to see Iwaizumi or maybe Matsuda-san, come out to fetch him again.

“Hey,” Junichi says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He looks uncomfortable, standing just outside the door, shorter than Tooru remembers him being. Good, Tooru thinks bitterly. Suffer, bitch.

He doesn’t say anything at all, just raises an eyebrow, leaning back to brace his elbows on the porch fence behind him. 

“You guys make a good couple,” Junichi says finally. 

Something flutters in Tooru’s chest. “What?”

“You look right together,” he says, and motions with his hands. “You fit.”

Tooru can’t think of anything to say. Oh God, it’s over, he thinks, with a burst of relief. And then again, with an overwhelming panic. It’s over. 

“I-” Junichi rubs at the back of his neck, and Tooru just stares. “I’ve been a little overbearing, I guess.”

“Overbearing?” Tooru repeats scathingly. “You mean the blackmailing me into hanging out with you?”

Junichi seems like he’s trying to put on a good show of repentance. “I just, I didn’t want to lose, so I kept pushing.” 

Tooru tilts his head back and stares at the sky. A month and a half of effort, gone in two minutes. What, his mind whispers to him, do we do now? A bright star twinkles down at him unhelpfully.

“Whatever,” he mumbles out loud and pushes his way past Junichi back into the house. 

Tooru returns to the dining room and starts clearing the table without being asked. He stands in the kitchen and doesn’t wash a single plate, just stares at the delicate china Matsuda-san had brought out specially for meeting Tooru’s boyfriend and thinks about how unfair and awful life is. Bitterness is creeping up his throat, long tendrils threatening to choke him out entirely.

Iwaizumi comes to meet him in the kitchen after a few minutes, his arms wrapping around Tooru, enfolding him entirely as his chin comes to rest over Tooru’s shoulder. 

“Hi,” he says.

It’s always been in Tooru’s nature to poke at barely formed scabs, ripping his cuts open before they’ve had a chance to heal. He doesn’t pull away from Iwaizumi’s arms. 

“Hi,” Tooru whispers, turning his head to plant a small, clumsy kiss to his forehead. 

Iwaizumi pulls away, and stands beside Tooru instead, his back leaning against the edge of the counter. “You good?”

Tooru grins, and swallows down the acrid taste at the back of his tongue. “Are you? I thought you were a bad liar, what was all of that back there?”

Iwaizumi flushes slightly, red creeping up his neck. His eyes leave Tooru’s to look at the plate in his hands instead. “All that hanging out with you has made me a worse person, probably.”

Tooru sets the plate down and pretends to swoon dramatically into Iwaizumi’s chest, who rolls his eyes, but grabs his arms anyway, steadying him. 

“Oh no,” he warbles piteously, fluttering his eyelashes. “What will your teammates think of me, now that I’ve tarnished their precious golden boy?”

Iwaizumi reaches up and pinches Tooru’s nose. “Gold doesn’t tarnish,” he says, ignoring Tooru’s nasally protests.

Tooru pulls away and pouts, rubbing at his nose. “I’m just a specially bad influence, Iwa-chan.”

“You’re a special something, for sure,” Iwaizumi says dryly.

Tooru makes a face at him, and turns back to the dirty dishes, still waiting for him.

“Are you alright?” Iwaizumi’s voice asks again from behind him. “I saw Junichi follow you out. I didn’t want to step in. What did he say?”

“Oh, you know,” Tooru says feebly. He gives up, and turns on the warm water, starts scrubbing the dishes. “I’ll tell you later,” he says to Iwaizumi. 

He wonders, not for the first time, if Iwaizumi’s got a superpower that lets him know how far Tooru can be pushed at any particular moment, because he doesn’t say anything else. He just nudges Tooru a little to the side with one heavy hip, until both of them are standing side by side, washing dishes in the silent kitchen. 

A clock in Tooru’s head is keeping time in the car ride home, tick-tick-ticking away the moments before they’re back and Tooru has to confess. It’s over, he thinks again. It was always going to be over, he reminds himself, but it doesn’t help. Even if he keeps this quiet, the two months will pass.

Tooru’s dreams have always been so huge but recently they’ve started to seem so small. Not the far away pressure of a medal around his neck, only the image of a kitchen in the early afternoon, warm hands around his waist, gentle lips on his. A breakfast set out for two. He isn’t sure what he’ll do if that slips away again.

“Iwa-chan,” he says when the car finally stops in front of his apartment. “Guess what?”

There’s a terrible sort of lingering stillness in the car, like Iwaizumi can sense that something is wrong.

“Junichi said we were a cute couple,” Tooru says, as casually as he can manage. He’s watching Iwaizumi’s face carefully, searching for a reaction, but he can’t tell if his expression really changes or if Tooru’s just seeing what he wants to see. “I think he’s going to back off. So we’re good now.” 

“Oh.” Iwaizumi says. And that’s that. 

He expects, despite himself, for Iwaizumi to follow him out of the car, maybe just to talk, maybe to say a goodbye. 

He hasn’t even made it into the building before he hears the car start to move, driving off. 

Sure enough, when he turns around, the street is empty.

Because the world is conspiring against him, the elevator is out of service.

 Tooru climbs up five flights of stairs slowly, thinking about what he’s going to do now. The stairwell is abandoned this late at night, everybody else in the building already asleep. 

He had known this was going to happen. He had planned for this happening. Their relationship had come with a deadline and he had known it was eventually going to run out. He had made a plan, and the plan was fucked now because Iwaizumi had said not a single thing when Tooru had told him they could end their fake relationship, hadn’t even stuck around to watch him leave.

“If he doesn’t even want to be friends,” he says to a bleary-eyed Hanamaki, standing on his doormat. “What am I supposed to do then?” 

Hanamaki isn’t wearing any pants, and his eyes are halfway to closing before Tooru’s even finished his sentence.

“Hang on,” he says, and turns his head to the side to yawn wide, jaw cracking. “Okay, come on. Issei’s still asleep so we’re going to your apartment.”

Inside his apartment, Hanamaki hears him out, splayed out on Tooru’s floor, nodding sleepily as Tooru explains.

“This problem is stupid,” Hanamaki says, like he always does. Tooru is lying on his couch, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling again. It really is such an ugly ceiling. 

“Tomorrow,” Hanamaki is saying. “Just talk to him.”

“But-” Tooru starts and Hanamaki cuts him off. 

“If he really doesn’t want to be friends at all, I’ll call all the magazines I can think of and tell them he has a micropenis.” 

Tooru pauses and contemplates this. “Promise?” He asks eventually, and Hanamaki groans where his face is half-mashed into the floor. 

“We can do it together,” he promises. 

“Ugh,” Tooru says, and rolls over on his couch and gives in to sleep. If he’s going to cry, he tells himself, might as well do it tomorrow.

When he wakes up, it’s not to the shrill piercing noise of his alarm, but to the equally shrill and piercing sound of his phone ringing. He’s still on his couch, and the apartment is still dark, the sun not yet risen. It could only have been a few hours since he got home. The ringing cuts off, and then starts up again.

“Tooru,” Hanamaki says warningly, his eyes still closed, his face still buried in Tooru’s carpet. “Either you pick up that fucking phone, or I’m going to shove it so far up your ass, you’ll feel it ringing in your throat.”

“I might like that,” Tooru says haughtily, but leans off the couch to pick up the phone, rubbing the sleep crust out of his eyes.

“Hello?” he says into the phone, not bothering to check the caller ID, more irritable than normal.

“Tooru?” Iwaizumi’s voice says over the phone, and it’s so unexpected that Tooru almost misses that he’d said his first name.

“Iwa-chan?” He asks, wide-awake now.

“Can you let me in?” Iwaizumi asks. “To the apartment building, I need to-”

“Yeah,” Tooru says, stumbling over to where the buzzer sits. He presses. “What are you- Iwa-chan?” The line’s gone dead. 

“Oh my God,” Tooru says, staring at the phone in his hands. His phone log is open in front of him, confirming that it hadn’t been some kind of longing-induced dream. “Oh my God,” he repeats.

“What’s happening?” Hanamaki asks from behind him. He hasn’t moved at all, as far as Tooru can tell. If he wasn’t speaking, Tooru would worry that he was dead.

“You need to get out,” Tooru says, still staring at his phone in disbelief. He looks over and Hanamaki is still unmoving. “You have to get out,” he says again, running over to pull Hanamaki up and out of his carpet.

“You are-” Hanamaki scowls as Tooru tries to push him out the door with both hands at his back. “You are ungrateful, that’s what.”

“I’ll buy you dinner,” Tooru says desperately. “Anything, seriously, but you have to get out.”

“Hm,” Hanamaki says, ignoring Tooru’s attempts to throw him bodily at the door. “Alright. If you insist.”

Just before the door closes behind Hanamaki, Tooru hears him whistle. “Hey man,” he hears Hanamaki call cheerfully, just outside his door and before Tooru’s had the time to process what that means, someone is knocking at his door. 

When he opens it to see Iwaizumi, he starts to wish that he had spent his time brushing his hair instead of kicking Hanamaki out. Or maybe his teeth. 

His only consolation is that Iwaizumi looks equally haggard, hair even messier than usual, his eyes looking wild as he takes Tooru in, his chest heaving with exertion.

“One more date,” Iwaizumi says. He’s breathing hard. “Rule number four. You still- We still have one more.”

Tooru’s eyes couldn’t open any wider if they tried. A painful hope is springing up in his chest, pushing against his ribcage until it aches. “Did you run all the way up here?” He manages to ask, his head still in a daze.

“Your- fuck-” Iwaizumi is still panting, bracing his hand against the doorframe, but he laughs, breathless and a little nervous. “Your elevator was broken.”

Tooru can’t tell if he wants to laugh with him or cry. “I live on the fifth floor,” he says, instead of doing either.

“I just needed to tell you,” Iwaizumi says, straightening up fully and Tooru thinks that he looks dazed too. “I had to tell you-”

It’s all Tooru can take, all he needs to hear, his heart hammering in his chest.“Wait, stop!”

Iwaizumi is staring at him, and it’s an awful expression on his face, one that Tooru’s never wanted to see, like something is falling apart in front of him. 

Tooru doesn’t bother trying to explain any further. Tooru grabs Iwaizumi’s face and brings their lips together, so hard it hurts. 

Iwaizumi makes a sound against Tooru’s lips as their teeth knock together, his pointy canines digging into Tooru’s lower lip.

“Okay,” he says, pulling back. He’s laughing again, the soft puff of air hitting Tooru’s skin. “Okay.”

He cups Tooru’s face in one hand, hardened calluses meeting soft skin and gently, so gently, tugs him back in, smiling against Tooru’s mouth. 

This kiss is easier, in that it tastes less like blood. Iwaizumi’s lips are sweet, soft and plump and red, and he’s hesitant in a way Tooru’s never known him to be before, as he licks over his bottom lip, pulls Tooru even closer with a hand on his waist. Until they’re pressed up tight together, one of Tooru’s hands bruising his shoulder, the other tight on the back of his neck. Until Tooru’s tongue is in his mouth, tasting coffee and mint, feeling Iwaizumi’s body shudder against his, his hand opening and then closing tight around Tooru’s waist.

When they pull away, Tooru keeps one hand on his sleeve.

“I like you,” he says defensively, and Iwaizumi looks like the breath in his lungs has left him all at once. “I like your face. I like your arms. I like it when you wake up before me and you get ready without turning the lights on so you don’t wake me up. I like it when you carry my bags without me asking even though I’m a professional athlete and carrying heavy things is like, 45% of my life. I like the way you put your hand on my thigh when you’re driving. I like that you have piles of tickets in your car and I like that you call your mom every Sunday-”

“I get it.” Iwaizumi says, looking mortified. 

“Do you?” Tooru says. “Because, just so you know, you are completely ruining my six year plan.” 

“Okay,” Iwaizumi says, his voice muffled from where he’s covered his face with his hands. “Maybe I don’t get it.” 

“My six year plan,” Tooru wails. “You aren’t supposed to confess until the second year.”

Iwaizumi’s hands lower as he considers this. It’s a testament to how well Iwaizumi knows him, maybe, that he manages to piece together what’s happening, regardless of how objectively batshit it is.

“Do you want me to wait a year?” He asks, grinning again. His ears are bright red.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Tooru says, “You are ruining my life. Just- hang on. I need to show you something.”

Tooru’s got one hand on Iwaizumi’s wrist, leading him into his apartment, and Iwaizumi comes easily, like he has nowhere else to be. Tooru swallows down the lump in his throat, and takes them both to his bedroom, opening up drawers until he finds the notebook he’s looking for, passing it over to Iwaizumi who takes it, confused.

Those furrowed lines between his eyebrows only deepen as he opens the book, scanning down a long page covered in Tooru’s handwriting.

“Every time you did something that made me think I loved you, I wrote it down,” Tooru says, his eyes burning holes in his stupid worn out carpet. “So I wouldn’t say it out loud.”

Silence settles over the two of them like a heavy blanket, stifling and hot. Tooru lets it sit, doesn’t dare to move, holds his breath, until he can’t take it anymore and looks up. 

“Are you crying? ” He asks, his eyes widening. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Iwaizumi snaps, not even bothering to wipe away the tears resting in the corners of his eyes, poised to fall. He’s still looking through the second page. “Why would you- why wouldn’t you say any of this before?”

“I don’t know!” Tooru says, slightly alarmed by the tears that are now fully rolling down Iwaizumi’s cheekbones. “Please don’t cry. It makes me feel icky.”

“You stupid- God, I don’t even have a word for you right now,” Iwaizumi tells him. “There are- you’ve written pages in here.”

“I only started writing in it about a few weeks ago,” Tooru says helpfully. “Otherwise I would have more.”

“At no point,” Iwaizumi asks incredulously, “did it occur to you that maybe it would be easier if you just said these things to me?”

Tooru frowns. “I didn’t know if you- you know. Are you?”

“Obviously I’m in love with you,” Iwaizumi says, and Tooru feels like all the strings holding him up have been cut at once. “Who would agree to this whole fake-dating thing if they weren’t?”

Tooru thinks that that is almost insulting, but he doesn’t have it in him to feel offended, just feels a bone-melting relief, sagging against his bedroom wall. “You said you couldn’t think of a better solution.”

“There is always a better solution,” Iwaizumi tells him, and he’s laughing as he says it, finally wiping his wet eyes, which makes Tooru laugh with him. 

“Sorry,” Tooru says, and because he’s pretty sure he’s allowed to, he presses his hands to Iwaizumi’s cheeks, and kisses the divot right between his eyebrows. “Sorry,” he repeats. 

Iwaizumi puts his hands up to Tooru’s face, and they must look ridiculous, both of them holding the other’s face between their palms, grinning like children.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, very seriously. “Do you want to be my-”

“Agh!” Tooru cries, and tackles Iwaizumi onto his bed. Iwaizumi groans as he falls heavily onto Tooru’s covers, his hands flying up to Tooru’s wrists, Tooru’s hands on his chest, Tooru’s knees digging into the mattress on either side of his thighs. 

“You already ruined my six-year plan,” Tooru says, pressing down on Iwaizumi’s chest. He pretends that he is not effectively groping Iwaizumi’s tits right now, but he’s not sure if he’s fooling anyone. “Just let me do the asking, bitch.”

  Iwaizumi’s hands move from Tooru’s wrists to his shoulders, and he pulls Tooru down towards him, rolling them both over, a hand cradling the back of Tooru’s head. He looks down at Tooru from where he’s straddling his thighs and grins at the flustered expression on Tooru’s face.

“You asked for the fake relationship,” he reminds Tooru. “It’s my turn.”

“It’s not a competition,” Tooru lies. “And fake isn’t equal to real. That was more like a business pitch.” 

Iwaizumi only smiles at him, sharp and knowing, and that wasn’t what Tooru had wanted at all because he can feel his dick stir at the sight. 

“It was all business to you?” Iwaizumi asks, bending over Tooru, a mocking tilt to his lips, to the arch of his eyebrow. “Really?”

Tooru opens his mouth to respond, but Iwaizumi’s already got his mouth on Tooru’s skin, his tongue darting out at the sensitive spot under Tooru’s ear until he’s got Tooru arching up underneath him with a strangled cry, grinding against Iwaizumi’s thigh to try to get some friction. Iwaizumi’s hands are pushing his shirt up, calloused fingers rough against his abdomen, a sharp contrast to the soft kisses he’s leaving down Tooru’s neck.

Tooru has the sudden, vivid thought that if he comes just from this, he’ll never forgive himself. 

Then Iwaizumi’s mouth is at the creases of his thighs, teeth digging in just a little into where the flesh is softest, and Tooru stops thinking all together. 

Once the sweat and cum are drying on their stomachs, Iwaizumi looks up at him, and Tooru thinks that he’s lost the battle and the war. 

He moves in for a kiss, but Tooru pushes his face away with one hand, the other draped over his eyes, too jittery for his own good. 

“I’m not going to lick my own cum out of your mouth, heathen.”

He can feel Iwaizumi’s dick twitch against Tooru’s thigh at that and Tooru lifts his arm to squint at him, levels him with the best unimpressed glare that he can manage with his body still feeling so jelly-like and his heart still beating so fast. “Really?”

Iwaizumi just laughs, and pulls Tooru’s hands away and to the side, so he can look him straight in the face, can see his own expression reflected back in Tooru’s eyes- a little nervous, but grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. He places a gentle kiss on the soft skin of Tooru’s cheek.

“Go on, then,” Tooru says, the glumness in his voice offset by the brightness of his eyes as he looks up at Iwaizumi. “I know when I’m beaten.”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi starts. He stops, and tries again. “Tooru.”

The Tooru in question groans at the sound of his name, and Iwaizumi keeps his hands around his wrists.

“Tooru, I love you,” he says, and Tooru huffs, the warm air hitting Iwaizumi’s chin. “I’ve loved you for a while now, I think.”

He lets go of Tooru’s wrists, moves his hands to cradle Tooru’s face instead. Tooru knows how he must be feeling, because he’s feeling it too. His throat feels scratchy, the culmination of so much longing suddenly real and staring him dead in the eyes, his eyelashes casting a shadow over his cheeks. It’s almost overwhelming. 

“Be my real boyfriend, okay?” Iwaizumi finishes lamely, sweeping Tooru’s fringe out of his face, the tips of his ears burning hot.

“That was terrible,” Tooru says, but his voice sounds suspiciously wet. “Go brush your teeth so we can kiss properly.”

Tooru makes them both breakfast, and burns the toast when Iwaizumi distracts him halfway through. He doesn’t mind, the blackened bits can be scraped off, and the eggs still taste good. 

He’s expecting the doorbell, when it comes. Honestly, he’s impressed they managed to hold off so long. 

“How’s it going?” Hanamaki says in Tooru’s doorway, attempting to sound casual, while leaning around Tooru’s body to get a glimpse inside. 

“Kind of early for a visit,” Tooru says, but Matsukawa is already pressing his way inside, curiosity blatantly etched on his features. 

“It’s fine,” Hanamaki says, also stepping inside. Tooru sighs and moves to the side. 

“So, why don’t you want to real-date Tooru, huh?” Matsukawa is asking, clearly trying to loom intimidatingly over Iwaizumi. The effect is damaged by the flowery embroidered shirt he’s wearing, short at the ruffled cuffs, cropped to his midriff.

“Stop-” Tooru starts to say, trying to pull Iwaizumi away from the two of them. 

“He has good bone structure,” Hanamaki interrupts, his hands reaching up from behind Tooru to grab his face, smushing it between his palms. “Have you seen his bone structure? Sure, he’s a little mean-”

“Evil, some would say,” Matsukawa cuts in.

“Malicious, maybe,” Hanamaki continues. “But he’s got good teeth. Tooru, show him your teeth.” 

“You guysh are th’ worsht,” Tooru says, his face still clutched in Hanamaki’s iron grip. He pulls, until Hanamaki releases him, and rubs his now sore cheeks, scowling. “We already- we fixed it. Jesus.”

“We could try a shovel talk,” Hanamaki mutters to his boyfriend, both of them looking slightly disappointed, and Tooru scowls harder. 

“Get out already!”

“I have actual shovels,” Matsukawa tells Iwaizumi as a parting statement.

“Okay?” Iwaizumi says, bewildered. He turns to Tooru once the two of them have left. “Why was he telling me about his shovels?” 

“It was probably meant to be ominous,” Tooru sighs. “Mattsun is terrible at ominous.” 

“It came across a little more like he was bragging about his shovels,” Iwaizumi says.

Tooru watches Iwaizumi- his boyfriend, his mind supplies, thrilled- get his stuff together, searching for keys in the pockets of pants that had been discarded. They’ve still got practice, Tooru thinks, a little loopy. After all that, and they’ve still got practice. Tooru will show up to the rink in the evening, and see a crowd of hockey players taking up space on the rink- always too slow to clean up- and one of them will be Iwaizumi. It seems too much to process. The sun has risen outside, painting Tooru’s apartment in golden light, his ugly ceiling and his cheap carpet, and the man in the center of it. Tooru wonders if he should tell him his shirt is inside out. 

Iwaizumi looks up to see him staring, his eyes more brown than green under this lighting, and that chipped tooth flashes when he smiles- bright and bold, like he's just seen something good.  

Chapter Text

“Are you actually nervous?” Iwaizumi asks, looking amazed. 

“Obviously, I am,” Tooru says, snappish. “I want her to like me.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t seem hugely sympathetic, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m sure she will, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t,” Tooru says. “Are we the first ones here?”

Iwaizumi nods, and closes the trunk of the car, both his and Tooru’s bags slung over his shoulder. “I usually come by early to help set up everything. Everyone else will arrive tomorrow.”

"Of course you do,” Tooru mutters, and Iwaizumi jabs him in the side. 

“Oh, right,” Iwaizumi says, catching Tooru off-guard with the seriousness in his eyes. “One thing- don’t mention my dad.”

Tooru blinks. “I wasn’t really planning on it.”

“No,” Iwaizumi says firmly. “I mean really. As far as you know, I was born and raised entirely solo.”

“Sure,” Tooru says, patting his shoulder. “World’s buffest immaculate conception baby.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s blasphemy.”

They’re at Iwaizumi’s mother’s house for a family reunion, Rule Number 4 in the since-deleted contract. Tooru hadn’t been worried until he’d found out that Iwaizumi’s mother had insisted that they stay with her over the weekend, instead of getting a hotel. Then, he had begun to have visions of his mother throwing Tooru out onto the street, his clothes spilling out into the road, the two of them standing cackling over him.

(“You watch too many movies,” Iwaizumi had said, when Tooru had brought this up.)

“Seriously,” Tooru says again as they’re about to ring the bell, still just standing in front of the large French door, expensive looking windows lining the sides. “Will she hate me? Should I have brought a cake? Am I dressed okay?”

“No,” Iwaizumi says. “You are never dressed okay.” 

Tooru glares at him and Iwaizumi smiles back. With his free hand, he reaches up and ruffles Tooru’s hair, his expression so soft Tooru doesn’t even have the heart to complain.

“She’ll love you,” he says. “You’re perfect. Ring the bell already.”

Iwaizumi’s mother sweeps Tooru off his feet. He hadn’t really expected her to be so built, he thinks dazedly, as her arms lift him off the ground entirely, his organs seeming to squish together as she squeezes. He hears a creaking sound and can’t tell if it’s coming from his mouth or his ribcage.

“Sorry, sorry,” she gushes, setting him back down. Her head just barely clears the top of his shoulder, her chin tilting back to meet his eyes as he tries to surreptitiously rub at his aching sides. “I just got so excited! Hajime barely ever brings anyone home.”

“It’s no worries,” Tooru manages to wheeze out, at the same time as Hajime says, groaning, “Mom!”

“What?” She asks, shooing them further inside, as she moves behind them to lock the door. “It’s true!”

He had expected maybe an older, female version of Iwaizumi, and it’s mostly what he gets. Iwaizumi’s mother has his same messy hair, his same broad shoulders, his same flashing dimples. 

The house is large, three stories in a sprawling suburban neighbourhood. Looking around he can tell where Iwaizumi got his decorating sense from, because it’s the same as his apartment. Large cushions, spacious seating, throw pillows on every chair, and blankets draped over the couches. It’s got the air of a messy space recently cleaned, cluttered but everything in its place.

Iwaizumi’s mother is chatty, talking a mile a minute, even as her body disappears around the corner ahead of them.

“I told Hajime, this time he had to have someone,” her disembodied voice calls. “Even if he had to get them off the street. I was so happy when he called and said he had a date!”

She reappears, brandishing a duster at Iwaizumi with a truly disapproving expression. “Every year, I have to hear from your grandmother about how Maria is already married. Every year!”

She disappears again, just for an instant and then she’s standing, smiling brightly, in front of Tooru, the duster gone. “Would you like a tour? Would you like to see the pictures?”

‘The pictures’ turn out to be a collection of photos hung around a room. A cluster of them next to a window show Iwaizumi and his mother.

“Oh my god,” Tooru says, wondrous. “It’s baby Iwa-chan.”

“Wasn’t he the cutest?” His mother says, beaming, and ignoring Iwaizumi’s groans. “His head was too big for his body, it was the funniest thing to see him toddling around.”

“This has got to count as some kind of cruel and unusual punishment,” Iwaizumi says, but his mother is already tugging a more than willing Tooru to another corner of the room, where she has more photos set up.

One of them shows Iwaizumi’s mother, younger but still recognizable, in a full firefighter’s uniform, next to a fireman’s pole. A much younger Iwaizumi is clinging to the pole with both hands, laughing loudly, as his mother attempts to pull him off by his ankles. Tooru can make out other men in firefighter uniforms in the back, laughing at the site.

“He was such a troublemaker,” Iwaizumi’s mother says, with a fond sigh. “I don’t know why I kept bringing him to the station.”

“At least you got a great picture out of it,” Tooru offers.

“I did, at that,” she says thoughtfully, and then straightens, turning back to Iwaizumi and Tooru. “Go, sit. I’ve made you some lunch.”

Iwaizumi’s face goes pale at a rate Tooru hadn’t thought humans were capable of. “You’ve made lunch?” He asks, strangled. “I thought we would order pizza.”

“Don’t be silly,” Iwaizumi-san says brusquely. “After you’ve travelled all the way out here, the least I could do is offer you a home-cooked meal. Go sit down, I’ll bring it out.”

“Listen,” Iwaizumi hisses into Tooru’s ear, his grip like a vice around Tooru’s wrist as they move to the dining room. “Do not swallow.”

“Haha,” Tooru says. “That’s not what you usually say.”

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi says, snatching quick glances towards the kitchen as they sit down at the table. “I am being dead serious right now. She thinks she can cook, but she cannot, and if you try to make yourself eat it, I’ll probably have to take you to the hospital.”

Tooru hasn’t had the time to question this when Iwaizumi’s mom steps out, carefully balancing a tray with three bowls on it. It’s set down in front of him, and he’s only just registered the bright red colour of it when Iwaizumi’s mom asks, excited, “What do you think? Looks good, right?”

Tooru darts a glance at Iwaizumi’s bowl, where what looks like an entire half onion is floating ominously in the red liquid. 

“Yes,” he says, and before he can talk himself out of it, he’s already put a spoonful in his mouth. 

Both Iwaizumi and his mother are staring at him when he looks up, Iwaizumi with a look of horror, his mother with one of shock. 

“Oh my,” she says. 

“You ate it?” Iwaizumi says. 

“How does it taste?” She asks, and Tooru swallows. 

“It’s, um-” Sweat is beading on his brow. “It’s spicy,” he says, and his voice cracks halfway through. 

She beams at him, and Tooru watches in petrified terror as she picks up her own bowl, spoon set to the side and drinks out of it, as easily as if were water, setting it back down like it was nothing.

“Nobody ever tries my soup,” she tells Tooru earnestly. “Spice is good for your heart, I keep telling Hajime that, but he won’t listen.”

Tooru looks down at his bowl helplessly. He can spot a whole chili pepper lurking in the dregs in the soup, taunting him with its presence. He looks up at Iwaizumi’s mother, who is looking at him like he hung the moon in the sky.

“It’s delicious,” he says, resignedly, and puts another spoonful in his mouth.

There’s only one picture in the guest room that Iwaizumi’s mother ushers them into after dinner. She refuses to allow them to help with the dishes, telling them to get some rest before she puts them to work.

Tooru is grateful for the reprieve, seeing as his stomach is making noises no human stomach should ever be making. 

He’s sprawled out on the bed, looking at the single picture frame that had been in the room. The lone picture is one of Iwaizumi at what Tooru assumes is high-school graduation, grinning wide, his tooth still unchipped.

Tooru holds the frame up to the light. He feels a strange sort of heaviness in his head. He wonders what Iwaizumi had been like, at that age, what his interests had been, what he had laughed at. He pictures himself at eighteen, and wonders if they would have gotten along. 

“You feeling alright?” Iwaizumi asks, stepping into the room, with a glass of juice in his hands. 

“I think there’s some kind of parasite in my stomach,” Tooru says, setting the picture to the side and sitting up. “And it’s eating away at my organs.”

Iwaizumi snorts, and passes him the glass, the ice-cold juice a relief to Tooru’s burned tongue. “I told you not to eat it.”

“I don’t regret a thing,” Tooru tells him firmly, the effect ruined almost immediately when his stomach rumbles again, signalling it’s displeasure with Tooru’s lies. 

“Idiot,” Iwaizumi says fondly, and Tooru sets the empty glass to the nightstand and tugs on Iwaizumi’s hand until they both fall back onto the bed, covers sliding under them as they twist- until they’re both on their sides, faces inches apart. This close, Tooru can see every detail marking Iwaizumi’s face, the small scar over his nose, the mole on his forehead, the slight bump in the curve of his nose.

“Were you looking at that picture?” Iwaizumi asks, sounding a little surprised. He levers himself up on one elbow, so his body is hovering over Tooru’s, a hand stretching out to grab the picture frame Tooru had discarded. “Man, this feels like forever ago.”

Tooru stays quiet for a moment, trying to wrap his twisting thoughts up into a neat little parcel.

“I wish I had known you,” he says finally. “Back then.” And when Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything he looks up to see furrowed eyebrows and hazel eyes staring down at him. 

“What?” He asks defensively.

“Nothing,” Iwaizumi says, but that look is still being levelled at him.

Tooru frowns, and reaches above him to pinch Iwaizumi’s cheek, hard. “If it’s nothing, why are you looking at me like that?”

Iwaizumi closes his fingers around Tooru’s wrist until he can yank Tooru’s hand off his face. “You’re just very sweet sometimes,” he says, and turns Tooru’s hand over to place a soft kiss on his palm. “I’m never expecting it.”

“I’m sweet all the time,” Tooru says, but he’s too breathless to make the comment land. 

Iwaizumi kisses his wrist, tangles their fingers together. “Yes, you are.” A kiss on his forehead, a hand pushing his hair back. “Heartbreaker.” A kiss on his nose that leaves him blinking. “My heartbreaker.”

“Hajime,” Tooru whispers, his voice scratchy, and the sentence ends there. 

When their lips meet Tooru feels like he’s been waiting for this kiss his whole life.