oikawa – Page 3

When he was still in high school, when he’d just realized that falling in love with Hajime is was something that happened before he could even write his own name, Tooru always tried to find an I love you on Hajime’s lips.

It never came. It took Tooru years to understand that instead, there are other words, thousand, sentences that speak between the lines.

Be careful.
I miss you.
Did you sleep enough?
You idiot, you have to eat. I brought you dinner.
What’s wrong?
It’ll be okay.
I don’t hate you.
You’re not disgusting, not for loving someone, no matter whom.
Yes, I kissed you. That wasn’t an accident. I don’t regret it.
Are you okay? Does it hurt?
I told my parents.

Now, Tooru understands. So one day, he says something back: “Thank you.”

Hajime just ruffles his hair, laughing, as bright and warm as he did when they met and Tooru fell in love without knowing the word for it. “Don’t thank me for something like that,” Hajime then says, kissing Tooru’s forehead, their hands laced up, his thumb tracing Tooru’s knuckle. “Couldn’t be anyone but you.”

“Over here, Mr. Oikawa. Yes, that’s perfect.” The girl blinks at him so rapidly that Tooru would worry about a fly being stuck in her thick lashes, if he didn’t know that she’s trying to flirt. “Thank you, darling. I’ll be alright now.” Tooru gifts her with a semi-bright smile, but it’s enough. The girl’s cheeks turn as red as her lipstick. “Of course. Just call me when – if you – I think I have to go over there.”

Tooru watches her leave and closes his eyes for a moment once she’s vanished from the set. The producer and technical assistant are chatting a few feet away, mumbling a name Tooru doesn’t know. He takes a deep breath.

It’s not his first model job, not by far. And he’s not arrogant enough to call himself famous yet. But this campaign for famous black boxershorts could be his big thing. Maybe things will change after today. If only the photographer was here already, Tooru thinks, opening his eyes. It ruins his nerves when there’s waiting time. Stressful shootings? No problem. Someone letting him wait? Hell no –

“I’m so sorry,” a low voice says. “There was an emergency. I’m here now.”

Fuck, Tooru thinks.

“Excuse me?” The man that has just entered the room turns to him. Tooru realizes too late that he must have said that out loud. That guy is – and his brain supplies no better word – gorgeous. So much that it’s almost upsetting. Tooru lets his autopilot mode kick in. A hand slides to his hip, he moves, walking over to the guy despite being just in underwear while that man’s in a shaggy leather jacket and hair that shouldn’t be so wildly endearing when ruffled.

“I wasn’t informed that I would be shooting with another model. Who are you, darling?” Tooru stares at him. His throat is dry. Why the hell is he feeling so naked? It’s just another colleague to work with. A breathtaking one, his brain whimpers. Tooru swallows and pushes his hip to one side, pleased by the arched brow that the man gives him.

“Just so you know, this is my campaign. I play the main role here. Stand back.”

The guy blinks at him for a second. Tooru is about to turn around when the man reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out – a camera.

“It’s my campaign too, princess. But I’m the one putting you into focus, so swallow that attitude or it won’t just be five pounds that the camera adds on.”

When the man walks past Tooru, his shoulders brush against Tooru’s. He’s shorter, his eyes are dark and alight with stars, and Tooru is so fucked when a deep blush rises to his cheeks.

“By the way,” the man says, calm as a damn ocean, his long fingers settling the camera on the tripod. “My name’s Iwaizumi. And you don’t call me darling.”

Many, many times, people come and ask Hajime: “Why are you with someone like him?” Their eyes whisper about Tooru in fear-fiery wideness, in hushed awe that is slicked with caution and dark-blurred with confused admiration.

Hajime does not tell them. They would not understand the simplest thing:

That the marks on his existence have not been scarred by Tooru.

Because they have tattooed themselves over each other’s souls, and Hajime has inked a new word on Tooru’s chest where there had only been monster before.

Now, it speaks in night-sky black what Tooru has painted on Hajime’s skin years ago, on the day of their first kiss, and every morning from then on.

Beloved.

The last minutes before a game are usually a time of meditation for Kageyama, but it’s just not working today. If they lose against Seijouh, there’s no chance to go to nationals. And yet… Kageyama tilts his head and frowns. That’s strange.

“Hinata.”

“Huh? Coming!” There’s a squeak of shoes on the gym floor, and Hinata appears by his side. “What is it? Are you getting scared again?” He grins.

“Idiot,” Kageyama growls, “of course not. But – look. Over there.”

Hinata is still snickering, but he looks across the gym to where Kageyama points. The team of Seijouh is standing in a circle, apparently discussing something. Their coach is a bit aside, arms cross, face stern and hard. But what Kageyama is showing him happens a few steps to the left, where the team has entered the court and one of the double doors is still open.

It’s the ace of Seijouh, Hinata recognises him, and – oh. Oikawa. Something seems to be happening, because the ace (Iwaizumi, now Hinata remembers) reaches for Oikawa’s shoulders and grabs him. “Do you think they’re fighting?” Hinata bites his lip. “Dunno,” Kageyama mumbles. His frown deepens. “Maybe they’re talking about a secret technique-”

That’s when Iwaizumi’s hand slides into Oikawa’s neck, and they kiss.

The noise that Hinata makes is close to choking. Kageyama can practically feel his cheeks go red. “N-no secret technique,” he whispers. “They didn’t do this back when I was there.”

“It looks weird,” Hinata says, still staring. “Kissing. Like. It’s weird, putting your lips together like that.”

“Yeah.” Kageyama shakes his head. “I don’t get it. Anyways. Are you ready?”

“Wha- oh, yeah.”

The rest of Karasuno doesn’t even blink when Kageyama closes his arms around Hinata, and Hinata’s head falls against his chest. They stand, breathing together, waiting until their hearts beat in the same rhythm. Then Kageyama’s nose touches Hinata’s forehead.

“We’re gonna win.”

Hinata looks up at him, lips curled into a grin. “Yeah. We will.”

“Tooru?” He asks one day.

“Yes?”

Hajime takes a deep breath. “I don’t get it. You’re so possessive and demand so much attention, and stop pouting, you know you do. But you never ask me to return the words when you say them. You know, those… three words.”

Tooru tilts his head. “You wonder why I don’t make you say that you love me?”

“Well. Yeah. It’s something I thought you’d do. Tickling it out of me.”

“No.” Tooru laughs, and it’s so fake that Hajime shudders. “I didn’t want to know.”

“What? Wait. Are you an idiot? You know that I-”

“I don’t know what you’re feeling, Hajime. I didn’t want to know because if I ask, you could possibly say no. Don’t you get it?”

Hajime’s throat is dry. “But I sleep with you,” he croaks, his chest feeling too cold, too tight, “doesn’t that mean anything? That should’ve told you, you fucking moron!”

Tooru’s smile breaks his heart quietly. “Fucking someone doesn’t always mean that you love them. Just because I love you doesn’t mean that you see me as more than just-”

And Hajime has never touched his fingers around Tooru’s jaw as gently as he does now, breath caught in his mouth.

“It means everything. I sleep with you because, and now I want you to fucking listen,” he lets his forehead touch Tooru’s, a finger tracing those lips in absolute reverence, “because I love you, I love you, I love you. I need you to understand that. I need you to get that into your head and all the way down to that dumb heart of yours because it’s true and it won’t change. You have me. And you always will.”

Tooru is crying without a sound when Hajime kisses his forehead, holding his face as if it were the shrine to most adored possession. “So next time, ask. Ask every time. I’ll answer.”

Hajime’s got to be honest: This isn’t what he expected. Not at all. This is the furthest from any guesses he made about how this whole thing would be going.

It doesn’t help that Oikawa is frozen in place. His fingers are stiff in Hajime’s shirt, lips still parted where Hajime had kissed him. Yes, he had done it, and he’s never going to forget the hitch in Oikawa’s breath or the tiny noise that bubbled out of his throat when Hajime had pressed their lips together. It had been soft, just a brush of his mouth against Oikawa’s.

It had been everything.

But now Oikawa looks almost… embarrassed. Hajime blinks. His brain isn’t catching up. “Hey. Are you okay?” he decides to ask.

Oikawa closes his mouth. There’s a faint blush rising up his cheeks, spreading down to his neck. It’s gorgeous. Hajime swallows. “I didn’t read your signals wrong, did I? You wanted me to ki-”

“Don’t say it out loud!” Oikawa’s hand slaps across his mouth. Hajime almost stumbles back, and he’s ready to punch Oikawa in the face because fuck him, this took all courage he’s ever had, he’s wanted this for so long –

“It’s because it’s my first,” Oikawa blurts. And Hajime stops struggling against his hand. He stands still when Oikawa leans against him, and his heart explodes into warmth and the need to protect when Oikawa – no, Tooru – buries his head against Hajime’s neck.

“I kind of hoped that it’d be you.” Tooru’s lips tremble against his skin, a small touch. Hajime closes his eyes.

“That was your first kiss? You’re fucking with me.”

A chuckle. “We just kissed and you’re already thinking about that. Naughty.”

Hajime kind of wants to hit him again, but Tooru slings both arms around his neck and presses their foreheads together, eyes alight with a joy Hajime swears he’ll keep glowing.

“Idiot.” Hajime slides his thumb along Tooru’s cupid’s bow, as gentle as he can. “We have time.”

Tooru’s smile widens. “Yeah. All of it.” And then he’s the one kissing Hajime, pushing him against the wall of their now old school, their lips falling together as the graduation celebration goes on without them.

Tooru almost forgot about their symbiosis. He’s reminded that Hajime and him are connected by some ancient part of themselves during a situation that couldn’t be more harmless; volleyball training before an important match.

And Tooru is reminded with stinging cruelty when Hajime receives a ball just with the tips of his fingers. He falls, his ankle hits the court, and the entire team freezes when Hajime screams. It’s sharp, short, and Tooru’s feet kick into motion when their ace crumbles on the ground.

Someone calls both of their names. It could be the coach that’s shouting, something like “don’t move his foot, let me through”, but Tooru’s ears are deaf. His vision is white and teal blurring into skin darker than his own, his own steps echo up his spine, and then his hands reach Hajime’s shoulders.

“No,” Tooru thinks he’s saying. His face feels wet, he can’t see clearly. He doesn’t fucking care that he’s crying on the court and Hajime isn’t. He can’t be hurt, he can’t, it’s not supposed to be him who gets hurt-

“Hey. Tooru. Shh, look – look at me.” Hajime’s voice is dark, twisted by pain, but he wraps his arms around Tooru’s neck and allows himself to be lifted. Tooru doesn’t know how he carries him to the bench. All he knows is that he keeps saying, like a prayer: “You have to be okay again.”

Hajime kisses him just when Tooru is blocking everyone from seeing them, just before the coach comes running, just before it turns out to be a harmless overly strained tendon that will recover after a few days.

But still, that night, Tooru stays at Hajime’s place. And Hajime doesn’t complain if Tooru holds him more tightly, nails digging into his back, ear pressed to his ribs to listen to his heart beat.

The girl is wearing all black and traces of dried tears on her cheeks. “Tooru,” she says, walking inside with a tiny smile that doesn’t reach further up, “hello. May I come inside?”

“Of course.” He did his best to look presentable, but the nurse could only find a dark blue sweater so this one has to do. Tooru shakes the girl’s hand as firmly as he can. They don’t talk much. She has brought him some books, and he accepts them. Their conversation flows when it flares up though, natural, making Tooru remember her back when she was born and grew up and looked so much like him. She still does.

“Thank you,” the girls finally says and stands. Tooru shakes his head. It’s nothing. To her, it seems to be something.

“You were always there.” Her eyes are brown, soft and open and wounded somewhere in her soul. “You were his best friend and you were there when he – when he wasn’t anymore. The funeral, it, it was good. He’s with mom now.”

Tooru just nods. He nods. The pain has been there for so long that he barely feels it bleed out into his veins. The girl turns his wheelchair around and hugs him tightly. Her fingers gently cup his white hair, and she’s crying.

“When – when she was younger, mom said that maybe… maybe he and you, you were something else. Something closer. Was that-”

Tooru is careful when he pushes her back. There’s already a nurse outside the door, looking at him over the girl’s shoulder, her smile too gentle, understanding. But before the girl can leave, Tooru touches her young hand.

“Hajime only ever loved your mother, dear. Thank you for coming here.”

Her cheeks are tear-silver again. “I – I’m sorry. I guess mom just wondered why you never married.”

His fingers ache when he curls them around his knees. They’re ringless, wrinkled and torn by the old blue of veins, the same blood as seventy years ago.

“You father loved one person, my dear. And so did I, for all of his life.”

Hajime finds Tooru on a bench outside. Karasuno is still celebrating, their black and orange drowning out all blue and white and hope. The sky above Hajime’s head gleams, sunlight burns on his neck. The world hasn’t changed. He hates that it didn’t.

Tooru has his head in his hands. The line of his shoulders is carved from stone, too still, as unmoved now as it was wild in the game. The strength of his hands on Hajime’s back as he lined them up to thank everyone is gone.

Hajime stands behind him. Tooru doesn’t speak. His head sinks lower, a shiver running through his spine. “I should have – ” Hajime tries to say, and touches Tooru’s pale neck.

And Tooru turns, looks at him. His cheeks are wet. Something in his eyes has burnt out. “If you lose the war, it’s not the soldier’s fault,” Tooru says, and his voice sounds like it will shatter into emptiness right under Hajime’s touch.

“It’s the commander who has failed them all.”

“There’s a rumour that you have a new girlfriend.”

“Is that so,” Tooru says and closes his mouth around Hajime’s neck until it hurts a bit. Hajime jolts, a syllable of Tooru’s name falling from his lips, but his head falls back against the wall of the broom closet and he groans. “Ow, fuck you! I said no kissma- marks- mhm…”

Tooru ignores him. He tends to do that when they’re alone and Hajime’s half undressed, his pants open and the uniform shirt pushed over his head thrown somewhere he’ll have trouble finding it in ten minutes when lunchtime ends. It’s worth going hungry, though, when Tooru’s fingers trace along his hipbones as if Hajime was something to be admired. It’s worth every second of possibly being caught when Tooru grins and whispers “shhh, sweetest” into Hajime’s throat before nipping at his adam’s apple with sharp teeth, controlling, growling, but careful enough to send Hajime’s knees into surrender.

His words are gone. Hajime slides down the wall, clawing desperately at Tooru’s neck to beg him down, to join him and never fucking stop, to not let go.

Tooru obeys, and this time, he talks. He settles between Hajime’s spread legs to kiss him hard, warm hands sliding over Hajime’s chest, rough thumbs tracing his ribcage in gentle circles. “’course there are rumours,” Tooru whispers when he pulls from the kiss to suck at Hajime’s lower lip. It’s going to be red and swollen. Hajime’s going to look like he’s been mauled, from lips to neck to chest, and the thought alone calms a bit of his possessiveness.

“Why don’ you tell them – ah – that you’re single?” Hajime pulls Tooru down by his hair, enjoys the gasp that is pushed against his lips before Tooru can reply. “Well, Hajime,” oh his name sounds so good on that crimson-kissed mouth, “you see, they don’t believe me. Because they see me walking around with that stupid grin you put on my face, with your nails’ marks all over my back and arms-” Okay, that is Hajime’s fault, but when Tooru says it out loud, he can’t help but moan and press closer, more, more–

Tooru’s hand slides between his legs and presses down, careful, knowing. “I tell them I’m single. But they just don’t believe me, Hajime. You see – they know. They look at me and see your marks and they know that there has to be someone who ruins me, every day, and that they can’t keep up with that person.”

Hajime opens his mouth to moan when Tooru’s hand slips below his waistband, but merciful fingers across his lips stop him. “Five minutes,” Tooru whispers, soft as a demon, and Hajime finds that he can only see his boyfriend’s amber eyes in the dark because the white around them shines like a star.

“More than enough time,” Hajime murmurs below Tooru’s fingers.

“Enough to wreck you,” Tooru replies and kisses him, and moves his hand.