Archive of Our Own

everyone will come, everyone will yell
I'd thank you just the same if you didn't tell

- Bruno Is Orange by Hop Along, Queen Ansleis

#

Iwaizumi wakes up in his hotel room disoriented and sweaty, certainly not for the first or the last time in his life. Sunlight seeps in through a gap in the curtains he’d forgotten to pull closed the night before, bathing half his bed in heat and making his t-shirt stick to his back.

There are worse ways and places to wake up, especially since his first thought (after the memory of collapsing groggily into bed the night before after an unfortunately delayed flight) is that this is Tokyo, the Olympics are a week away, and his boyfriend is on a flight to be in the same timezone as him for the first time in four months. Four months isn’t a long time in the context of an entire life, but in the context of Iwaizumi Hajime’s daily experience, it’s long enough to make him want to curse Jose Blanco for daring to be from Argentina and inspiring Oikawa Tooru to follow him there. 

It’s been four months since Iwaizumi used his yearly paid vacation time to spend nine blissful, sandy, ridiculous days in a Buneos Aires Airbnb with his best friend. Cooking with Oikawa’s arms wrapped around his waist in the kitchen, Oikawa slapping seaweed scavenged from the waves against his ass, Oikawa gasping at his touch at night, tangled in their sheets, and again the morning after. It’s been eight months since Oikawa had last been to Japan, when they finally acknowledged the thing between them that had been obvious to literally anyone else looking for the past fifteen years.

Of course it had happened in Oikawa’s childhood bedroom, right in front of the dinosaur action figures on his shelves and the middle school medals on his walls. Iwaizumi can’t count how many years they’d tiptoed around each other; caught each other staring over a math problem laid out on the floor, faces close in the dark, eyes on lips only to turn away and mumble “goodnight” at the last moment, a hand on the upper back during practice that should have felt friendly but read as something else. As adults, they had watched each other’s arms hang over the shoulder of other partners, conversations becoming more sincere as the years passed but never breaching whatever arbitrary line they felt was drawn between them. This kiss in the bedroom felt like any of the thousands of moments that were catalogued in Iwaizumi’s brain by season, summer-fall-spring-winter, but somehow it felt like the last one; this chapter is closed, Iwaizumi thought, pulling out of the kiss. Time for the next one to start.

Oikawa’s parents and sister were getting ready for bed in the other rooms, voices and footsteps echoing from outside the door, but all Iwaizumi could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat hammering in his chest, a slight whistle as Oikawa took a breath through a stuffy nose that should have been disgusting but read as endearing. It was their first real kiss outside of spin-the-bottle at high school parties, fumbling in a way that fit the childish room around them, but it was right, unhurried and warm and Oikawa had cupped a hand around Iwaizumi’s jaw and finally, finally.

They’d stared at each other afterwards, Iwaizumi’s hand still fisted awkwardly in the hem of Oikawa’s shirt, and then Oikawa had broken into quiet, shaking laughter, spit still drying on his lip. His smile, the real one, made Iwaizumi feel crushed and weightless all at once, and he found himself laughing too as he pulled Oikawa into his arms. Ten years ago, he might have punched him in the arm. Ten years ago, he would never have had the courage to nuzzle his face into the side of Oikawa’s neck, like this.

Between giggles, Oikawa murmured, sound muffled against his own arm, “I wouldn’t have dreamed about kissing you for ten years if I knew you were going to stare at me like a kicked puppy afterwards.”

“Just shut up and enjoy the moment,” Iwaizumi had murmured, grinning into the side of Oikawa’s neck, Oikawa’s grip tightening around his shoulders. 

“I am, I am.” Iwaizumi closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of his skin, and he was happy, so ridiculously happy.

“Ten years, huh?” he said. “I think I clocked in around seven.”

“Mm,” Oikawa hummed back, squeezing tighter. “Guess the hints I was dropping were too advanced for Iwa-chan to pick up on.” 

He laughed again when Iwaizumi growled, “ten seconds after our first kiss and you’re already on thin ice,” and bit at the spot where Oikawa’s neck met his shoulder.

Later that night, arms wrapped around Oikawa’s waist in a bed neither wide nor load-bearing enough to comfortably fit a professional athlete and Olympic-level trainer, Oikawa had lifted his head off Iwaizumi’s chest and looked down at him, serious.

“I’m in love with you,” he’d said, eyes flashing, holding himself up on his hands. Iwaizumi opened his mouth to say I know, of course I know, but Oikawa beat him to it. “I know you know, but I would never forgive myself if I looked back on this moment in ten years and realized I didn’t say it out loud.”

“Drama queen,” huffed Iwaizumi. He pulled him back onto the bed, rolling onto his side so they faced each other, threading their hands together between their bodies. “You know I love you too, right?” 

He swallowed around the lump growing in his throat. It’s only been a couple hours since he’s stopped having to catch himself before saying something a little bit too intimate, a little bit too far. He figures now is a time as any. 

“You don’t even understand how long I’ve been in love with you,” he added, then, relishing the sight of Oikawa’s eyebrows lifting. He pulled Oikawa’s hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to his palm, felt the fingers curl. Iwaizumi had expected something to change in the way Oikawa looked at him if they ever actually resolved the feelings between them; he was surprised and touched that it stayed the same.

Iwaizumi sighs at the memory, chest aching. Anticipation curls in his stomach at the thought that, in less than 24 hours, they’ll be in the same city again. He rolls toward the bedside table, starched hotel sheets crinkling, reaching for his phone. Oikawa had texted him while he was sleeping.

Shittykawa | 12:49AM: 

just boarding now! 🛩 🛩 cant wait to see you my love !!! 🥰 only a few hours until I’m home 💖 💖 💖

Below is a mirror selfie of Oikawa in the obviously-recognizable and unflattering lighting that is an airport bathroom, sunglasses perched atop his head, a huge camping backpack over his shoulders and a suitcase by his thigh, sticking his tongue out at the mirror.

Me | 8:04am:

Cant wait to see that stupid face in person again.

Iwaizumi lies back in the bed, deciding to give his boyfriend a little treat for when he gets off the plane. He pulls his t-shirt up to expose his abs and part of his chest, shimmying his boxers lower to show off the V of his hips and the neat trail of hair leading down between his legs. He’s half hard, remnants of morning wood, bulge against his leg obvious in the boxers. He flexes his abs a little, deciding to throw humility out the window, and presses the shutter button on his phone.
He sends it without writing anything; Oikawa will understand. A reply comes surprisingly soon, Iwaizumi’s phone rattling against the bathroom counter as he brushes his teeth.

Shittykawa | 8:17am:

fuck

iwachan your underwear is in the way 👀 👀

I’m stuck on this stupid bus and you look like that 😩 😩 this is so unfair...

Iwaizumi grins around his toothbrush. He spits toothpaste foam into the sink, rinses his mouth, and types a reply.

Me | 8:18am:

What am I supposed to do about that?

Shittykawa | 8:18am:

send some more please and thank you 😈 😈 😈

let me see you hard

Me | 8:18am:

Your teammates are on the bus with you. Sounds like a stupid move.

Shittykawa | 8:18am:

yeah but they're all asleep!!

are you going to make me beg, iwa-chan??

Me | 8:19am:

Maybe you should try.

Shittykawa | 8:19am:

😠 😠 😠

baby please 

Me | 8:19am:

Unconvincing...

Shittykawa | 8:19am:

my baby my honey my darling my love

please you’re killing me 🥺 🥺

the police will search my phone and see these messages and know that i died from cock withdrawal 😭 😭

Me | 8:20am:

What’s in it for me?

Shittykawa | 8:20am:

the promise that i'm gonna lock myself in the bathroom in a minute and show you what you do to me

does that sound like a fair trade?? 😇 😇 😇

Me | 8:21am:

Hm… I can work with that.

Iwaizumi steps out of the bathroom to hang a fresh towel on the back of the door, then turns the tap on the shower to let the water heat before he steps in. He strokes himself in the mirror, getting himself hard for the next picture, but decides he’s not above teasing Oikawa a little further. He sends a mirror photo, one hand holding his phone and the other over his groin, showing only the hair surrounding it before the rest is obscured by the raised hotel sink. He flexes his abs, his arms, thinking back to how Oikawa likes to lick and bite at the muscles there.

He selects the photo from his gallery, scrolling to Oikawa’s name to attach it.

His phone freezes, not responding to his fingers tapping the screen, before flickering and going black. Iwaizumi stares down at it, briefly seeing the reflection of his own scowl on the screen, before it suddenly returns to life. He’s probably due for a new phone, but it’s been working just fine since he got it several years ago, so he doesn’t think too much about the glitch; he leaves it on the bathroom counter before stepping into the shower.

#

The problem makes itself known when Iwaizumi sits on his bedspread a half hour later, towel around his waist, and unlocks his phone again. The screen is filled with messages from the team’s group chat, which isn’t usually very active unless Bokuto is sharing a picture of a dog in a sweater he saw outside. Iwaizumi swipes in to check his messages from Oikawa.

Shittykawa | 8:25am:

😑

so?? youre just gonna leave me hanging after agreeing to a bargain??

8:29am:

iwachan not only are you a tease but you have violated a written promise. youll be receiving a letter from my lawyer due to not delivering on your side of the deal with regards to your dick and my phone. thank you and goodbye 💔

8:34am:

iwachan.

please explain why I'm getting a text from shoyo-kun asking if everythings ok at home.

He's not sure if everything is indeed okay. Iwaizumi scrolls up to double check his conversation with Oikawa, still hoping for the best even though he knows before he scrolls up that the picture won’t be there. 

Oikawa’s texts stare back at him, as if mocking. No photo.

His stomach rolls, dawning horror making sweat prick at his underarms. If the photo never made it to Oikawa...

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Iwaizumi mumbles out loud, swiping back to a list of his text conversations. There it is, plain as the crack in the corner of his screen from when he’d dropped his phone on the sidewalk: the last person to receive a message from Iwaizumi Hajime was Bokuto Kotaro.

Bokuto Kotaro, in other words definitely not his boyfriend, technically his coworker, and absolutely not interested in what Iwaizumi is horrified to realize is very close to an unsolicited dick pic. He had probably swiped out of the correct conversation while his phone’s screen was glitching. 

Oh, this is bad. He’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry, thanking his past self’s last-minute decision to send a covered-up photo rather than one where he’s out on full display; or even worse, God forbid, a video. His stomach rolls even considering it.

He scrolls down: 

Bokuto Kotaro | 8:23am:

great abs iwaizumi! 👍 do i send one too??

Iwaizumi considers opening the door and chucking his phone out into the hotel hallway. The picture looks extra terrible juxtaposed against an innocent text from Bokuto about a movie they’d watched together. Poor thing probably thinks it’s a team bonding exercise.

Me | 8:37am:

Bokuto-san, I am so sorry. That was an accident, the picture was not meant for you. Please ignore it, thank you.

Before Bokuto can reply, Iwaizumi swipes out of the conversation and taps back into Oikawa’s. Before he can type out a reply, he remembers notifications from the group chat that had been filling his screen earlier. He knows what he's about to see before he swipes into it.

Bokuto Kotaro | 8:24am:

hypothetically if your hypothetical athletic trainer sent you a nude what would you do

Yaku Morisuke | 8:24am:

you mean iwaizumi

Bokuto Kotaro | 8:24am:

i said hypothetical how did you know??

Yaku Morisuke | 8:25am: 

we only have one

Hinata Shoyo | 8:25am:

IWAIZUMI-SAN SENT YOU NUDES??

Bokuto Kotaro | 8:25am:

just one!! 

Miya Atsumu | 8:25am:

LOL???

Komori Motoya | 8:25am:

hahaha oh my god whats going on

Ushijima Wakatoshi | 8:26am:

Bokuto-san, if I received such a message, I would assume that it was an accident.

Hakuba Gao | 8:26am:

👀

[Read by: Sakusa Kiyoomi, Hyakuzawa Yudai, Kageyama Tobio at 8:26am]

Ojiro Aran | 8:26am:

oh god that was definitely an accident

where is iwaizumi-san

Hoshiumi Korai | 8:26am:

loooooool oops xD

Me | 8:26am:

I’m sorry everyone, it was my mistake. That was not meant for Bokuto, please ignore it.

Hoshiumi Korai | 8:26am:

a likely story

Bokuto Kotaro | 8:27am:

not a problem iwa-san! you look good!!

Miya Atsumu | 8:27am:

LMAOOO

Iwaizumi sighs, surprised that his breath comes out shaky.

This is quite bad, for at least three reasons.

First: the obvious; Iwaizumi has now directly lived out the fear in the back of everyone’s minds since the invention of the camera phone. He recognizes that his profession might be among one of the best-case scenarios when it comes to accidental nude-sharing, however. Playing sports tends to desensitize people to seeing their teammates naked in the change rooms and showers; Bokuto has definitely seen and forgotten about countless dicks over his years as a sports player. Iwaizumi has also ignored Bokuto’s bulge in his face during specialized stretches more times than he’d like, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, looking anywhere but the obvious, and he’s sure Bokuto would return the favour. 

The other issue is that, well, literally everyone on his team knows. He doesn’t blame Bokuto for asking about it in the group chat, though he wishes he could have waited a little longer for Iwaizumi to be able to do damage control. He’s prepared to never be able to live this one down.

The third reason is a little more insidious. Though Iwaizumi isn’t a player, he and Oikawa being on different Olympic teams could cause a potential conflict of interest when it comes to dating. Ethics questions may bubble up: if Argentina loses, was Oikawa throwing the game to support his boo on the other side of the net? If Japan loses, was their athletic trainer preparing his team to the best of his ability, or not? Neither he or Oikawa were well-versed on the intricacies of dating rules in the Olympics, but had decided together one night on a Buenos Aires beach that keeping their relationship a secret would make the most sense. Though the text and picture weren’t obviously meant for Oikawa, he’d been doing a good job of hiding his relationship status from his team, if he says so himself, and he knows this might make them ask questions.

Iwaizumi is startled out of his thought process by a sharp knock at his hotel room door, a voice he recognizes immediately as Atsumu’s saying, “open up, Iwaizumi-san, we got words.”

He sighs, preparing for the worst, and opens the door, still in his towel. Atsumu and Bokuto immediately crowd into the room, not waiting for an invitation.

“Come in,” he says, weakly. Then his eyebrows furrow. “Except-- why are you here, Miya-san.”

“Bokkun’s phone hit my foot after it bounced off the wall, so I’m the collateral damage to your mistake.” 

Iwaizumi feels his face heat. “You… threw your phone at the wall?”

Iwaizumi makes eye contact with Bokuto, who nods sagely. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” says Iwaizumi as he turns and closes the door behind them. “I don’t know what happened, my phone glitched out or something and then I realized I sent it to you and, uh, not the person it was for. I’d love nothing more than to move on and never speak of this again. I can pay to repair it if throwing it at the wall, uh, lead to damage.”

“Not a problem, buddy,” says Bokuto, smacking him on his bare back. “No harm done, I have a case on it for that reason! It’s waterproof, too!” He leans into Iwaizumi’s personal space. “Who was it for, huh?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. "You looked real good."

Iwaizumi shakes his head, sitting down on the hotel bed, still in his towel, feeling decidedly exposed. “I’m not gonna tell you guys that.”

Bokuto seems to physically deflate. “Aw, why not?”

Atsumu narrows his eyes at him. “What’s the big deal? Why can’t we know who you’re fooling around with, Iwa-san?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “There is no big deal. I just want to keep some things private.”

“Yeah, but we’re your friends, aren't we,” says Atsumu. 

“Right now, you’re kind of interrupting,” he replies.

Atsumu swipes Bokuto’s phone from his hand, brandishing it like evidence in a court case.

“We’ve trained together for two years, Iwaizumi-san, and you don’t trust us at all,” he announces, his accent coming out even more distinctly in what is apparently a moment of great emotion. “You barely ever talk about your personal life, and then you send Bokuto a nude clearly meant for someone else and you expect us to ignore it? Who is it? Are you dating or just fooling around? I need answers, dammit!” He ends his speech by throwing Bokuto’s phone at the bedspread for emphasis. It bounces and Bokuto catches it in one hand.

Iwaizumi sighs, rubbing at his face. “Who I’m dating or not dating with is none of your business.”

“Iwaizumi-san, you made it our business the moment you decided to press send.”

Iwaizumi looks up at Atsumu, grimacing. “Our business?” 

Atsumu ignores him. “You owe it to Bokuto,” he says, pointing a finger at the man standing next to him, who straightens up. “He’s the one who had to see your hand on your dick.”

“I looked away the second I realized what it was,” says Bokuto proudly, putting his hands on his hips. Iwaizumi groans into his hand. “I don’t even remember what it looked like!”

“Thanks, Bokuto-san,” he says, mind scrambling desperately for an excuse that will both calm down Atsumu and end this nightmare. “Look, this is my business, and whoever I may or not be seeing isn’t as important as focusing on your training. Your first game is next week and you can’t let anything get in the way, so drop it, okay?”

“Right,” says Bokuto, flashing a smile, but Atsumu narrows his eyes down at Iwaizumi on the bed, crossing his arms.

“Why exactly would you telling us who you’re seeing get in the way of our training? I thought it was gonna be some girl from back home. Do we know this person? Is that why you can’t tell us?” Atsumu’s eyes widen. “Oh my god,” he chokes, “is it someone on the team?”

“God, no,” Iwaizumi splutters, standing up from the bed, gripping the towel around his waist. Atsumu and Bokuto both take a step back. “This is embarrassing as fuck, okay? Can you respect my privacy enough to move on and agree to never speak of this again?” He stalks over to the dresser, opening a drawer and rooting through it for a pair of briefs. “I’m gonna get dressed now, so unless you both haven’t had enough of my junk for the day, get the fuck out of my room.”

After some protest, the door clicks shut behind them and Iwaizumi lets himself sigh in relief. He dresses, explains the situation to Oikawa through text, and feels like he deserves the voice memo Oikawa sends back of him laughing for 30 seconds straight.

#

Oikawa arrives at the hotel around noon, which is unfortunate, as Iwaizumi is stuck at work until at least 6:00. Through sneaking sporadic texts out of sight of the team, Iwaizumi realizes the only way they’ll be able to see each other that day is through an apparently non-negotiable group dinner with the Argentinian team.

“I tried, Hajime, I tried,” comes Oikawa’s voice through the receiver, whiny in the way Iwaizumi secretly finds incredibly sexy. “I was this close to telling them we were dating so they’d stop grilling me on why I wanted to get out of dinner to see you.”

Iwaizumi approaches the elevators in the hotel lobby and presses the up button with a knuckle. “I didn’t kick two idiots out of my room today without giving in so you’d crack the first time someone asked you about me.”

“I held it together just fine, thank you,” says Oikawa. “My team thinks you’re just an old friend taking time out of your busy, busy schedule to grace them with your presence. And those two idiots were in your room as a result of your own blunder, not mine, Iwa-chan.”

“You’re right, I learned my lesson. Guess I’ll just never sext you again.”

“Mm, deal. But not until we live together and I can have you whenever I want.”

It’s a double whammy-- he’s already buzzing with the anticipation of seeing Oikawa again, and then Oikawa fires an arrow directly at his chest with when we live together. Damn him.

The elevator doors open. Iwaizumi checks behind him before stepping in, slipping the receiver closer to his mouth, and murmuring, “We just have to get through this dinner, and then I’m yours.”

#

It’s a few hours later, and Iwaizumi realizes, remotely, that his hands are shaking as he catches sight of the taxi waiting in front of the hotel. He’s known Oikawa since they writhed around on the same baby blanket but here he is, skin buzzing at the sight of the car Oikawa Tooru may or may not have sat in for half an hour. The tenets of their Secret Relationship obviously extend to anything in public, so as much as he knows he’ll want to lift and twirl Oikawa like the love interest in a cheesy romance, The Secret means their reunion has to come off as reasonably platonic (plus, if he did that, Oikawa would never let him hear the end of it). He’s walking stiffly forward, and makes brief eye contact with the driver, who’s leaning against the hood with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, when Oikawa pops out from what seems like thin air but was definitely the side of a tour bus parked behind the taxi.

The first thing Iwaizumi thinks is that he looks even tanner in person than in pictures and Facetimes, contrasting against his white dress shirt. Iwaizumi’s skin has always been darker than Oikawa's, especially in the summer when he inevitably ends up with a t-shirt tan and Oikawa burns the top of his shoulders, nose, and cheeks, and wonders what the difference would look like if they held their forearms together to compare like they did when they were kids. Oikawa’s face lights up with a massive smile when he spots him, the kind that has been making Iwaizumi’s knees weak since ‘03, and he feels like he’s been punched with the way his breath rushes out of him at the sight. The second thing he thinks is holyshitholyshitholyshit as Oikawa’s long legs take three strides to carry him over the curb and barrel him into Iwaizumi’s waiting arms.

Oikawa’s babbling something that sounds like Hajime you’re here oh my god I’m so Hajime you’re really-- into his shoulder and his arms wrap around Iwaizumi’s shoulders and squeeze like he’s trying to wring water out of his lungs and it’s all Iwaizumi can do but fist his hands into Oikawa’s stupid fancy shirt and squeeze his eyes shut and breathe in his scent and will himself not to cry. 

It’s desperate, clinging to each other like this with the taxi driver’s eyes boring into the back of his head, and Iwaizumi tries opening his mouth to say maybe we should take it easy in respect to The Secret but what comes out is a sad little choked noise and then his words are tumbling out of him.

“I’m so fucking happy to see you, holy shit,” he wheezes, voice muffled by Oikawa’s muscled shoulder. “God, I missed you so much, Tooru, I really missed you.”

“Distance made you sappy, Iwa-chan,” replies Oikawa, but it comes out thick, and when he pulls back his eyes are shiny and he’s frowning like a little kid about to burst into tears. “Has Makki roped you into watching romcoms with him again?” he sniffs.

Iwaizumi can’t help but bark out a laugh at Oikawa trying to tease him through a wobbly chin, tears quivering in the corners of his eyes. 

“I’m the sappy one? Look at you, already in tears,” he says fondly, reaching up to brush his thumb against Oikawa’s lip. Oikawa hiccups, the frown deepens, and Iwaizumi watches a fat tear roll down the apple of his cheek before he can wipe it away with the back of his hand. He can’t help the words from coming out of his mouth again, like his subconscious isn’t sure Oikawa understands the depth of his words. “God, Tooru, I missed you.”

Oikawa shakes his head, wrapping his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck again and resting his chin over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, fingertips scrabbling against his back. “I missed you too, so badly,” he says, voice shaky. “I really love you, you know that?”

Iwaizumi feels his own vision swim, wanting to laugh at how absurd this feels. Four months should be nothing; once they spent two years without seeing each other in person and he’s pretty sure he smacked Oikawa in the back in lieu of a hug at the train station, trying to hide his smile. But it’s different now that they’re actually together and not toeing the line of teenage feelings and adult assumptions; now it’s allowed.

“Of course I know, of course. You won’t let me forget,” he murmurs into Oikawa’s hair. “I love you too. I really, really do.” He might really cry, his throat tight. “You’re my baby,” he murmurs, and Oikawa whines into his shoulder, sniffing up snot.

The drive to the restaurant can’t take more than fifteen minutes, but it feels like they spend an hour in the backseat, hands clasped in between their thighs. Oikawa beams at him like he’s just won the lottery, and Iwaizumi sees all the iterations of him in the look-- his childhood, his pimply teen years, adulthood with the new lines around the corners of his eyes; joy looks the same on him no matter the time period. The way Oikawa’s thumb rubs against the back of his hand makes him want to tell the driver to turn around and head back to the hotel, fuck pretending and why not fuck the Olympics and all of Japan while they’re at it, they’re together again and that’s all that matters. He takes a deep breath and tells himself he’s spent years pretending already; he can wait a few more hours.

#

They meet most of the team, along with the coach, Jose Blanco, outside a high-end steakhouse successfully playing the part of people who are absolutely just friends and hadn’t just spent the taxi ride staring deeply into each other’s eyes and aching. Iwaizumi easily assigns the names he’s heard through Facetimes over the years to the people in front of him as Oikawa nods happily and chatters with his teammates in English and Spanish. They sit next to each other in a modern-looking booth at one of the restaurant’s few long tables, thigh pressed tight against thigh, across from teammates Oikawa introduces as Ignazio (outside hitter) and Mateo (libero). 

Conversation comes easy, but not easy enough for Iwaizumi to quell the gnawing in his chest that begs him to grab Oikawa’s hand and pull him back to the hotel so they can lock themselves in his room and talk and touch and kiss until he’s had enough. Sometime between the first round of drinks and the appetizers, Iwaizumi feels Oikawa’s hand creep up onto his kneecap and squeeze the spot right above it, making him jump and nearly choke around the food in his throat. He sips at his water, praying that he and Oikawa really do share a brain connection and he can hear as Iwaizumi beams NOT HERE, YOU FUCK at him telepathically. 

Iwaizumi nods along as Mateo explains how he got into the Argentinian team in accented English, praying his face doesn’t betray the panic he feels as Oikawa’s hand drifts higher and higher up his thigh. He tries kicking out, knocking the side of his shoe against Oikawa’s ankle, but his boyfriend is ruthless and doesn’t withdraw his grip. Iwaizumi doesn’t turn to look, but he can tell Oikawa’s as calm as ever, carefully bringing his chopsticks to his mouth as he nods along to an anecdote shared by a teammate a few seats over. The hand doesn’t stray any higher, settling in its apparent resting place, and Iwaizumi lets himself feel relieved that Oikawa has decided on mercy and isn’t about to feel up his junk in front of his coworkers.

The waiter comes by with their third round of drinks as Ignazio finishes a story about a particularly bad date he’d gone on the week before. He places his elbows on the table, leaning forward.

“What about you, Hajime?” he asks, smile jovial and friendly. “Are you dating right now?”

Iwaizumi blinks, reaching for his drink, as the hand on his thigh squeezes. 

“Nope,” he says, taking a sip. “No time, no time.” He gestures, a little awkwardly, at Ignazio and Mateo across from him. “You know what I mean. The Olympics are pretty hard to work around as it is, and add a relationship into the mix and it’s-- nope. No time.”

Mateo waves a hand. “Ah, too bad! You must have women standing in line for a chance with you. Why not mess around a little, at least?”

Iwaizumi swallows. “Not really my thing.”

“Yeah?” says Ignazio. “I guess you really are like this guy, then,” he says, gesturing to Oikawa, who Iwaizumi can see chewing calmly in the corner of his vision. “They say look at your friends if you wanna see who you really are.”

“What do you mean?”

Mateo leans in over the table. “Our Tooru’s a romantic, isn’t he? No doubt he’s yapped your ears off about this mystery guy he’s head over heels for.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” singsongs Oikawa beside him, shaking his head and leaning forward. “We’ve been through this, the more you bring it up, the less likely I am to talk details.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Iwaizumi, taking another sip of his drink. “So vague, but you still can’t get him to shut up, right?”

“This guy goes on and on about how in love he is, but we don’t even know his name,” adds Ignazio, smacking Oikawa on the arm. “We live together, and we know nothing! Guess the guy’s real special. He doesn’t wanna mess anything up by talking about him, or whatever.” Iwaizumi has to suppress a smile, nodding instead. He can feel Oikawa’s knee jiggling under the table.

“Oh, yeah, I met him once or twice,” says Iwaizumi casually. “You have to forgive Tooru, he’s a little superstitious that way.”

“That’s a good friend!” points Mateo at Iwaizumi, looking at Ignazio beside him. “Not gonna share any secrets that aren’t yours, huh?”

Iwaizumi mimes zipping his mouth shut while Oikawa nods next to him. “Iwa-chan is nothing if not loyal! That’s why I’ve kept him around for so long.”

Oikawa leans forward, resting his face on his hand and not paying any attention to Iwaizumi as Ignazio continues speaking. The fingers gripping into Iwaizumi’s thigh start drawing hearts instead.

In the car on the way back to the hotel, head fuzzy after the meal and a couple cocktails he let Oikawa choose for him, Iwaizumi murmurs, “so you’re head over heels for some hottie, huh?”

Oikawa sighs. “Mm, he’s just okay, but he has a great ass, so I haven’t broken it off yet.” 

He leans his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, nuzzling into his neck. Iwaizumi makes eye contact with the driver through the rearview mirror.

“You already got boogers on my shirt once tonight, you don’t have to try again,” he says face flushing, but he brings a hand up to card through Oikawa’s hair.

“Dinner’s over, my love,” Oikawa says. “What did you say about being all mine?”

#

Convening in Oikawa’s room makes the most sense, as running into any of the Argentinian team in the hallway can be mediated by a wave of Oikawa’s hand and a we have a lot to catch up on! It’s not every night Iwa-chan has some free time, whereas the possibility of running into Atsumu on the Japanese floor is still too high-stakes.

They don’t touch on the walk through the hotel. Only after leaving the elevator and making it to the blessedly empty hallway does Oikawa apparently lose his patience, slipping a hand against Iwaizumi’s lower back, making him grin. By the time they get to the door, Oikawa’s managed to untuck Iwaizumi’s shirt entirely from out of his pants, slipping his hand up and feeling at the skin at his lower back, making him shiver.

“Argentina didn’t teach you patience, did it,” Iwaizumi teases as Oikawa has to remove his hand in order to shuffle his keycard out of his wallet.

“That’s the worst of the virtues, anyway,” grumbles Oikawa, fitting the card in the slot the wrong way. He drops it at their feet.

“Ah, shit.”

Iwaizumi can’t help smacking him on the ass as he bends down to pick it up (“Iwa-chan, you perv!”).

“Are you nervous?” Iwaizumi asks as the door clicks and Oikawa pushes it open, following Oikawa inside the room. It’s endearing, thinking of Oikawa’s hands shaking the way his own are, his heart pounding the way his own is. 

“Please, Iwa-chan,” snorts Oikawa, fumbling at the wall for the lightswitch, then smacking it on. “It’s just you,” he purrs, turning around so his back’s against the wall of the entryway. “What is there to be nervous about?”

Iwaizumi takes off his shoes, sets them into the small closet space and lifts his bag over his shoulder, dropping it onto the floor against the wall. Oikawa’s eyes are wide, expectant, looking at him like he’s not sure what he’s going to do next. Iwaizumi feels it too, like they’re sixteen again and about to push further, further.

“Then if I do this,” says Iwaizumi, stepping forward, taking one of Oikawa’s hands in his and lifting it up. “I won’t feel your hand shaking, right. Because you’re not nervous.”

Setter hands, slender and calloused, the subject of many of his teenage fantasies; Iwaizumi dreamed of reaching over and intertwining their hands in the summer grass, the way those fingers would feel pressed against his tongue. His hand is warm, delicate.

“Steady as a gun, Iwa-chan,” says Oikawa, grinning, but they can both feel the way his fingers tremble. He’s got a little hangnail on one of his nailbeds and it scrapes against Iwaizumi’s finger and his eyes are the colour of Iwaizumi’s favourite coffee and he loves him and his stupid hand and when he tilts his head up to kiss him Oikawa meets him halfway.

Oikawa breathes in hard through his nose and Iwaizumi brings his other hand up to cup Oikawa’s face, Oikawa’s free hand fisting into the collar of Iwaizumi’s shirt. They kiss slowly, softly, and Iwaizumi can’t help but smile between kisses, and Oikawa is nipping at his lip, kissing the side of his mouth, and he tastes like the fruity red cocktail they’d had at the restaurant, and Iwaizumi aches with how much he loves him. Oikawa’s fingers, the ones held in Iwaizumi’s hand and trapped between their chests, grip tighter.

The little entryway to Oikawa’s hotel room is a place as good as any to have their first kiss in four months, he thinks, their lips slotting together. The space between the sad minibar and the shoe rack is as romantic as any. 

“I missed this,” murmurs Iwaizumi, pulling away slightly to rest his forehead against Oikawa’s, the hand cupping Oikawa’s face sliding down to hold the back of his neck, rubbing against the cropped hair there. Oikawa’s breath puffs against his lips.

“I missed you,” Oikawa replies, his eyes half-lidded, so pretty even in the unflattering hotel lighting. Iwaizumi sighs as Oikawa leans down to press kisses up his jaw, to the skin of his neck just below his ear, the feeling making him shiver. 

“You smell so good, so good,” breathes Oikawa between kisses, nuzzling his nose into Iwaizumi’s neck. “It was so hard not to feel you up at dinner.” His lips brush Iwaizumi’s neck as he speaks. “When we can be public about our relationship I don’t care who sees, mark my words. PDA haters can complain all they want.”

“You did feel me up at dinner,” replies Iwaizumi, his fingers curling into Oikawa’s hair, soft yet stiff with hairspray. 

“Mm, not the way I wanted to.”

When they kiss again, Iwaizumi opens his mouth and Oikawa follows his lead. The taste of him is heady and intoxicating as their tongues slide together, and he’s unable to keep himself from groaning in the back of his throat. Oikawa sinks back against the closet door, moaning into the kiss, and Iwaizumi runs his hands up his chest, feeling his muscles through his dress shirt. Oikawa’s hands feel down his back, grabbing his ass and pulling his hips forward to press their bodies together.

“Bed?” pants Oikawa, and a kiss reducing his verbose boyfriend to one-word sentences makes heat pool in Iwaizumi’s belly. He nods, and in a moment is letting Oikawa pin him to the bed, trying not to think about that article he’d read about how little hotel topsheets actually get washed. 

Oikawa leans in and then they’re kissing again, open-mouthed and sloppy and hot. Iwaizumi’s fingers scrabble at the buttons on Oikawa’s shirt, the last cell in his brain not overcome by lust holding him back from giving in and busting the buttons off, knowing Oikawa might not appreciate him ruining his shirt. Oikawa tosses the shirt somewhere behind him, still kissing, breath coming in short pants, and Iwaizumi runs his hands up Oikawa’s sides, his ribs, his chest, feeling the muscles move as he breathes. Oikawa melts into his touch, shifting forward to hike a knee between his legs. 

“You’re gonna knee me in the balls,” grunts Iwaizumi, hands travelling down to work at Oikawa’s belt, the metal clacking against the button of his pants.

“Oh, hush,” says Oikawa, nipping at his earlobe, breath hot against Iwaizumi’s neck. “Have I ever treated your balls with anything less than tender love and care?” He shifts his weight onto one arm to paw at Iwaizumi’s shirt. “Why are there so many fucking buttons? Get this thing off.”

“You could help instead of complaining.”

Iwaizumi pushes himself up, grabbing Oikawa around the waist and rolling them over, knocking the breath out of him with a little oof , so Iwaizumi ends up straddling his hips. Oikawa’s eyes are wide but there’s a pleased smile at his mouth, hands up by his head, shirt off. He shifts his hips so the outline of his hard dick becomes even more obvious against his thigh.

“I do like when you throw me around a little, Iwa-chan.”

And well, Iwaizumi knows that, but his pants get even more uncomfortable to hear it out loud. Iwaizumi works the buttons on his own shirt as Oikawa reaches for him, sliding his hands up Iwaizumi’s torso, then palming him through his pants.

Iwaizumi groans at the feeling, tugging the shirt off his head before the last two buttons can even be undone. He leans back in, capturing Oikawa’s mouth, a pleased hum coming deep from Oikawa’s chest.

Ever since Iwaizumi finished college, it seemed like life sped up; a blink and it’s a new month, a new season. He spoke to his mom about it on the phone once, remembers the sound of traffic around something-something about how having less new experiences makes the days blend together. He can honestly say the last four months without being able to see Oikawa and touch him have been some of the slowest of his life, regardless of the newness of his daily life. But now they have all night, he thinks, tongue slipping into Oikawa’s mouth, Oikawa’s hands gripping at his ass.

The moment the thought passes through his mind, the ancient phone on the bedside table lets out a shrill ring, making both of them jump. Iwaizumi’s eyebrows knit as he pulls out of the kiss, but Oikawa follows him, refusing to open his eyes.

“Ignore it,” he says sitting up, and Iwaizumi lets himself be kissed once, twice, as the phone trills again, before his hands are on Oikawa’s chest and pushing him back slightly.

“I didn’t know people still used those,” he says, eyebrows furrowed, as Oikawa whines at being pushed away.

“They don’t-- they’d call my personal phone if it were anything important. Iwa-chan, come back here.”

“Not until you answer your phone.” Oikawa groans as Iwaizumi swings a leg over him to let him up, glaring at Iwaizumi as he steps over to the phone and presses the yellowed plastic receiver to his ear. He looks ridiculous, hard-on straining in his fancy dinner slacks and hair mussed from Iwaizumi’s hands grabbing at it, but Iwaizumi loves the view.

Turns out they still do use those phones for important things.

Iwaizumi watches his boyfriend twirl the cord around his hand as he listens, the voice on the other end unintelligible, occasionally voicing his understanding with a “Yeah. Yeah, got it.” Oikawa turns to him and shrugs, shaking his head, and Iwaizumi shrugs back. He ends the conversation with a jovial, “thank you so much. Bye,” before hanging up the phone and turning back towards Iwaizumi.

“So?”

Oikawa has his hands on his hips. “So. There’s a power issue with some of the rooms on this side of the floor, and they’re sending people to come fix it, I guess. They’re also moving me to another room, but they don’t know which one, so someone’s coming up here to fetch me, since apparently I need a chaperone to walk 400 feet by myself. The front desk recommends I start packing.” Iwaizumi groans, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Why is there always something?”

Oikawa walks over and swings a leg over him to straddle his lap, draping his forearms onto Iwaizumi’s shoulders, cheeks flushed and pretty. “I’m going to report the Olympics for homophobia for trying to take me away from you.” He grinds down against Iwaizumi’s hips, and he lets his head fall onto Oikawa’s shoulder.

“Don’t do this to me, you’re just making it harder to leave.”

“Then don’t.”

Iwaizumi wraps his arms around him, feeling Oikawa sigh. “You know I have to,” he says into Oikawa’s chest, and can hear the dejection in his own voice. It’s not the first time he reconsiders the need to keep The Secret, and knows it won’t be the last. Oikawa whines into his hair, then presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“I know, I know. But I don’t have to be happy about it.”

Oikawa refuses to let Iwaizumi help him throw his clothes and toiletries into his suitcases, instead ushering him to the door after he gets his shirt mostly on and mostly tucked in, one of the buttons fitting into the wrong hole. They get slightly carried away kissing goodnight before Iwaizumi finally shoves himself out of Oikawa’s grip and makes the lonely, sneaky trek back to his own hotel room on the floor shared by the Japanese team. As he falls asleep, listening to the traffic on the street many floors below, he thinks about how unfair it is that Oikawa is now in the same city, within a couple minute’s walk of reach, but still too far to share his bed. 

His phone vibrates on the bedside table and he picks it up, blinking at the blinding light of the screen.

Shittykawa | 9:32pm:

goodnight mi amor 💘 💘

i love you so much my baby 

Me | 9:33pm:

Goodnight, Tooru. I love you too.

Tomorrow will be better.

#

Iwaizumi wakes up out of a nonsensical, yet somehow extremely sexy dream where Oikawa had two extra arms and was using them in ways Iwaizumi very much liked. It should be a sign that his day is going to be annoying before it gets better.

“So, Oikawa-san explained what happened yesterday,” Hinata ventures, filling his water bottle at the fountain on the side of their training gym a couple hours later, and Iwaizumi feels blood rush to his face. He’d almost forgotten that the Incident had even happened just yesterday, distracted by finally meeting back up with Oikawa the night before. 

“Uh, yeah. Unfortunately that wasn’t just a nightmare.”

Hinata is the only one on the Japanese National Team to know that Iwaizumi and Oikawa are together. He and Oikawa had kept in touch regularly since meeting in Brazil several years back, and Hinata had been filled in on all the details of his and Iwaizumi’s developing relationship as it was happening through weekly Facetimes. Though Iwaizumi didn’t initially expect Hinata to be able to keep a secret, he’s been surprisingly tight-lipped about the whole thing throughout the eight months they’ve been together. There’s been moments he’s wondered if Hinata just forgot, but clearly The Nude Incident served as a reminder if he had. Iwaizumi appreciates Hinata’s foresight to only bring it up while they’re alone on this side of the gym, most of the other team members working out at the machines.

“When I saw Bokuto text the group chat, I was like, oh no, why is Iwaizumi-san sexting Bokuto ,” says Hinata, sitting down on the bench next to Iwaizumi. “I knew something must have gone wrong.”

“I appreciate you looking out for Tooru.”

“Duh, he’s one of my best friends!” says Hinata, always sunny. “Oikawa-san asked if I could help lead anyone off the scent, if they ask about you. He said it was super important to you.”

Iwaizumi feels his face heat, imagining Oikawa’s voice coming in through Hinata’s phone, probably laughing as he asked Hinata to conduct damage control.

“Mm. Just like him to throw me under the bus. It’s important to Tooru, too.”

Hinata’s bright orange hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat. “For sure! I get it, because you don’t want anyone’s training to get messed up, and for anyone outside of us to find out about you dating. And, like, it’s probably pretty stressful for the both of you, so I don’t mind helping if I can!” 

“Thanks, Shoyo-kun. This is kind of you.” Hinata beams.

“So, Bokuto was easy to distract. I just asked Akaashi to call him and he’s pretty good at getting his mind off stuff, and after that Bokuto didn’t bring up the picture or anything else again, so I think that’s good. I’ve been trying to get Atsumu to stop being so nosy about who you’re dating, but he’s gotten really obsessed. He’s really intense about gossip sometimes; do you remember last year when him and Motoya got into that one argument? It was because he wouldn’t tell ‘Tsumu how he lost his virginity.” Iwaizumi thinks, oh, great. 

“Anyway,” says Hinata. “I was surprised because it looked like he dropped it yesterday, but then today, he, um…” Hinata trails off, pensive.

“What is it,” deadpans Iwaizumi, preparing for the worst.

“He uh, made a group chat without you,” Hinata says, carefully, and Iwaizumi tries not to betray his frustration on his face. 

“Great,” says Iwaizumi. “Good to know he’s not letting this pass by painlessly.”

“Um, I don’t think he’s trying to spread the, uh, nude thing around, or anything, he just really wants to know who you’re dating and why you’re keeping it a secret.”

“Nosy fucker,” grunts Iwaizumi. “Can I see?” Hinata reaches into one of the bags lining the edge of the gym room and produces his phone, tip of his tongue sticking out the edge of his mouth as he types in his password and opens the group chat. Iwaizumi takes his phone, scrolling to the top of the messages. 

He’s suddenly aware of the sound of footsteps approaching them, right before a pair of sneakered feet appear in his field of vision. He looks up to see Atsumu, slipping on his weightlifting gloves with a smug smile on his face and his eyebrow quirked. Sakusa, who had presumably walked up with him, veers off to the lockers lining the wall.

“Caught ya texting, Iwaizumi-san,” Atsumu says, the eyebrow rising ever higher. “I think I know who.”

Iwaizumi looks back down at the chat. “You don’t, though. And you’re on the right path for an extra 10 reps per set.”

Atsumu ignores the threat, instead sitting down at the bench on Iwaizumi’s other side. Iwaizumi locks the screen to Hinata’s phone automatically.

“Shoyo, Omi, and I went for a walk last night,” he says, and Iwaizumi’s brow furrows. Hinata stiffens beside him and Sakusa bangs open his locker, either disinterested in the conversation or feigning it.

“Good to hear you’re getting some fresh air, Miya-san.”

“We saw you hugging someone real tight before getting in a car,” says Atsumu. “Looked like a really cute reunion moment, if you ask me.”

"I'm not asking you." Iwaizumi looks to his right, and Hinata’s eyes are wide. “You saw me last night?”

“Uh, yeah, I was gonna say, um--” he stammers, but Iwaizumi shrugs, turning towards Atsumu instead.

“I went to dinner with a friend, so what.”

“Liar!” says Atsumu, smacking the bench beside him with his palm. “I saw that hug. That was an I-missed-you-my-beloved hug if I’ve ever seen one. C’mon, Sho, Omi, back me up here!”

Hinata starts babbling, something about uhh I didn’t really see what you mean um I wasn’t uhh… as Sakusa slings his gym bag over his shoulder and turns around. “I asked you not to involve me in this,” he says, walking away towards the cardio machines.

Iwaizumi points towards his retreating form. “Follow Sakusa-san’s example and stop creeping in on my personal life.”

“I wouldn’t have to creep if you weren’t so secretive, Iwa-san. It must be a big deal if you’re keeping it from us.” Iwaizumi stares as Atsumu’s eyes widen. “Are you engaged?” He gasps. “Iwaizumi-san, are you married? ”

Iwaizumi drags his hand over his face, leaning forward so his forearms rest on his knees. “I’m not engaged, and I’m not fucking married. I’ll invite you to the wedding, if ever it happens, if you can leave me alone for 20 minutes and do the workout routine assigned to you. Except add ten reps to each set as a tax for making my job harder.”

“You got it, sir,” says Atsumu, clapping him on the back. Iwaizumi grunts. “Just make sure to let me bring a +1, yeah? This isn’t over yet, though, I can tell ya that much.” He stands, shooting a grin at Iwaizumi, before heading over to the squat rack.

“He’s like a little dog that sinks its teeth into its chew toy and would rather be lifted into the air than let go,” says Iwaizumi, watching him retreat.

“I’ll try talking to him about it later,” says Hinata. “Tsumu would stop if he knew it was actually upsetting you. He really respects you, y’know? I think he just wants to feel like you’re really friends and can joke around and you’ll tell him about your life and stuff.”

“Don’t bother, Shoyo,” says Iwaizumi. “You shouldn’t have your focus shaken because your teammate can’t keep his nose in his own business. Just send me some screenshots of the conversation and I’ll deal with whatever happens.”

He hands Hinata’s phone back to him, checking the time on the gym’s wall clock before heading out to help Aran with a series of specialized stretches for an old injury. He feels at the tendons in Aran’s wrist, chats with him about some stupid bet Hakuba and Hyakuzawa are trying to rope him into, and tries to ignore the buzzing of his phone in his pocket, knowing it’s probably Hinata sending him screenshots of the dreaded group chat.

#

Miya Atsumu | 6:04pm

i have to know who iwaizumi-san is dating for my mental health

as funny as the nude thing is we should probably keep that quiet to spare iwaizumi-sans dignity ok? this is different its deeper than a nude

i took this picture yesterday. whos this guy?? the guy in the black shirt is iwaizumi im 100% sure

[Image Attached: An almost entirely incomprehensible picture of two men hugging, taken from across the street, blurry so that the man whose face is turned towards the camera is essentially a smear]

[Sakusa Kiyoomi left the chat.]

Miya Atsumu | 6:05pm: 

:( 

Bokuto Kotaro | 6:07pm:

DON’T KNOW HIM!

Miya Atsumu | 6:07pm: 

no problem who else

Ojiro Aran | 6:07pm: 

this is the worst picture ive ever seen

Hinata Shoyo | 6:07pm: 

mayb we should leave him alone tsumu!!

Miya Atsumu | 6:07pm: 

why?? 

Hinata Shoyo | 6:08pm: 

idk mayb he just wants to keep his personal life private

Miya Atsumu | 6:08pm: 

why tho? we all love him and whoever hes dating and would support his relationship

i just need a name and a face

not for death note purposes i promise

Hinata Shoyo | 6:08pm: 

what if u wait until after the olympics to ask him

Miya Atsumu | 6:08pm: 

why would that make a difference

Hinata Shoyo | 6:08pm: 

idk..

Miya Atsumu | 6:09pm: 

plus what if this relationship is distracting iwaizumi from being the best trainer he can be?

Ushijima Wakatoshi | 6:09pm: 

You are distracted right now, Miya-san.

Hinata Shoyo | 6:09pm: 

that wouldnt happen!!! iwaizumi san wouldnt let his work get affected by anything

ushiwaka is right!!!

Miya Atsumu | 6:10pm: 

hes only human

if hes sneaking around and not getting enough sleep who knows what would happen?

Hinata Shoyo | 6:10pm: 

he wouldnt do that!!

Miya Atsumu | 6:100pm: 

but shoyo-kun what if

[Kageyama Tobio left the chat.]

Miya Atsumu | 6:10pm: 

cmon

[Hyakuzawa Yudai left the chat.]

Miya Atsumu | 6:11pm: 

haters

Hoshiumi Korai| 6:11pm: 

worst paparazzo ever LOL

Miya Atsumu | 6:11pm: 

you try taking a picture of a moving target 

#

Iwaizumi heads to lunch a little later than usual. He pawns off some excuse about needing to grab something from his room, in hopes that some of the team will be finished eating by the time he comes back down. In reality, he steps into the hotel’s fancy lobby bathroom to read through the group chat in one of the stalls. He’s pleased to see that nobody seems to care about seeing his nude and even less about who he might be dating except for Atsumu, and the picture he’d provided had been laughable at best. Not everyone had left the chat, but Atsumu clearly had been making zero headway on his mission.

Iwaizumi walks into the lunch area to find most of the team gone, except for Ushijima and Atsumu sharing a large, circular table. Ushijima seems to be on his second plate while Atsumu nurses a tea, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning back in his chair and scrolling on his phone. Ah, shit.

Iwaizumi piles today’s lunch choices onto his plate and brings it over to their table, banking, possibly naively, that nothing annoying will happen and they can sit together like they have countless times before. He seems to be correct, at least for a little while, as neither of the others seem to be interested in socializing outside of a little small talk; Iwaizumi watches as Ushijima takes comically small, careful bites of his food and chews thoughtfully, gaze straight ahead of him in the vicinity of the far wall. He’d spoken to Iwaizumi about a new ‘mindfulness’ app he’d been enjoying, something akin to meditation or trying to live in the moment or something, so Iwaizumi is happy to let him have his peace. Atsumu is texting someone or scrolling through what’s probably Twitter, a stray grain of rice attached to the side of his mouth that pisses Iwaizumi off for unexplainable reasons. 

Iwaizumi’s in the middle of working on a tough piece of beef when Atsumu slides his phone over the table into his space. He places his own phone onto the table, looking up at Atsumu.

“Can I help you?”

“You can, my dude. Who’s this?”

Iwaizumi looks. It’s the photo he’d already seen in the purposefully-exclusionary group chat, still blurry, Oikawa still completely unrecognizable. He should have known. The meat he’d been halfway through swallowing suddenly feels like it’s sticking in his throat, and he winces as he grabs his water to wash it down. His next order of business is to shove the phone back across the table.

“Are you the fucking paparazzi?” he says, shaking his head. “I’m gonna call your brother and tell him you’re being a brat at the Olympic village.”

“Joke’s on you, Iwa-san. Out of everyone in the world, ‘Samu’s the one who’s most aware that I’m a brat.”

“I know he’ll give me your mother’s number if I ask, so what about her?”

Ushijima, on the other side of the table, cranes his neck to look at the image as Atsumu says, “You can’t bring my mom into it, man!”

“Your friend is tall,” says Ushijima, and Iwaizumi looks over at him. “Is he an athlete?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “Nope. No, Just tall. Maybe he played basketball in high school, I don’t remember. We, uh, met after high school.” The answer seems to satisfy Ushijima, who chews the last tiny bite of his meal with care, but he can feel Atsumu’s eyes boring into his face from the side. 

“Don’t even start, Miya,” he says, determinedly not looking over at him.

“I’m not starting anything! And if I was, I wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.”

“You’d be pissing me the fuck off.”

“My apologies,” says Ushijima, gathering his plates together and placing his chopsticks on top. 

“No, you’re fine,” sighs Iwaizumi. “I’m just getting sick of being accused of dating my friend and being followed around like a fucking celebrity.”

“We weren’t following you, just in the right place at the right time,” replies Atsumu, leaning his chin on his hand, bobbing his foot underneath the table. It reminds him a little bit of Oikawa, and Iwaizumi wants to cringe. “C’mon, Iwa-san, it’ll be less annoying if you give in.” 

“I definitely have to call your mom, since she apparently never taught you about respecting boundaries.”

As if on cue, Iwaizumi’s phone starts vibrating on the table between the two of them. His stomach twists as he remembers planning for Oikawa to call him on his lunch break to discuss meeting up again that night. He immediately makes eye contact with Atsumu, who raises his eyebrows and nods towards the rattling phone. 

“Someone’s calling you, Iwaizumi-san.” His voice is neutral, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Iwaizumi nods once. “I see that.”

“You’re just gonna ignore it?”

“I might. It's probably not important.” Atsumu’s eyes bore into his. He knows they’re both perfectly aware of what’s happening here.

“You sure? That’s pretty rude.”

“Yeah. I'm rude sometimes. Don’t worry about it.”

A beat passes where Atsumu’s eyes flicker to the phone, his shoulder tensing, and then they both lunge at once. Iwaizumi has the advantage of being closer to the phone, but Atsumu manages to wrap his massive hand around it first and pin it to the table. Ushijima says “Miya-san!” in his deep voice behind them, apparently just returned from putting his tray away, as Iwaizumi grabs Atsumu’s wrist with one hand and tries to shove his fingers between the phone and the table with the other.

“I’m not gonna answer it,” grunts Atsumu, trying to pry Iwaizumi’s hand off. “I just want to see who's calling- do you have caller ID? Just let me- see-”

Suddenly, another hand is in the mix, pulling the still-vibrating phone from under Atsumu’s hand. Iwaizumi looks up as Ushijima stands above them, expression neutral.

“Oh, Ushi-Ushi!” says Atsumu. “What does it say?”

Ushijima doesn’t even look, instead locking the phone and passing it to Iwaizumi, who lets out a little laugh of relief.

“Thank you, Ushijima-san.”

“Privacy is important,” says Ushijima, nodding. “Miya-san has been letting his own curiosity get the better of him and not treating you how you deserve. My apologies for his behaviour.”

“Oh, would you look at that,” says Iwaizumi, unable to resist gloating a little, looking back at Atsumu, whose eyes are wide. “Someone on this team has a sense of decency after all.”

“Ah, that’s not what this is about,” says Atsumu, looking up at Iwaizumi, the tops of his cheeks pink. "I don't mean any disrespect, Iwa-san, really." Maybe people like Ushijima Wakatoshi exist to keep the Miya Atsumus of the world in check.

“Puppy-dog eyes don’t work on me,” snorts Iwaizumi, resistant after years of coaching volleyball summer camps. The only person exempt from that rule is on the other end of the phone, probably cursing him for not picking up and in the process of typing out a strongly-worded complaint. “You’re uninvited to the wedding for this, too. Ushijima-san, you can take his place.”

Iwaizumi slides his phone into his back pocket, grinning as Atsumu groans, “Aw, no!”

#

Iwaizumi calls back on the short walk from the hotel to the volleyball gym for the team’s afternoon practice. Oikawa picks up on the third ring.

“Well, well, look who decided to call back his incredibly patient and sexy boyfriend,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

“Only one of those is right,” Iwaizumi replies, walking with his free hand in his pocket. “I’m sorry, I was eating with Atsumu. He tried to grab my phone to see who was calling.”

“Maybe Iwa-chan shouldn’t have his phone out in front of our current enemy number one.”

“Ushijima saved me, actually,” he says, pleased at the bristle he can feel emanating from Oikawa through the phone.

“I’m sure he has his moments,” Oikawa says, casual as ever. His one-sided feud with Ushijima only becomes funnier as they grow older, especially since the latter is incredibly benign and always asks Iwaizumi about how Oikawa’s doing.

“When can I come over tonight?”

“I have evening practice tonight,” says Oikawa, and Iwaizumi’s heart sinks. “By the time I’m showered it’ll probably be around eight, eight-thirty. Come over for eight and join me?”

Iwaizumi can’t stop himself from smiling against his phone, sidestepping a slow walker on the sidewalk.

“I’ll be there.”

“I bought lube yesterday. Wanna try out the Olympics condoms they gave us?”

“So badly.”

Oikawa laughs into the phone. “Soon, mi amor! I’ll be waiting. Gotta run, though, my coach is glaring at me. Oh, he’s getting up and walking over. Tell my mom and Satsuki I love them if he kills me! Love you! Mwah!” 

He hangs up before Iwaizumi can reply. Iwaizumi spends the rest of the walk with a huge smile on his face, even when he pulls on the door to get into the building and realizes a bird has shat on his backpack.

#

The day’s practice feels like it drags on forever. Sakusa approaches him after a couple flubbed spikes, frowning, telling him that something feels off about his ankle when he jumps. Iwaizumi twirls Sakusa’s ankle in slow circles as Sakusa sits on the bench, asks how it feels in different positions, nods at his answers, but in the back of his mind all he sees and hears is Oikawa. Being denied the night before, hearing his voice on the phone earlier, the plans to see each other that night, all culminate in his thoughts being overwhelmed by his boyfriend; how Oikawa looks up at him when he’s kneeling between Iwaizumi’s legs, the flush that blooms over his face and chest when he’s close, his high, breathless moans when Iwaizumi’s hitting the right spot.

“Iwaizumi-san,” says Sakusa, snapping him out of it. If he’s not careful, he’s gonna get hard with Sakusa’s foot in his hand. He’s looking down at him quizzically. “You aren’t getting sick, are you.”

“Oh, no, I feel fine. Just distracted by something else.” He sets Sakusa’s foot back on the ground with a nod. “You’re fine, too. Just sit out of practice for now, work on the stretches I showed you, and you’ll be fine.”

Iwaizumi pretends not to see Sakusa’s brow furrow slightly as he looks down at him. The evening can’t come fast enough.

#

Iwaizumi can’t help but fiddle with his hair on the elevator ride down to Oikawa’s floor, anticipation curling in his gut. He’d felt a little guilty for ducking out of a perfectly interesting conversation with Yaku outside his room, but after dinner all he wanted to do was take the fastest shower of his life and escape to Oikawa’s room. Oikawa ends up home earlier than anticipated, so he answers the door with wet hair and flushed cheeks. There’s droplets of water on his shirt, a horrendously ugly geometric patterned thing, the product of recent experiments with thrift stores in every city he visits.

“Hi, my love,” Oikawa says, smiling, stepping aside so Iwaizumi can shuffle in. 

“Hi.” He barely kicks off his slides before Oikawa reaches for his hand, and he’s looking at Iwaizumi like the sun shines out of his ass, and he can see a sheen of honey-flavoured lip balm on his lips, and Iwaizumi’s already-paper-thin patience falls apart.

His hands meet Oikawa’s face, his eyes widening. His skin is warm from the hot water of his shower, soft with expensive moisturizer. Iwaizumi walks him backwards, pressing him against the wall for the second time since their reunion this week.

“Oh, eager, are we-” starts Oikawa, but then Iwaizumi’s kissing him, tasting honey lip balm on his tongue.

Oikawa sinks into him, arms coming up to wrap around Iwaizumi’s neck. It’s intense, all tongue and clacking teeth, and when Iwaizumi kisses his cheek to mouth at his neck, Oikawa’s breath hitches. His skin smells of hotel soap and something warm and familiar and his own that makes Iwaizumi want to breathe in nothing but him. 

“Holy shit,” says Oikawa as Iwaizumi shoves his hand beyond the waistband of his joggers. “Been thinking of me, have you?” he teases, but it’s breathless and his eyes are half lidded.

“Yeah, I have,” replies Iwaizumi, lips against Oikawa's neck, feeling his cock start to stiffen at his touch. “Almost made Sakusa think I have a foot fetish.”

“Please don’t talk about your coworkers when my dick is in your hand, no matter how stupid the sentence,” says Oikawa. Iwaizumi kisses from his neck to his mouth, partly to shut him up and partly because if he doesn’t have his tongue in Oikawa's mouth right now he might actually die. Oikawa moans into the kiss as Iwaizumi’s hand moves between them, grip firm but gentle, and Iwaizumi feels his own pants tighten.

“Can I suck you off?” he murmurs, and the other hums.

“What kind of a question is that? The answer will always be yes.” Iwaizumi sinks to his knees in front of him, tugging his pants and underwear down over his thighs. “At the planetarium, the movie theatre, in the car, I don’t care. Always-” his breath hitches as Iwaizumi takes him into his mouth. “Always yes.” 

If it were any other time, Iwaizumi would spend time here teasing him, until Oikawa’s jittery and his hands are grasping at Iwaizumi’s hair, desperate for more. Right now all Iwaizumi wants is to make him whine and pant and come into his mouth, so he immediately starts bobbing his head, hand working what his mouth can’t reach. Oikawa tips his head back against the wall, a moan at the back of his throat.

Three feet away, someone raps a set of knuckles against their door.

Oikawa jumps, and Iwaizumi has to stop himself from biting down and sending his boyfriend to the hospital.

“Just a second!” says Oikawa, mirroring Iwaizumi’s wide-eyed confusion, who pulls off and wipes the back of his mouth with his hand. A voice comes through the door, and it takes Iwaizumi a moment to register that it’s Spanish. Oikawa replies something Iwaizumi can’t understand, voice a little shrill, pulling his pants up and tucking himself into them as Iwaizumi stands up. 

“That’s my coach,” Oikawa whispers, ushering Iwaizumi back towards the bathroom.

“What does he want?” he whispers, but Oikawa shakes his head.

“Haven't a clue. Just wait here, I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.” With a kiss on the cheek Oikawa closes the bathroom door, and Iwaizumi is left staring at himself in the mirror and wondering what he’d done in a past life to deserve this. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, still half hard and pissed off as Oikawa and his coach prattle back and forth in quick Spanish, muffled through the door. Distantly, the front door opens again, and another voice joins the fray, louder and distressed-sounding. Iwaizumi considers the potential benefits of smacking his head into the tile surrounding the bathtub. 

The conversation takes a while. He’s halfway through raiding Oikawa’s skincare bag, reading the ingredients on the back of an expensive-looking jar of night cream, when Oikawa barges into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him, and Iwaizumi immediately knows what he’s about to say from the expression on his face.

“No,” says Iwaizumi as Oikawa opens his mouth, and Oikawa’s expression wilts.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispers back, somehow managing to whisper and yell at the same time. “They really need me out there.”

“What happened?”

“A teammate’s got cold feet,” sighs Oikawa, running a hand through his hair. Iwaizumi notices it’s messy, as if Oikawa had been running his hand through his hair a lot out there. “It’s Mateo, actually. They want me to try talking to him. He’s having a pretty bad time being away from home for the first time and the pressure’s getting to him.”

Iwaizumi sighs, his anger at the situation abating slightly. Iwaizumi knows what it’s like to leave his family, friends, and hometown behind, but he didn’t have the pressure of an Olympic debut on his shoulders. 

“Fuck. That sucks.” Oikawa leans in to rest his forehead on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Iwaizumi wraps his arms around his back, rubbing the silky material of his stupid shirt.

“Yeah, pretty much. He’ll get through it, though. Plus, I'm like a magician with things like this, one good talk and he'll be making plans to move here permanently.” 

“What do they think you’re doing in here?” says Iwaizumi. Oikawa twists his head to look up. 

“What choice did I have? I told them I have the shits.” Iwaizumi snorts, squeezing him. 

“Do you think you can come over after you sort it out?” he murmurs, moving some of Oikawa’s hair out of his eyes. It’s a risk to have Oikawa come to his room, and it’s already nearly past his bedtime, but at this point he’s feeling weak.

“Mm, Iwa-chan, you’re willing to risk your doctor-ordered eight-and-a-half hours of sleep for me? I’m so touched.”

“Answer before I change my mind.”

“You’re thinking with your dick, mi amor. I am too, but I want to make sure you mean it.”

“I don’t think I even care anymore. I’m tired of not being able to share a bed with you.” Oikawa’s eyes widen, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

“Okay, I’ll try. If I don’t text you by eleven, go to sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

Oikawa straightens up, bringing up a hand to Iwaizumi’s cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. They look at each other, and Oikawa leans in to kiss Iwaizumi on the forehead, then the cheek, then the mouth. His breath is warm, puffing against Iwaizumi’s face. 

“Don’t cum without me, though,” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi grunts, pushing him off.

“Go help your teammate,” he says. “Text me when you’re in his room and I can get out of here.”

“Will do.” One more kiss and Oikawa leaves, shutting the door behind him. Iwaizumi listens as his boyfriend’s voice erupts into Spanish, joined by the other two voices, and then as the room door closes and the voices recede.

He sighs. At this point, he wonders if the universe is trying to tell him something.

#

It’s nearly nine-thirty by the time Iwaizumi receives Oikawa’s text telling him that they’re safely in Mateo’s room and the hallway should be clear. He feels shifty and suspicious as he makes the trek back to his room, without Oikawa, once again, to lie in his bed alone, once again. He’s considering the implications of not listening to Oikawa’s request and getting himself off anyway, since he highly doubts Oikawa will feel up to having sex when the issue with Mateo is resolved, if he is even able to see Iwaizumi at all. He steels himself for another lonely night when the elevator doors open and he’s face-to-face with Kageyama.

Kageyama’s eyes widen. It’s been years since Iwaizumi and Oikawa were his upperclassmen, and though Oikawa always seemed to have a problem with him, in Iwaizumi’s mind the only issue he ever had with Kageyama Tobio was that Oikawa compared himself to him too much. Even so, he gets the feeling that Kageyama is wary of him, the way the stray cats near his college apartment would watch him every time he set out food for them on his balcony. 

In the last several years of training together, their conversations haven’t gone much further than polite small talk, or what is immediately at hand: Iwaizumi-san, would you please pass the water jug? Kageyama-san, how do you feel after yesterday’s training?  Iwaizumi’s watched him argue with Hinata from the sidelines and wondered where the energy and vitriol goes when they’re in a room alone, because he’s always subdued, quiet, when alone with Iwaizumi.

“Hello, Kageyama-san,” says Iwaizumi, stepping into the elevator. Kageyama moves aside to make space. “Up late?” He knows Kageyama, specifically, is an early riser.

“Ah, hi, Iwaizumi-san.” Kageyama glances sideways at him as Iwaizumi reaches for the button for their floor, realizing it’s already lit up. Right. Kageyama pauses, as the doors close. “Couldn’t sleep, so I went for a swim.”

“Ah, yeah. Great way to move without putting stress on your joints.” The elevator trundles upwards, and Iwaizumi swears the air between them feels much more awkward than usual.

“Mm,” says Kageyama, agreeing. “It’s great.”

The elevator dings as they reach their floor, and they step out together. “Iwaizumi-san,” says Kageyama.

“Yeah?”

“Are you dating Oikawa-san?”

Iwaizumi nearly trips over his own foot, stepping unevenly on the carpet. He stumbles, feeling like the breath has just been knocked out of him. 

“Don’t say that so loud,” he hisses, though the hallway is empty, and it might have been a better idea to stick to his initial strategy of denial, denial, denial. He sighs, straightening back up. “How, uh. How did you know that?”

“Hinata visited Oikawa-san a few days ago on the floor you were coming from.” He pauses. “It also wasn’t hard to put two and two together after Miya-san started asking about who you were dating. Since I’ve known you both for so long.”

“Well,” says Iwaizumi. “You’re right.”

Kageyama nods as they continue to walk down their hallway. “Makes sense." Iwaizumi stares at the gaudy hallway carpet, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that, even to socially-clueless Kageyama, his relationship with Oikawa just makes sense. "Why keep it a secret?”

Iwaizumi sighs. His little encounter with Oikawa’s bathroom had him wondering the same.

“Mainly to keep things from the official press, so nobody has any doubts about our intentions in the Japan v. Argentina match,” he says. “And, well, because we didn’t want any drama from either team. We thought some of you might consider it fraternizing with the enemy. And with a new relationship we, uh, kinda wanted privacy.”

Kageyama nods, hands deep in the pockets of his athletic pants. “I understand. I didn’t tell anyone, and I won’t, if you don't want me to,” he says, eyes on the descending numbers on the hallway doors. 

“Oh. Thank you, Kageyama-san,” says Iwaizumi, surprisingly touched at his thoughtfulness. 

Kageyama stops. “Here’s my room.” He looks up, and Iwaizumi’s pretty sure it’s one of the few times since middle school they’ve made direct eye contact. “Congratulations. It must be nice to date your best friend.” Iwaizumi’s eyebrows rise before he can help it, and Kageyama seems to rethink what he said, a blush appearing high on his cheeks. “I mean-” he backtracks. “If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” grins Iwaizumi. “It is.”

#

Iwaizumi stays realistic yet optimistic about Oikawa’s chances at coming by that night. He eats while watching some home renovation show on the hotel TV until his eyes glaze over, doesn’t jerk off, and checks his phone every five minutes for a text he knows hasn’t come in. As the time on his phone creeps closer to 10:30 and his bed starts looking more and more inviting, he accepts that Oikawa will probably have to stay in his own room tonight. He types out a text, tells Oikawa he loves him and that he’s going to go to bed, only to hear a knock on his door before he can press send.

Oikawa looks tired but happy, reminiscent of the look he’d give Iwaizumi on many of their high school nights up late studying when Iwaizumi asked how he was holding up. There’s a little overnight bag tucked under his arm, a smile at his lips. Iwaizumi can’t stop his own from creeping out at the sight of him, warm and real and here.

“Hey, you made it,” he says.

Oikawa holds up his bag, presenting it like a trophy. “Ready for our sleepover, Iwa-chan! Just like old times!”

“Yeah, not quite.” Iwaizumi lets Oikawa walk in and drop the bag on the floor, pulling off his sneakers. He immediately opens his arms afterwards, and Iwaizumi goes to him, sighing at the feeling of Oikawa’s arms wrapping around him, his head tucking neatly against Oikawa’s neck. They hold each other, quiet, the only sound a hum from the mini fridge and the slow inhale and exhale of breath. Iwaizumi wonders how much love he can pour into the entranceways of these hotel rooms, how many times they can reunite in such a simple place.

It’s not just the past few days have been difficult, or the months that their time zones were 12 full hours apart, or the months before they were able to steal a week to enjoy each other in Buenos Aires. Oikawa told him once when they were kids, casually and without fully understanding the weight of it, that because Iwaizumi was born one month earlier, there had never been a time before Oikawa had known him. He thinks of that, now.

Oikawa pulls back to kiss him on the head, making him huff.

“Did everything work out?” asks Iwaizumi, intertwining their fingers together as he steps back, letting his thumb rub against the back of Oikawa’s hand. 

“Of course, I worked my magic, didn’t I? Mateo just needed a long talk with someone who’d been through the same thing. I was the same age as him when I moved to Argentina, you know.” Iwaizumi thinks of him, freshly 18, pulling a suitcase covered in volleyball stickers and waving goodbye at the airport. His chest aches.

“He’s lucky. You’re a good friend, I would know.”

Oikawa turns up his nose at him, but Iwaizumi feels him squeeze his hand. “Mm, compliments won’t make me put out, Iwa-chan.” 

Iwaizumi grins, and he spots the sly little smile on Oikawa’s lips, and wants to kiss it off him. He does.

“Seriously,” says Iwaizumi as Oikawa pulls out of the kiss. “Nothing else will go wrong tonight, right?”

“Someone would need to pull the fire alarm to get me out of your bed.” Oikawa starts pushing him gently, a hand on his chest helping him walk backwards towards it.

“Don’t tempt fate,” says Iwaizumi, mentally trying to visualize where he left his suitcase so he doesn’t trip over it. “Someone’s gonna try smoking in their room and set a curtain on fire.”

“If that happens, then at least I’ll go out doing what I love.” The back of Iwaizumi’s calves hit the mattress and he lets himself be pushed back onto the bed.

“Which is?”

Oikawa crawls on top of him, straddling his lap, letting his arms rest on Iwaizumi’s shoulders. “Getting fucked into the mattress.”

Iwaizumi grins, desire twisting deep in his belly. He shuffles backwards so he’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, Oikawa following on his knees. Oikawa wraps his hands around Iwaizumi’s neck, leaning in to kiss him again. 

“You wanna?” he asks when they pull back, searching Iwaizumi’s eyes. He doesn’t know how to tell Oikawa how badly he wants to.

“So much, Tooru. So much.”

Oikawa grins, sitting up on his heels, starting to loosen the buttons of his ridiculous shirt. Up close, Iwaizumi can tell the pattern is made of geometric yellow-and-blue flowers, not just shapes. 

“Let me,” says Iwaizumi, reaching out for Oikawa’s hands. “I want to undress you.”

“Mm, so demanding. Go ahead, then.”

It’s tender, then, Oikawa draping his forearms over his shoulders, Iwaizumi’s hands working the tiny buttons from feel alone, eyes locked. When they were teenagers Iwaizumi resented the smug look Oikawa started carrying around the summer they stood back-to-back and discovered he’d grown taller; as an adult, he realizes he loves looking up into his face. Oikawa's hands rub against his back, fingertips feeling at the skin at the back of his neck, the short hair there. He leans in to kiss Iwaizumi’s forehead before the shirt is even off, shrugging out of it as Iwaizumi tugs. He pushes down on Iwaizumi’s chest with a hand, gently, then lets himself fall forward on top of him. 

They're kissing then, first slow and sweet, then deeper, the slide of Oikawa’s tongue against his making Iwaizumi’s head spin. He agrees, privately, that nothing but a fire can get them out of this room until morning. 

Oikawa leans down to mouth at Iwaizumi’s neck, his ear, breath hot against his skin.

“You have no idea what it was doing to me to have you in the same building and not be able to touch you,” he murmurs, and Iwaizumi feels goosebumps prick up on his arms. Oikawa’s fingers are feather-light against his chest.

“I know exactly what it was like,” he says instead. “I was in the exact same position.”

“Oh yeah? Did you have to knock away images of Iwa-chan with a mental baseball bat while trying to console a crying teammate? I don't think you did.” He rolls his hips, and Iwaizumi’s body is responding in kind. He grabs Oikawa’s ass and pulls him down, grinding themselves together through their clothes.

“But I got to taste you earlier,” he says, feeling Oikawa’s breath hitch. “Everyone knows that having a taste just makes you hungrier, right?”

"That's a little cheesy, even for you," says Oikawa, grinning, before leaning forward to bite at Iwaizumi’s lip. He captures his mouth in a kiss, insistent this time, pawing at Iwaizumi’s shirt to encourage its swift removal. When the shirt is off and Oikawa’s hands are exploring the muscles in his chest, Iwaizumi’s works at Oikawa’s belt, the metal clicking. He pulls it out of Oikawa’s belt loops in one swift motion, sending it off the bed to land in a heap.

“Oh, so sexy, Iwa-chan,” teases Oikawa. “Where did you learn that?”

Iwaizumi ignores him, reaching for the button on his pants, relishing the outline of his boyfriend’s cock through the fabric. “Get these off,” he says, capturing another kiss after he says it, his chin bumping against Oikawa’s. 

Oikawa makes quick work of the pants, slipping them off along with his underwear and socks as Iwaizumi watches, heat curling in his belly at the sight. When Oikawa sits back up, cock heavy against his stomach, Iwaizumi eases him down onto his back, loving the little sigh that comes out of his mouth.

He kisses Oikawa's jaw, fingertips rubbing at his nipples, pleased to hear him whine under his touch. Oikawa reaches a hand between them to palm at Iwaizumi’s cock through his sweatpants, gently, as if just to feel the weight of it in his hand.

“It’s been so long, I almost forgot how big you are,” he breathes, smiling, but Iwaizumi leans in to nip at his bottom lip.

“I know I didn't let you forget,” he says, and Oikawa hums.

“Tell me what you want, Tooru,” he murmurs against Oikawa's mouth, and the hand touching him stills.

“I want you inside me,” he says, voice low. “I’m so fucking sick of waiting for it, I can’t wait anymore.”

“You don't want my mouth first?”

“Are you really questioning a request like that?”

Iwaizumi kisses him once, twice. “Wait here.” He stands up, hard dick jutting out, feeling Oikawa’s eyes on him. “You brought lube?” he asks, stepping out of his sweats and underwear. 

“Yeah, everything’s in my bag,” says Oikawa. “Hurry up, Iwa-chan, I’m waiting.”

Iwaizumi roots through Oikawa's bag, trying not to fling his clothes and toiletries all over the hotel floor until his fingers find the lube and a roll of official Olympic condoms. He tosses them on the bed next to Oikawa and crawls up onto it, the mattress sagging under his weight. Oikawa spreads his knees almost automatically, letting Iwaizumi crawl up in between them, holding himself up above him.

“God, you look so good like this,” he says, stroking Oikawa's cheek. He hums, turning his head, tongue slipping out between his lips to lick at Iwaizumi’s fingers, and when Iwaizumi slips his thumb into Oikawa’s mouth, his lips close around it. Iwaizumi can feel his tongue press against the pad of it, hot and wet, and then he sucks, gaze flickering back to Iwaizumi’s. He doesn’t think he’s ever been harder in his life.

“Fuck,” he says, pressing down on Oikawa’s tongue, and Oikawa opens his mouth. Iwaizumi watches as spit fills the grooves of his molars and he doesn’t remember how to breathe, how to speak. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

He removes his hand and Oikawa whines. Iwaizumi's hands shake as he uncaps the lube, anticipation and arousal swirling through his belly, and covers his pointer and middle fingers. He adjusts his position between Oikawa’s legs, rubbing some up against Oikawa's rim for good measure.

“You ready, my love?” he asks, and Oikawa nods, eyes half-lidded and gorgeous. His mouth falls open slightly as Iwaizumi pushes a finger inside him, feeling the muscle tense and relax.

“This okay?” he murmurs, and Oikawa nods as he pushes in another easily. Oikawa rocks his hips, fucking himself on Iwaizumi’s fingers as he stretches him open.

“Keep going,” moans Oikawa as Iwaizumi curls his fingers. “I’ve been using that dildo you bought for me, you don't have to go slow.”

“And you told me not to get off without you,” says Iwaizumi, turned on but not surprised at the fact that Oikawa had the guts to get a sex toy past airport security. “You're such a hypocrite.” He pushes in the third finger, feeling the muscle stretch around him, slowly fucking his fingers in and out.

Iwaizumi doesn’t think he’ll ever get over being this close to Oikawa, being inside him in any way, having him hot and wet and panting around him. He scissors his fingers, Oikawa still trying to rock his hips to take him deeper, have more. 

Oikawa’s chest is rising and falling, a beautiful flush on his skin, as Iwaizumi pulls out his fingers, slowly. He turns around to look for somewhere to wipe them when he spots Oikawa’s pants crumpled behind them, and reaches over to wipe the lube off on one of the legs.

“Iwa-chan!” comes the indignant voice. “Those are expensive, you could have wiped lube on your own clothes.”

“Do you want me to fuck you or not?” he says instead, rising up on his knees, hiking one of Oikawa’s legs up to his chest so his knee is over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Oikawa pouts but stays silent, which Iwaizumi takes as a win. He feels over blindly on the bed for the condoms, finding one and ripping it open with his teeth. Oikawa reaches forward to roll the condom down for him, hands deft with practice. Impeccable teamwork, as always.

Oikawa, cock hard and flushed between them, grins as Iwaizumi drizzles lube over himself, pumping a couple times to spread it. He leans forward, one hand lining himself up and the other gripping Oikawa’s thigh. He loves it best when Oikawa rides him, the view of his boyfriend on top of him gorgeous and overwhelming, but he knows Oikawa loves to feel his weight. Iwaizumi could say he’s in a giving mood tonight, but if he’s honest with himself, he knows he would do anything to please Oikawa, in the bedroom or out of it.

“Ready?” he says, and Oikawa’s eyes are wide, expectant, fingers gripping Iwaizumi’s shoulders as he pushes in slowly. The heat and the tightness is intoxicating, pulling a groan from the back of his throat as Oikawa moans at the feeling, mouth opening in a gasp.

“Good?” he asks. Oikawa huffs, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows. Iwaizumi wants to kiss it off him.

“Just give me a second,” Oikawa says, voice curt. Iwaizumi waits even though his whole body is yelling at him to move, letting Oikawa get used to the stretch, knowing full well how overwhelming the feeling can be.

“Okay, more,” Oikawa breathes, and Iwaizumi pushes in, slowly, until he’s bottomed out.

He starts slow, their eyes locked, faces close as he fucks into him. Oikawa’s hands come up to hold Iwaizumi’s face, Iwaizumi bracing one hand on the bed and the other gripping Oikawa's thigh.

He can feel Oikawa’s muscles relax as they get into a rhythm, melting into the feeling. Oikawa makes these sweet little ah sounds that drive Iwaizumi crazy every time he bottoms out, hands on Iwaizumi's face, scrabbling at his biceps.

His eyes are half lidded, mouth open and inviting, breath hot. Iwaizumi leans forward, nearly bending Oikawa in half to kiss him, probably sweeter than he deserves with the lewd little whines he’s making at the back of his throat. It’s unbelievable, the heat of Oikawa’s body, the feeling around his cock, the taste of his mouth, his tongue; he’s missed all of it, especially late at night, but his fantasies aren’t even close to the real thing. The feeling of Oikawa underneath him is as all-encompassing as his personality, the kind that draws people to him like gravity pulls the Earth around the sun. He loves him, he loves everything about him, loves the fingertips pressing into his face and shoulder and the feeling of Oikawa’s heel digging into his back, the way the muscle in his thigh tenses and relaxes, tenses and relaxes as Iwaizumi fucks him.

“This good?” Iwaizumi pants, lips brushing against Oikawa’s. He knows it is by the sounds Oikawa is making, but he wants to hear him say it.

“So good, so good,” moans Oikawa, the hair at his temple starting to stick together with sweat. They forgot to turn on the air conditioner earlier but he loves them both like this, sticky and raw and panting and cracked open. “Harder, Hajime.” 

He grabs Oikawa’s hips, adjusting so Oikawa’s back is arched and his feet are planted on the bed, fucking him deeper so the sound of skin slapping skin fills the room. Oikawa’s hands, up by his head, start fisting blindly at the sheets, his pillow. 

“Please, yes,” he rasps, and Iwaizumi loves when he’s like this, when his voice gets raw and he can't string together more than two words at a time. The angle must be hitting the right spot because his breathing is ragged, gasping, eyes never leaving Iwaizumi’s.

“You’re taking it so well,” says Iwaizumi, and he swears he feels Oikawa tighten around him, spurring him on so the words tumble out before he knows what he’s saying. “You feel so fucking good, you make me feel so good, Tooru.” 

"Only for you, Hajime," Oikawa gasps. Iwaizumi’s hands tighten on his hips, pulling him down while he thrusts forward, making Oikawa’s eyes flutter closed.

“Wait, look at me,” says Iwaizumi, and Oikawa’s eyes open, and he's so stunning and debauched Iwaizumi can’t resist moving his clean hand from Oikawa’s hip to his face, fore and middle fingers touching at his lip, slipping into his mouth.

Oikawa slips his tongue between Iwaizumi’s fingers, hot and pliant and wet, and Iwaizumi can't breathe, can't look away. 

“God, you’re beautiful.”

Oikawa smiles, tongue sliding over Iwaizumi’s forefinger, panting hot against his hand, and the creases the movement creates by his eyes might be the prettiest thing Iwaizumi’s ever seen.

“I can’t believe I’m so lucky, I really can’t.”

“Show me, then,” Oikawa pants, between kisses up Iwaizumi’s palm. “Show me how lucky you are to have me.” His eyes are blazing, and Iwaizumi doesn’t think he’s going to last long at this rate.

He calls forth the oldest trick in the book, pulling out to change positions to give himself a moment to regain composure as much as to answer Oikawa’s request. He sets Oikawa’s hips back down on the bed, Oikawa whining at the loss of his cock, or hand, or both.

“On your hands and knees, then,” he says, and Oikawa scoffs.

“Am I a dog, Iwa-chan?” he says, even as he flips over onto his front, obliging.

“I thought you wanted me to show you.”

He grabs his hips, thumbs gripping into his ass cheeks, and lines himself back up. 

“You sure are taking your time, are you sure you’re not just-” his words are cut off as Iwaizumi pushes back into him, replaced with a gasp. "Hah, fuck."

Oikawa surprises Iwaizumi by letting his arms give out so he’s lying with his chest against the bed, ass up. Oikawa doesn’t finish the thought, distracted by Iwaizumi resuming his earlier pace right away. It’s a compliment, really.

Having Oikawa spread out before him like this is stunning. Iwaizumi stares hungrily at the view of the planes of his back, muscled and gorgeous, the ridge of his spine. Oikawa's head is turned, cheek pressed into a pillow, voice muffled with it, his hands grasping at nothing, as if he needs something, anything, to hold onto as Iwaizumi fucks him. Iwaizumi snakes a hand around his waist, leaning forward to press kisses against Oikawa’s back, tasting the sweat on his skin.

Oikawa says his name like a mantra, like a prayer: hajime, hajime, haji, his eyes shut tight. Iwaizumi knows him now, knows what he wants when he sounds like this, knows what he’s going to ask for.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asks, pressing a kiss to one of Oikawa’s vertebrae.

“Please, baby,” is the reply, moaned against the pillow. “Please touch me.”

“Only because you've been so good for me,” he says, and Oikawa moans as Iwaizumi adjusts his position to wrap a hand around Oikawa's cock, other gripping the headboard, running a finger over the head to feel a string of precum dripping against the sheets. 

“Fuck,” gasps Oikawa as Iwaizumi strokes him, slower than he knows he wants, to the same pace as his thrusts. Oikawa curses and Iwaizumi remembers, in a flash, that he shares a wall with both Yaku’s room on the left and Hakuba on the right, but at this point he can’t give less of a shit. He’ll buy them drinks next time they go out as a thank-you for their patience.

Oikawa’s practically dripping for him, loud and beautiful and his, and if the bedframe knocks against the wall in this position, it’s not his problem. He’s not going to last long now, but he’s already decided tonight is about what Oikawa wants, so he’s determined to hold back, look away from Oikawa folded underneath him and focus on anything but the feeling of tightness of Oikawa’s body around him.

It turns out easier than he expects, as before long Oikawa is gasping, “Ah, I’m close, I’m close,” and Iwaizumi stops stroking him, stilling his movement. Oikawa's legs are trembling beneath him as he lets out a little huff, lifting his head off the pillow to look up at Iwaizumi.

“Iwa-chan, you tease.”

“I wanna see your face,” he answers, and that seems to be a satisfactory reason to stop fucking him. Oikawa flips onto his back, arms up by his head, chest flushed and hair messy and sticking to his forehead with sweat, and something constricts in Iwaizumi’s chest.

He can't resist. “I love you,” he says, folding over to kiss his cheek, his lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Oikawa lets out a laugh as Iwaizumi kisses him, his chest moving with his breath. “I love you, mi amor,” he says, smile splitting his face, hand coming up to card through Iwaizimi’s hair, their faces so close the tips of their noses touch. Oikawa's gorgeous, even when the closeness makes Iwaizumi's vision fisheyed and Oikawa looks like a cyclops. “But you need to make me come or I'll do it myself.”

“Like hell you will,” says Iwaizumi, straightening up. He hikes both hands under Oikawa's knees and pushes back inside him, pleased at the choked gasp he receives in return, and wraps his hand around Oikawa’s cock. He loves it like this, looking down from on top of him, Oikawa spread out underneath him, chest heaving. Iwaizumi jerks him off the way he knows he likes, fast and steady, and the expression on his face alone makes lasting a losing game, his own orgasm building, movements stuttering, but then Oikawa’s gasping, “Gonna come, Hajime, gonna come-” 

He comes with a sob, spilling all over Iwaizumi’s hand, his own stomach and chest, eyes shut tight. Iwaizumi fucks him through it slowly, strokes him until Oikawa’s abs are twitching and he’s batting Iwaizumi's hand away, eyes half-lidded and breathing hard. He wraps his hands around Iwaizumi's back, pulling him closer for a kiss, inhaling hard through his nose, before they pull back slightly to search each other's eyes. Oikawa must see the look on Iwaizumi’s face, the sweat he can feel on his temples and lower back, the desperation in his eyes, and know what he wants.

“Come inside me, my love?” Oikawa asks, fingers stroking Iwaizumi’s cheek.

All he can reply is a choked, “God, yes,” before chasing the feeling.

Iwaizumi leans in to kiss him again, once, twice, then presses their foreheads together, fingers intertwining up by Oikawa’s shoulder. He doesn't hold back now, mesmerized by Oikawa's eyes staring into his, the breath against his mouth, the sound of him murmuring “come on, baby, give it to me,” and then he's coming hard into the condom with a curse, Oikawa’s thighs tightening around his midsection.

They breathe together, then, Iwaizumi letting his head hang and pressing his face in the spot between Oikawa’s neck and shoulder. Oikawa smells like himself, like clean sweat, expensive shampoo, feels like warmth. Oikawa’s fingers card through his hair lazily, like an afterthought. 

He turns his head to kiss Oikawa’s cheek, under his ear, the sweaty hair at his temple. When he pulls himself up on his arms and looks down, Oikawa has a huge, sleepy grin on his face and Iwaizumi realizes he hasn’t stopped smiling either. He leans in for another kiss, because he can, and Oikawa hums against his lips.

“Okay, I’m pulling out,” says Iwaizumi as Oikawa wraps his arms around his shoulders.

“Ugh, I hate this part,” he sighs.

“What, you’d rather have this gross thing inside you forever?” Iwaizumi says after he pulls out, removing the condom carefully and walking to the bathroom to throw it in the trash and wash his hands. 

“You know what I meant, Iwa-chan. You’re the perverted one, anyway; I saw that look you got on your face when I sucked on your fingers, don’t pretend I didn’t.”

Iwaizumi walks back to the bed and climbs into Oikawa’s open arms, lying down so they’re facing each other. “What about, ah, Hajime, fuck me harder, ah-- ” He exaggerates in a high voice, sounding nothing like Oikawa, but it has its intended effect regardless.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa pouts, eyebrows knitting, as he pulls one of Iwaizumi’s legs over his own. “I’d be offended if I didn’t know that I have a deeper voice than you and always have.”

Iwaizumi grins, reaching forward to intertwine their hands together between their bodies. They lie there for a moment, searching each other’s eyes, Iwaizumi feeling Oikawa’s pulse point thrum in his wrist. He wants to thank Oikawa’s heart for a lifetime of keeping his favourite person alive.

“I’m lucky too.” Oikawa’s breath is warm against his face.

“Hm?”

“You said you were lucky, earlier. I know you are, obviously-” Iwaizumi snorts, which Oikawa ignores- “ But I’m lucky to have you too; in my arms, in my bed, in my life, in every way it’s possible to have someone.” His voice is low, tired, his earlier arrogance gone. “I’ve always been lucky.” Iwaizumi feels like Oikawa could touch him and he’d break apart, like glass made from sugar. 

“Wow, I fucked you so well you turned into a nice person.”

Oikawa scoffs, and Iwaizumi snickers. 

He pulls Oikawa’s hand up to his face, kissing each knuckle, slowly, watching Oikawa’s gaze follow his lips.

“I’ll be luckier than you the day I get to put a ring,” -kiss- “right,” -kiss- “here.” He stops on Oikawa’s ring finger, watching as Oikawa’s eyes turn glassy, his chin wobbling. The first time they spoke about someday getting married was over breakfast in Buenos Aires, Oikawa's mouth at Iwaizumi's ear, making him splutter and nearly drop the blueberries he was washing in the sink. It's come up a few times since, each time making his chest ache with the thought.

“You can’t just say that, my love,” Oikawa whines, rolling over on top of Iwaizumi, kissing his nose, his chin, his eyelids. Iwaizumi laughs, because he can feel rapidly-cooling cum drip off Oikawa’s stomach and onto his, and that should be gross but it isn't, and even though Oikawa chokes out, “and that’s the wrong hand, stupid,” he’s happy, he’s happy, he’s happy.

Oikawa exercises his right as the taller boyfriend and acts as big spoon after they clean up and brush their teeth, hip-bumping each other in front of the mirror. Iwaizumi falls asleep with Oikawa pressed up against every plane of his body, their fingers tangled and his breath against the back of his neck. He hasn’t slept better in months.

#

It’s not until they're regaining consciousness the next morning to banging on the hotel door and what sounds like Atsumu’s voice yelling “open up!” that either of them realize that something’s wrong.

“Fuck,” says Iwaizumi, his brain hardly able to register words, as Oikawa sits up blearily beside him, blinking and scowling. “Fuck, what time is…” He reaches for his phone on the bedside table, squinting at the light. There’s three missed calls from his coach, the group chat’s messages filling his screen, and the clock in the corner lets him know he should have been at the gym fifteen minutes prior.

“Your alarm didn’t go off?” asks Oikawa. 

“I guess I forgot to set it- why the fuck was it on silent?” The banging continues, and then there’s another voice, that definitely belongs to Hinata, saying, “Iwaizumi-san, are you alright?”

“Fuck,” says Iwaizumi, throwing the blankets off himself and Oikawa at once, who gives a dramatic shiver.

“Careful, you’re on the way to using up your ‘fuck’ quota for the day,” he says, yawning as he rolls himself out of bed.

When he’s up, Iwaizumi pushes Oikawa into the bathroom in an unfortunate role reversal of the night before, as he shoves his legs into a pair of sweatpants and a toothbrush into his mouth.

“One second!” he calls out. “I’m coming to the door.” He does his oral hygiene a disservice and brushes for less time than he should, before closing the bathroom door on a decidedly pissed-off Oikawa and heading to the door.

He opens it to see Hinata and Atsumu, as expected, dressed in their training clothes and blessedly alone. Before he can say anything, Atsumu pushes past him and crowds into the room, Hinata following with a quick, “Sorry to intrude, Iwaizumi-san!”

“You're late,” says Atsumu, matter-of-fact and annoying about it. “For the first time ever. What happened?”

“I overslept,” says Iwaizumi, shaking his head, sleep-deprived brain unable to locate a training shirt as he scans the floor. “Forgot to set my alarm correctly,” he says, walking to and digging through the hotel dresser. “Don't know what happened, sorry guys.”

“That's okay!” says Hinata, cheerful as always. “Just glad you're feeling okay! We were waiting for you at the gym but you never showed and weren’t answering your phone, so coach thought we could come check on you and see if you were sick or something.”

“No, I’m not sick,” says Iwaizumi, searching the floor for his keys. “Just, uh, late night, and didn’t realize my phone was on silent. I’m really sorry for interrupting your morning, guys. I’ll take you out for drinks sometime.”

He finds his keys and looks up to see Atsumu patrolling the room, arms crossed. They notice it at the same moment: a yellow-and-blue button-up shirt, the pattern glaring and ridiculous against the drab grey carpet, crumpled as if the victim of being thrown (it was). He points to it, looking up at Iwaizumi, eyes widening, the itch of a pleased grin at the corner of his mouth. 

“He's here,” Atsumu breathes, in the same tone of voice as someone in awe of a natural wonder. “He's here right now, isn't he?” Iwaizumi shakes his head, but his stomach flips with dawning horror. “Oh my god, Iwaizumi-san, here’s here! He’s here right now!”

Iwaizumi, still barely half awake, can only wring the bare minimum of an excuse out of his sleep-deprived brain: “No, that’s mine.” He strides over to it, bending down to pick it up, holds it up to his chest like he’s at the store and trying to see if it will fit around his shoulders. It’s glaringly obvious to everyone watching, including Iwaizumi, that it’s meant for someone significantly less beefy than him. 

Atsumu barks out a laugh. “You can't convince me that's yours when I've only ever seen you in black, white, or grey for the past two years. Nice try, though.” 

Hinata, who had been watching wide-eyed from in front of the bathroom since he and Atsumu had pushed past Iwaizumi into the room, suddenly pipes up. “It’s mine.” He points to it, still held in front of Iwaizumi’s chest. “That’s my shirt.” Atsumu turns to him, eyes narrowing. 

“What?”

Hinata steps forward and snatches it out of Iwaizumi’s hands, the other man bewildered, letting him take it.

“Thank you, Iwaizumi-san,” says Hinata, suddenly standing straighter, eyes serious. “For holding onto it for me.”

It’s a losing game, but he’ll bite. “You’re welcome, Hinata. Anything for a teammate.” In a flash of inspiration, he winds back and socks him on the arm playfully, and hopes Atsumu can’t tell he’s never done that to Hinata before in his life. Hinata winces, but smiles, plastic and unconvincing, like the school photo of a child who does not want to be there.

Atsumu scoffs. “You guys must think I’m really stupid, huh. I know this isn't your shirt, Shoyo-kun. Why are you sticking up for him? Actually, what's going on?” He whirls around, pointing at Iwaizumi. “Are you dating Shoyo-kun? What's happening?”

Maybe the terrible attempts at lying grind a heel into Oikawa's patience, or maybe the idea of Iwaizumi dating Hinata is too much for him to bear, but that's when Oikawa decides he can't take it anymore.

“Fine, fine, you win, I’m hiding in here,” comes his voice, muffled through the bathroom door. Iwaizumi smacks his face with his hand and groans. Atsumu’s pointing to the bathroom like he's just won the lottery, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. “HE'S- IWAIZUMI SAN, YOU- HE-”

“Iwa-chan, come here and hand me my clothes, please.”

It somehow makes perfect sense that The Secret would be blown wide open due to their own lack of foresight. Iwaizumi curses his past self’s willingness to pass out in Oikawa’s arms without thinking of how getting five hours of sleep would affect them, but otherwise, he's almost relieved. If they had to be found out, at least it’s after a wonderful night. He could do without the audience, though, Hinata fretfully rubbing his hands together like he's trying to warm them up and Atsumu grinning bright enough to sunburn the back of Iwaizumi's neck.

He gathers Oikawa’s clothes off the floor, shoving them into his overnight bag, realizing in that moment that they never put the condoms and lube away and didn't have the brains to at least kick them under the bed when they were rushing. He punts them towards his suitcase now, begging whoever’s watching from above to make Atsumu and Hinata have a little mercy and pretend to be very interested in the hotel wallpaper. Oikawa opens the bathroom door and sticks his head out like a cartoon character in a TV show, reaching for the clothes, and to Iwaizumi’s horror, introduces himself.

“Hello, nice to meet you,” he says. Atsumu wheezes out a laugh, bending over like he suddenly can’t handle standing upright, and slaps one of his massive thighs. Hinata waves.

“I’m Oikawa Tooru, the starting setter for Argentina for your match in four days. Yes, your trainer and I are dating, and yes, we were lying about it because we knew at least one of you would make a huge fucking problem out of it and we didnt want the media or the Olympics to ask questions. But I'm sick of this, you're all terrible liars, and after Mr. Technology over here accidentally sent his penis to Bokuto, everything fell apart.” Iwaizumi wants to burst into flames.

"Holy shit, I can't believe this is happening," Atsumu whines, still bent over with an elbow resting on his thigh, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his finger. "You guys- fuck, you guys, this is so much funnier than I ever expected."

"Great," says Iwaizumi. "Cool. Glad you're enjoying yourself, Miya-san. Miya Atsumu," he gestures from Atsumu to the gremlin in the doorway, "Oikawa Tooru, grade-A asshole. You finally meet."

“So mean, darling,” tuts Oikawa, before throwing out a peace sign to Atsumu, both the overnight bag and his head disappearing back into the bathroom. The door closes, and Iwaizumi goes against what every cell in his body is screaming at him to do and turns back around to look at his teammates.

Hinata’s pale, the plastic smile back on his face, and Atsumu is standing up straight again, beaming, like he's seconds away from blowing a joke.

“This is the best day of my life,” he chokes.

“Thanks for trying, Hinata,” says Iwaizumi, and Hinata regains some colour in his face. 

“Ah, I’m sorry I couldn’t think of anything better. Pretending not to know was the worst, though.”

Atsumu turns to Hinata. “You knew? How did you know?” Hinata raises his hands in surrender, the inability to lie kicking back in, and starts babbling uhh I just uhhh but then they hear the sound of the bathroom door opening. 

Oikawa walks out fully dressed, and Atsumu’s eyes light up. “Wait,” he says. “You said Oikawa- I know you.”

Oikawa nods at him. “Yes, I did just introduce myself.”

“Shoyo’s talked about you and Brazil so many times, I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection.” He swivels between facing Iwaizumi and Oikawa, arms up. “You know each other? What’s the problem with me knowing you were dating? I know exactly who you are!”

Iwaizumi spends the moment packing up his work bag, throwing on his training pants and zipping up his jacket.

“Your team knowing who I am was part of the reason it was supposed to be a secret,” says Oikawa, leaning his hip against the dresser. “As romantic as it is to be star-crossed lovers separated by the net , we wanted some privacy.”

“Well, hey,” says Atsumu. “Privacy kinda flew out the window when Bokuto told all of us Iwaizumi-san sent him a nude.” Iwaizumi’s hand clenches over the strap of his backpack at the sound of that as he hoists it over his back.

“You’re Japanese, right?” continues Atsumu, as Iwaizumi’s face flames. “I read about you. Did we play each other in high school?”

“Never had the pleasure,” says Oikawa. “Just know that I'm personally going to destroy you next week, if not as a player, as an individual, for making my life significantly more annoying for the past few days.” 

Atsumu elbows Hinata in the ribs. “Heh, I like him.”

Hinata beams. "I know, right?"

“Well, then,” says Iwaizumi, striding up to the group, adjusting his bag's strap over his shoulder. “This has been stupid, but I’m still late, so we should get going. All together, I guess.”

Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa, who approaches, snaking a hand to press at Iwaizumi's lower back.

“I don’t have practice until ten-thirty,” he says.

That’s when there’s a knock at the door. Knocks on doors have been the bane of Iwaizumi's existence for the last few days, and the sound of this one fills him with dread. Before Iwaizumi can tell Hinata to wait, he’s already swinging open the door to produce Bokuto, Komori, and Hoshiumi, dressed in their training clothes, who immediately crowd inside with the sound of heavy steps against carpet. Iwaizumi wonders if there’s something about professional volleyball players that stops them from understanding personal space.

“Hey, there he is!” says Bokuto, immediately approaching and clapping Iwaizumi on the back, voice booming, as always. He’s sucking on a lollipop for some reason, the hard candy clacking against his teeth. “Oh wait, what are you…” He looks up at Oikawa standing next to him, makes confused eye contact. “Wait, huh? HUH?”

Hoshiumi, big eyes zeroing in directly on Oikawa, nods upwards at him. “Who’s that,” he says.

“Iwaizumi-san’s boyfriend,” says Atsumu, in a stage-whisper, and Hoshiumi’s face lights up.

Iwaizumi can feel his patience wearing thin as Oikawa starts talking to Bokuto beside him, both of them aware of each other from high school. “Why are you all in my room right now?”

“We heard you yelling down the hall,” says Komori, who had been looking from Oikawa to Iwaizumi and back to Oikawa, arms crossed.

“Why aren’t you at practice?” asks Iwaizumi.

“Why aren’t you?” counters Komori. Iwaizumi has to give him that one. “You were late and not answering your phone, and then coach was called in for a meeting with the venue’s Olympics board so we’re pushing back practice for two hours.”

Suddenly, someone elbows past Bokuto, who raises his arm out of the way. It’s Yaku, saying, “what’s going on in-” his words and steps stopping short when he spots with Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Before he can say anything, two more people enter Iwaizumi’s field of vision, Kageyama and Ushijima, peering into the room around their teammate's heads. Behind them is Aran, eyes widening at the gaggle now spilling out into the hallway.

One hotel room, no matter how big, tends to look a little small when filled with Olympic volleyball players. Iwaizumi’s starting to feel like an animal at the zoo, while Oikawa seems to be keeping his cool beside him, hand never leaving Iwaizumi's now-sweaty back. He hardly even bristles at the sight of Ushijima, as Iwaizumi's team crowds around him. 

“Well,” says Oikawa, then, the chattering stopping. “It’s everyone’s lucky day!” Iwaizumi elbows him, but he seems to have grown resistant over the years because he barely reacts. “For those who don't know me, I'm Oikawa Tooru, and yes, I am the starting setter for Argentina, and yes, I am the boyfriend of your lovely trainer,” (he wraps his arm around Iwaizumi’s waist), “who just got caught sleeping through his alarms and being a very, very bad influence. So very pleased to meet all of you.”

“Good to see you again, Oikawa,” booms Ushijima’s voice from the back. “Congratulations.” Oikawa gives him a little wave. 

“Is this who-” starts Bokuto, turning to look at Hoshiumi and Komori. 

“The nude? Yeah,” answers Hoshiumi. Atsumu snickers.

“I get it, I get it, the nude thing was funny, but we can all move on now,” says Iwaizumi, eyebrows furrowing. “I’d like to see how any of you react next time your phone sexts your mom.”

“Oh, please, Iwa-chan, your teammates are just happy for you,” purrs Oikawa. “Seeing anyone in such a happy, fulfilling relationship is a treat.”

“Sure,” he grunts. “They just want to know who’s been receiving my dick pics.”

“Mm, and I’m so proud to be that person,” says Oikawa, kissing him on the cheek. He feels his face heat at the display of affection, every pair of eyes trained on the both of them, but at this point he thinks he deserves a kiss to make up for what they've been through.

#

Iwaizumi isn’t sure what he expected, but the response is overwhelmingly positive, his teammates excited to meet Oikawa both as a player and as his boyfriend. Oikawa glows in the attention, chatting and laughing as Iwaizumi’s teammates pelt him with questions, hand on his hip. Oikawa’s inherent ability to understand anyone has always been something Iwaizumi admired, and he feels his frustration melt away, replaced with relief, as Oikawa throws his head back and laughs at something Bokuto says. It's loud in the room, several big personalities trying to talk over each other to catch a moment with Oikawa, and someone in the group is spreading around their morning breath, so it isn't long before Iwaizumi is ushering people out.

It takes a few minutes, but everyone clears out of the hotel room and disperses following some hand-waving and Iwaizumi using what he calls his “outdoor voice” when coaching kids’ summer camps. 

Oikawa’s hand intertwines with Iwaizumi's, steady and solid, as they wave away most of the group in the hallway and they disperse to hang out in someone’s room or to spend some time making use of room service. Iwaizumi sighs, feeling relief wash over him as the last door closes.

"God, that was draining," he mutters, then huffs as Oikawa's hand slides out of his grip to cop a feel of Iwaizumi's ass. 

Another door opens at the far end of the hallway, a head of curly dark hair emerging. Iwaizumi watches as Atsumu and Hinata, the only two left, wave Sakusa over.

“Omi-Omi!” says Atsumu, grinning, as Sakusa closes the door behind him and slowly approaches the group. “Where were you?”

“Waiting for everyone to leave,” he says, hands in his pockets. His eyes flicker up to Oikawa, the possessive way he guards Iwaizumi's space. “I’m guessing you’re the reason everyone was annoying in the group chat.”

Oikawa smiles at him, cocking his head only slightly. “You would be correct.”

#

To Iwaizumi’s surprise, Sakusa accepts an invitation to get breakfast with the four of them as they make their way to the elevators, walking calmly beside Atsumu. The latter surprises Iwaizumi too, chattering amiably with his boyfriend.

“Dude, Blanco is one of the best setters I’ve ever seen. You're so lucky to play under him,” says Atsumu, talking animatedly with his hands as they walk.

“That's why I went to Argentina in the first place,” replies Oikawa, any coolness he’d harboured towards Atsumu replaced with genuine interest. “I met him as a kid and got to speak to him in high school, actually. He’s my greatest inspiration, made me realize the lure of becoming a setter.”

“No fucking way!” Atsumu shakes his head. “That's awesome. I remember watching his matches with my brother. He’s, like, incredible.”

“Oh, right, you're the twin,” says Oikawa. “Iwa-chan told me about you.”

“Aw, you did?” beams Atsumu, and Iwaizumi grunts, avoiding eye contact. Hinata snickers. 

“My brother owns this onigiri place now, Onigiri Miya,” continues Atsumu. “He’s working on opening a Tokyo branch soon; if you're ever there, let him know you know me and he’ll treat ya.”

“I’ll make a day of it,” says Oikawa, smiling. “What made him decide to quit volleyball?”

“Of course they get along,” mutters Iwaizumi, shaking his head. He’s being sour, but seeing his teammate chatting with Oikawa makes warmth wash over him regardless. His eyes are heavy from lack of sleep, his head pounds from the first caffeine withdrawal headache he's had in weeks, but watching Oikawa brush a hand through his hair as he walks with Atsumu ahead of him makes him feel like this all ended up being worthwhile.

They all shuffle into a stuffy elevator together, Hinata pressing the button for the lobby, Sakusa sandwiched into the corner. Oikawa’s telling Atsumu a story Iwaizumi’s heard before about his first week in Argentina, his voice loud in the small space, and when he gets to the part about the coach bus toilet Atsumu throws his head back and laughs.

Hinata turns to look up at Iwaizumi, grinning. “Things worked out, didn't they, Iwaizumi-san?” he says. 

“I guess, but we still need to keep things a secret from the media. Don’t go blabbing just because our idiot teammates know now.” 

Oikawa doesn’t stop talking to Atsumu, but Iwaizumi feels his hand snake up against his arm and intertwine their fingers together.

#

Breakfast is surprisingly nice. Oikawa fits right into the strange group they’ve gathered, him and Hinata talking over each other to tell a story about a bar they’d gone to together when Oikawa visited Brazil. Oikawa slings a finger into one of Iwaizumi’s belt loops, and he can feel Oikawa’s heel rub against his ankle under the table. Iwaizumi leans back in his chair, sipping on his coffee and watching the way the sunlight streaming through the large windows lights Oikawa’s hair up in red. He notices a grey hair behind Oikawa’s ear as he talks, and the sight of it makes something warm bloom in his chest. 

Later, they choose a vacant hallway off the hotel’s lobby to part ways before Oikawa heads back to his own practice and the rest of the group head to theirs. Oikawa leans in to kiss him, soft and chaste, forearms resting lazily on Iwaizumi's shoulders. He's acutely aware of his teammates standing just a few feet away, their backs to a supply closet, but they're chattering amongst themselves and Sakusa had taken out his phone on the way out of breakfast so Iwaizumi hopes they aren't paying attention.

Oikawa has slight dark circles under his eyes. It's something he whines and frets about, cutting up fridge-cold cucumber slices and pressing them to his undereyes, but if they weren't a symbol of his lack of sleep, Iwaizumi would think they were gorgeous. They still are. He brushes Oikawa’s hair aside, softly, to press a kiss to his forehead. Oikawa hums, leaning into the touch, and it feels like they're alone in this world.

“Ew,” comes Atsumu’s voice from behind them.

Iwaizumi whirls around, Oikawa grinning deviously by his ear. When had he and Hinata started staring? “What are you ew -ing for? This is what you wanted,” he snaps, only conscious of the volume of his voice because they’re technically in a public area. “This is what you get for being so fucking nosy.” Atsumu raises his hands in surrender, as Oikawa drapes his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck and sticks out his tongue.

“Sorry, sorry, you’re cute or whatever. Don’t kill me.”

Hinata elbows Atsumu in the side. “C’mon, give them a second,” he says, and they turn around. Sakusa leans against the wall, eyes on his phone. Iwaizumi suddenly appreciates his disinterest.

“You three are free to leave,” says Iwaizumi. “I can make it to the gym on my own.”

“We were tasked to show up with you so showing up with you is what we will do,” says Atsumu confidently, still turned away.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes but when he turns his head to look back at Oikawa, his boyfriend is snickering, eyes soft.

“What are you laughing at?” he grumbles. Oikawa plays with the hem of Iwaizumi’s shirt.

“I just love you, dummy,” he says, and Iwaizumi feels his anger melt away.

“I love you too,” he mumbles, and Oikawa pulls him into his arms. Iwaizumi sighs into Oikawa's neck, closing his eyes, feeling his boyfriend's fingers card through his hair. Someone's kid is crying in the lobby and Hinata and Atsumu are discussing something in low, hurried tones, but all he cares about is the fact that he can smell his own sheets on Oikawa's skin, knows Oikawa's scent is on his own.

“Does this mean we can share a room from now on?” Oikawa says into his ear, voice low and rumbling.

“We’re still technically supposed to keep this secret,” says Iwaizumi, moving so his chin rests against Oikawa’s shoulder.

“There's only a few days until the game," murmurs Oikawa. "Your team can keep things quiet until then, right?”

Iwaizumi draws a circle against Oikawa’s back with a finger. “Probably. Maybe.”

“I’m willing to trust them if it means seeing you every night.”

Iwaizumi sighs, nuzzling his face into Oikawa’s neck. The sound of the kid crying in the lobby suddenly becomes louder, as if the kid is making a beeline for their location. Iwaizumi tries to care, realizes he doesn't. 

“We need to head out now, baby.”

“Mm.” Oikawa hums, Iwaizumi feeling his vocal chords vibrate in his throat. “Can I come over tonight?”

“Yeah. Yeah, please.”

When they pull out of the hug, Iwaizumi can’t resist placing another kiss to Oikawa’s mouth, then his cheek, then his forehead, before squeezing his hands and waving him off. Oikawa blows him a kiss as he walks away, ever dramatic, and Iwaizumi humours him by pretending to catch it in the air and pressing it to his lips. It's okay, then, he realizes. No matter how many of his teammates snicker and poke at him for messing up, no matter how many people try to pry into his personal life with wiggling eyebrows and sly smiles, he gets to fall asleep in Oikawa's arms tonight. No matter how many months go by where they have to work around time zones and schedules and get by with tearful I miss you's over the phone, there will always be a promise between them, an end goal: their lives, intertwined, whenever and wherever that may be.

He walks back to the rest of his entourage, face a little pink, hoping they didn't see him miming into the air. Hinata, bless him, looks to be glowing with excitement as they walk their way to the gym, but nobody speaks until they’re out of the hotel and making their way down the street. 

“You guys are the cutest couple I’ve ever seen!” he says, eyes shining. "You look like you belong in a romance movie, or something."

Sakusa snorts. "I didn't know you liked those things, Hinata." 

“Ugh, them? What about us?” Atsumu blurts, gesturing to Sakusa with a thumb. There's a pause, as the group's mental cogs grind through understanding what just came out of his mouth. 

It’s one of those rare instances where things seem to happen in slow motion. Sakusa halts in the middle of the sidewalk, Atsumu bumping into him with his shoulder as he stumbles to a stop. Atsumu’s mouth falls open but his eyes stare straight ahead, glued to the park bench a few feet ahead like it's supposed to save him. Sakusa glares sideways at Atsumu, eyes low and dark above his face mask, shoulders stiff. Atsumu looks like his brain is buffering, mouth now plastered in a woozy smile. Hinata stops beside them, that glassy, plastic grin tacked right back on, wide eyes glancing from Atsumu to Iwaizumi and back to Atsumu. Iwaizumi turns to look at the three of them, a couple steps ahead, squinting in the sunlight. Several things in his mind click into place.

Atsumu's gaze flickers up to Iwaizumi's, eyes pleading, as if begging him to keep walking and pretend nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. Citygoers pass by them, weaving by their impromptu traffic jam in the street, but nobody in the group moves a step.

The blood leaves Atsumu’s face as Iwaizumi breaks out into a grin.