Chapter Text
I may not always love you
The thing about Iwaizumi Hajime is that he's a planner. He likes knowing what's coming, likes having contingencies, likes being prepared. It's what makes him a good athlete, anticipating the play before it happens, reading the court, staying three steps ahead. It's what's going to make him a good physical therapist someday, or so his academic advisor keeps telling him with an approving nod that makes Iwaizumi feel like he's doing at least one thing right in his life.
So when he'd found out, via an email from university housing at precisely 9:47 PM on a Tuesday in July, that his roommate for sophomore year would be one Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi had done what any reasonable person would do: he'd stared at his phone screen for a full three minutes, experienced what could only be described as a minor existential crisis, and then resigned himself to his fate with all the grace of a man walking toward his own execution.
Because here's the thing about Oikawa Tooru: he has never, not once in the entire twenty years they've known each other (nineteen years and eight months if you want to be specific, which Oikawa always does), understood the concept of personal space. Or boundaries. Or the general idea that Iwaizumi might want to exist in a Oikawa-free zone for more than thirty consecutive minutes.
And now they're going to be sharing a twelve-by-fourteen dorm room.
Iwaizumi is done with Oikawa's shit before it even begins.
Move-in day is a special kind of chaos. The parking lot outside Morrison Hall is a gridlocked nightmare of minivans and SUVs, parents wielding box cutters like weapons, freshmen looking vaguely terrified and trying very hard not to show it. Iwaizumi had arrived at 8 AM sharp, because that's when the email said move-in started, and he's nothing if not punctual. His parents had helped him haul his stuff up to room 3B; two flights of stairs, because of course the elevator was already broken, and had left with the kind of misty-eyed pride that made Iwaizumi's chest feel tight and uncomfortable.
"You call if you need anything," his mother had said, squeezing his shoulders.
"Take care of yourself," his father had added, gruff but warm. "And take care of Tooru."
Because of course. Of course they'd said that. As if Iwaizumi hasn't been taking care of Tooru since they were five years old and Oikawa had fallen off the monkey bars trying to prove he could hang upside down longer than anyone else in their kindergarten class.
(He'd succeeded, technically. He'd also given himself a concussion. Iwaizumi had held his hand the entire way to the hospital and hadn't let go even when the nurse tried to separate them. Some things never change.)
Now it's 10:30 AM, and Iwaizumi has unpacked exactly two boxes when he hears it: the unmistakable sound of Oikawa Tooru's voice echoing down the hallway, loud and bright and so fundamentally Oikawa that Iwaizumi feels something in his chest twist sideways.
"—no, Mom, I can carry it myself, I'm not twelve—yes, I know you're just trying to help—Mom, I promise I'll call you twice a week—"
Iwaizumi doesn't turn around. He focuses very intently on arranging his textbooks on his desk in alphabetical order by subject, because that's a normal thing to do and definitely not a way to avoid thinking about the fact that Oikawa is about to walk through that door and Iwaizumi is going to have to look at him and act normal about it.
He's been practicing acting normal about Oikawa for approximately fifteen years. You'd think he'd be better at it by now.
The door crashes open with the subtlety of a natural disaster.
"IWA-CHAN!"
Iwaizumi doesn't even get a chance to brace himself before there's a hundred and seventy pounds of overexcited astrophysics major colliding with his back, arms wrapping around his waist, chin hooking over his shoulder. Oikawa's pressed against him from shoulder to hip, and he's warm, he's always warm, like he runs a few degrees hotter than normal humans, and he smells like the expensive shampoo he's been using since they were sixteen and the mint gum he's constantly chewing and something else, something that's just fundamentally Oikawa and that Iwaizumi has never been able to adequately describe.
Not that he's tried. That would be weird.
"Get off," Iwaizumi grunts, but he doesn't actually push Oikawa away. He never does. This is part of the problem.
"We're roommates!" Oikawa sing-songs directly into his ear, breath hot against Iwaizumi's skin. "Can you believe it? This is fate, Iwa-chan. Destiny. The universe has smiled upon us."
"It's a housing lottery," Iwaizumi says flatly. "Random number generator. Not destiny."
"You have no romance in your soul," Oikawa sighs, but he finally—finally—lets go, only to immediately invade Iwaizumi's space from a different angle, peering around his shoulder at the textbooks. "Ooh, are you organizing? You're so cute when you're organized. Look at you, all responsible and adult-like."
"One of us has to be."
"Rude." Oikawa flicks him on the ear, which is such a ridiculous, childish gesture that Iwaizumi has to suppress a smile. "I'm very responsible. I'm here on time, aren't I?"
Iwaizumi finally turns around, which is a mistake, because Oikawa is right there, close enough that Iwaizumi could count his eyelashes if he wanted to (he doesn't want to), and he's—
He's gotten taller.
It's been two months since they've seen each other in person. Two months since graduation, since Oikawa left for some fancy astrophysics summer program in Tokyo while Iwaizumi stayed in Sendai and worked at his dad's clinic. They'd texted, obviously. FaceTimed a few times. But it's not the same as this, as having Oikawa in front of him, solid and real and somehow different in ways Iwaizumi can't quite articulate.
He's definitely taller. Maybe an inch, which puts him a couple inches taller than Iwaizumi. His shoulders are broader too, like he actually followed through on his promise to keep up with conditioning over the summer. His hair is the same disaster it's always been, pushed back from his face in that casually messy way that probably takes him twenty minutes to perfect.
He's wearing a black t-shirt with a graphic of a UFO on it that says "I WANT TO BELIEVE" and jeans that are—
Iwaizumi drags his eyes back up to Oikawa's face very deliberately.
"You're staring," Oikawa says, and there's something in his voice, something almost tentative, that makes Iwaizumi's stomach flip.
"You look different," Iwaizumi says, because he's apparently incapable of keeping his mouth shut.
"Different good or different bad?"
"Just different."
Oikawa's eyes narrow. "That's not an answer, Iwa-chan."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
For a moment, they just look at each other. There's something crackling in the air between them, something that feels like the moment before a serve, all potential energy waiting to be released. Oikawa's eyes are very brown and very bright and focused on Iwaizumi with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
Then Oikawa's mother appears in the doorway, struggling with a box labeled "TEXTBOOKS (IMPORTANT!!!)" in Oikawa's messy handwriting, and the moment shatters.
"Tooru, where do you want—oh! Hajime!" Mrs. Oikawa's face lights up, because she's always liked Iwaizumi, has treated him like a second son since they were kids. "Look at you! You've gotten so handsome!"
"Hi, Mrs. Oikawa," Iwaizumi says, moving to help her with the box because that's what you do. "Let me get that."
"Such a good boy," she says warmly, relinquishing the box. It's heavy as hell—Oikawa's textbooks always are, because he insists on buying the physical copies instead of the digital ones. "I'm so glad you two are rooming together. I'll sleep better knowing someone's keeping an eye on my Tooru."
"Mom," Oikawa whines, in that particular tone that means he's embarrassed but also pleased.
"I'll do my best," Iwaizumi says, setting the box down on what is clearly going to be Oikawa's desk, because it's the one by the window and Oikawa has always been weirdly specific about natural light.
The next hour is a blur of boxes and bags and Oikawa's mother fussing over both of them while Oikawa protests that he's a grown adult who can take care of himself, thanks, even as he very clearly enjoys the attention. Iwaizumi helps unpack because that's what he does, has always done—Oikawa gestures dramatically and provides commentary while Iwaizumi does the actual work. It's a system. It works.
By the time Mrs. Oikawa finally leaves—after extracting promises that they'll eat properly and sleep enough and call home regularly—the room is starting to look lived-in. Oikawa's side is a disaster of textbooks and star charts and alien conspiracy magazines (because of course), while Iwaizumi's is neat and organized and has a small stack of photography books that he definitely doesn't want to talk about.
"Your mom's nice," Iwaizumi says, because the silence feels too big suddenly, too full of things he doesn't know how to name.
"She loves you more than me," Oikawa says cheerfully, flopping onto his bed—the one by the window, as predicted. "It's devastating, really. I'm her only son and yet."
"Can you blame her?"
"Rude!" But Oikawa's grinning, that stupid, gorgeous grin that Iwaizumi has been halfway in love with since they were six years old and Oikawa had smiled at him like that after Iwaizumi had punched a kid who'd been making fun of Oikawa's glasses.
(Iwaizumi had gotten in trouble. Oikawa had gotten new glasses. They'd been best friends ever since. Cause and effect.)
Iwaizumi turns back to his unpacking, pulling out his camera bag with more care than he'd given anything else. It's a Canon EOS R6, a graduation gift from his parents that had made him actually tear up a little. He's been into photography since high school, started out taking action shots at volleyball games and somehow ended up with a hobby that actually brings him peace in a way nothing else does.
"Oh!" Oikawa's suddenly right behind him, peering over his shoulder at the camera. Personal space remains a foreign concept. "You brought your camera! Are you going to take photos of me? You should take photos of me. I'm very photogenic."
"You're very full of yourself."
"It's not bragging if it's true." Oikawa reaches out like he's going to touch the camera, then seems to think better of it, pulling his hand back. He knows how much Iwaizumi cares about his equipment. "Will you though? Take photos of me?"
There's something in his voice again, that same tentative quality from earlier. Like the answer actually matters to him.
"Maybe," Iwaizumi says, which is as close to 'yes, obviously, you're my favorite subject' as he's willing to get. "If you behave."
"When have I ever misbehaved?"
Iwaizumi gives him a look.
"Okay, fair," Oikawa concedes. "But I'll be good! I'll be the best photography model you've ever had. I'll make you famous, Iwa-chan. They'll write articles about you. 'The Photographer Who Captured the Essence of Oikawa Tooru's Beauty.'"
"I'm going to actually murder you."
"You'd miss me too much."
The worst part is that he's right. Iwaizumi would miss him. Does miss him, even when they're in the same room, even when Oikawa's talking a mile a minute about nothing and everything. There's a specific kind of loneliness that comes from being in love with your best friend, from knowing that the person you want is right there, close enough to touch, and simultaneously impossibly far away.
But Iwaizumi's had a lot of practice with that particular brand of loneliness. He's fine. He's always fine.
"Come on," he says, changing the subject. "We should finish unpacking. And then we need to figure out food."
"Food!" Oikawa perks up immediately. "Yes! I'm starving. We should order pizza. Or Chinese. Or—oh! There's a new ramen place that opened near campus, we should try that."
"We literally just moved in."
"Which means we need to celebrate!" Oikawa's already pulling out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen. "I'm texting Makki and Mattsun. They're on the third floor. We should all go together."
And just like that, they're making plans, falling into the easy rhythm they've always had. Oikawa talks, Iwaizumi listens and occasionally interjects with something dry and sarcastic that makes Oikawa laugh. It's comfortable. Familiar.
Dangerous.
Because the thing is, Iwaizumi knows how this goes. He's been here before, has spent years learning how to exist in Oikawa's orbit without getting burned. But that was when they had space, when they could retreat to their separate houses at the end of the day. Now they're going to be together all the time, sharing this tiny room, breathing the same air, and Iwaizumi is going to have to figure out how to keep his heart in check while Oikawa sprawls across his bed and talks about aliens and looks at Iwaizumi like he hung the moon.
He's so screwed.
They end up going to the ramen place with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who Iwaizumi knows from the volleyball team and who are, miraculously, not dating despite the fact that they've been obviously in love with each other since freshman year. At least Iwaizumi's not the only idiot.
"So," Makki says, once they're settled in a booth that's slightly too small for four fully-grown athletes, "roommates, huh?"
"Roommates!" Oikawa confirms brightly, like this is the best news he's ever received. He's sitting next to Iwaizumi, close enough that their thighs are pressed together, and he hasn't noticed or doesn't care. Probably doesn't care. Oikawa's always been casually touchy, treats physical affection like it's something abundant and free.
Iwaizumi is going to develop an ulcer.
"That's either going to be really good or a complete disaster," Mattsun observes, stirring his miso broth thoughtfully.
"Why would it be a disaster?" Oikawa asks, tilting his head. "We've been best friends literally forever."
"Exactly," Makki says, like this explains everything. When Oikawa continues to look confused, he adds: "Living with your best friend is different than just hanging out with them. You're going to see all of each other's gross habits. Like, does Iwaizumi know that you—"
"We've known each other since we were five," Iwaizumi interrupts. "I know all of his gross habits. Trust me."
"Rude!" Oikawa elbows him, which just presses them closer together. "I don't have gross habits. I'm delightful."
"You talk in your sleep."
"That's not gross, that's charming."
"You once had a full conversation about whether aliens would prefer volleyball or basketball."
"And I stand by my analysis! Volleyball is clearly the superior sport for extraterrestrial appreciation because—"
"Oh my god," Makki says, grinning. "This is going to be so entertaining."
"We should start a betting pool," Mattsun suggests. "How long until they kill each other."
"Or make out," Makki adds casually, and Iwaizumi nearly chokes on his ramen.
"What?" Oikawa's voice has gone up half an octave. "Why would we—that's not—we're friends."
"Sure you are," Makki says, in a tone that suggests he believes this about as much as he believes in Oikawa's aliens.
Iwaizumi kicks him under the table.
The rest of dinner is blessedly free of any more comments about making out, though Mattsun does spend an inordinate amount of time looking between Iwaizumi and Oikawa with a knowing expression that makes Iwaizumi want to crawl under the table. Oikawa, oblivious as always, just keeps talking—about his classes, about the volleyball team's prospects this year, about the documentary he watched over the summer about the search for extraterrestrial intelligence.
"Did you know," Oikawa says, gesturing with his chopsticks in a way that makes the waitress nervous, "that there are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on all of Earth's beaches? And if even a tiny fraction of those stars have planets, and even a tiny fraction of those planets could support life—"
"You're going to poke someone's eye out with those," Iwaizumi says, gently pushing Oikawa's hand down.
"—then statistically, it's almost impossible that we're alone," Oikawa finishes, but he lowers the chopsticks obediently. "Don't you think that's amazing, Iwa-chan? We're this tiny speck in an infinite cosmos, and somewhere out there, maybe there's someone else looking up at the stars and wondering if we exist."
There's something almost wistful in his voice, and Iwaizumi—who has never particularly cared about aliens or space or any of it—finds himself saying, "Yeah. That's pretty amazing."
Oikawa beams at him, and Iwaizumi's heart does something complicated and painful in his chest.
Definitely screwed.
They get back to the dorm around nine, stuffed with ramen and ready to collapse. Iwaizumi claims the bathroom first for a shower, because if he doesn't establish this precedent now, Oikawa will monopolize it with his fourteen-step skincare routine and they'll both be late to everything for the rest of the year.
When he comes out, hair still damp and wearing his old Seijoh volleyball t-shirt and sweatpants, Oikawa's sitting cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by what appears to be his entire course schedule printed out and annotated in three different colors.
"What are you doing?" Iwaizumi asks, even though he already knows. Oikawa's always been like this—meticulous about some things, completely chaotic about others, with no apparent system for which is which.
"Planning my semester," Oikawa says, chewing on the end of his pen. It's a habit he's had forever, one that Iwaizumi has watched evolve from pencils to pens to, memorably, a chopstick that one time. "I have Advanced Astrophysics on Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 10 AM, which is perfect because it's late enough that I won't die but early enough that I'll still have afternoon free for practice. But then I have Quantum Mechanics Tuesday, Thursday at 2 PM, which overlaps with—wait, no, that works actually. But then I have this stupid Intro to Classical Mechanics class that's required for my major and it's at—" He pauses, makes a face. "—eight AM on Monday, Wednesday, Friday."
Iwaizumi winces. "You signed up for an eight AM?"
"I thought I'd be different this year!" Oikawa wails, flopping backwards dramatically onto his bed, papers scattering. "I thought college would change me! Make me a morning person! A responsible adult who wakes up early and eats balanced breakfasts and—"
"You're an idiot."
"I prefer 'optimistic.'"
"You're an optimistic idiot."
"You're so mean to me, Iwa-chan." But Oikawa's smiling, and he sits back up, gathering his papers. "Anyway, the problem is that it's Classical Mechanics, which should be easy because it's introductory, but it's taught by Professor Takahashi who's apparently notorious for being boring, and also I'm bad at physics."
Iwaizumi blinks. "You're an astrophysics major."
"I know!"
"How are you bad at physics if you're an astrophysics major?"
"I'm good at the space part!" Oikawa protests. "The stars and the planets and the cosmology! I'm bad at the boring Earth physics. Like, I don't care about momentum and friction and—" He waves his hand vaguely. "—balls rolling down inclined planes."
"That's literally the foundation of all of the space physics."
"I know," Oikawa says miserably. "I'm going to fail. I'm going to fail and lose my scholarship and have to drop out and I'll never become an astronaut or discover aliens and—"
"Okay, stop." Iwaizumi sits down on his own bed, facing Oikawa. "You're not going to fail. You're the smartest person I know."
"I'm really not."
"You are. You're just also dramatic and bad at asking for help." Iwaizumi pauses, then sighs, because he knows where this is going and he's apparently incapable of saying no to
Oikawa. "I'll help you."
Oikawa's head snaps up. "What?"
"With physics. I’ve studied enough in Highschool, haven’t I?. I'll help you."
"Really?" And there's that tentative tone again, like Oikawa can't quite believe Iwaizumi's offering. Like Iwaizumi hasn't been helping him with things for their entire lives.
"Really. But you have to actually try, and you can't complain when I tell you you're doing something wrong."
"I would never complain," Oikawa says, which is such an obvious lie that Iwaizumi doesn't even dignify it with a response.
"And you're buying me coffee. The expensive kind."
"Deal!" Oikawa launches himself across the space between their beds, which is approximately three feet, and somehow manages to tackle Iwaizumi despite the awkward angle. They go down in a tangle of limbs, Oikawa sprawled half on top of him, and Iwaizumi's brain short-circuits because Oikawa is warm and solid and right there, his face inches from Iwaizumi's, his eyes bright with happiness.
"Thank you, Iwa-chan," Oikawa says softly, and for a moment something shifts in his expression, something that makes Iwaizumi's breath catch.
Then Oikawa's rolling off him, bouncing back to his own bed with his usual chaotic energy, and the moment's gone.
"I'm going to ace this class," Oikawa declares. "With your help, I'll be unstoppable. We'll be unstoppable. The dream team! Just like volleyball!"
"Just like volleyball," Iwaizumi echoes, and tries to ignore the way his heart is racing.
They stay up too late, because of course they do. Oikawa needs to tell Iwaizumi about every single thing that happened during his summer program, complete with dramatic reenactments and tangents about the various people he met. Iwaizumi listens and occasionally interjects with questions or comments, and it's easy, comfortable in a way that makes Iwaizumi's chest ache.
Eventually, though, even Oikawa runs out of steam. He's in the middle of a story about his lab partner who apparently believed in flat Earth theory when his words start to slur with exhaustion.
"And then he—" Oikawa yawns. "—he tried to tell me that the moon landing was fake and I was like—"
"Bedtime," Iwaizumi says firmly.
"I'm not tired."
"You're falling asleep mid-sentence."
"Am not." But Oikawa's already moving, sliding under his covers with the practiced ease of someone who's too tired to argue. "Will you turn off the light, Iwa-chan?"
Iwaizumi flicks off the overhead light, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the streetlight filtering through the window. He can hear Oikawa shifting, getting comfortable, the rustle of sheets.
"Iwa-chan?" Oikawa's voice is soft in the dark, almost uncertain.
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad we're roommates."
Something warm and painful blooms in Iwaizumi's chest. "Yeah. Me too."
"Even though I'm going to drive you crazy."
"You already drive me crazy."
"But you love me anyway," Oikawa says, and he says it lightly, teasingly, like he has a hundred times before.
Yes, Iwaizumi thinks. I do. That's the whole problem.
What he says is: "Go to sleep, Shittykawa."
Oikawa laughs softly, and within minutes, his breathing has evened out into sleep.
Iwaizumi lies awake much longer, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of Oikawa breathing across the room, and tries very hard not to think about how he's going to survive this year with his heart intact.
He's not optimistic about his chances.