Chapter Text
prologue.
𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟎:𝟎𝟎 𝐀𝐌, 𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐘𝐎
Minami Riko has always had a fascination for mythology and occultism. She’s unsure when this interest first took root in the corners of her mind, but she recalls spending the majority of her childhood gathering information about gods, specters, and demons. Many a night she would devour whatever book she could get her hands on and scroll through a variety of web pages and forums dedicated to those with similar interests.
It’s why, almost two decades later, she finds herself sitting in a lecture hall at the University of Tokyo on a bleak Monday morning, observing a man with a deep blue sweater and soft, brown hair as he explains the intricacies of legendary beasts and old religions. Oikawa Tooru is an interesting man, she thinks as she idly taps her pen against the notebook in front of her.
Last year, he’d abruptly left without so much as a warning. Turns out, numerous members of his family had disappeared and been brutally slaughtered. Minami remembers the media storm that followed. As well as the funeral. Her family had been invited, of course. Along with other influential families that had either worked with the Oikawas or maintained a close personal relationship with a few of its members.
Professor Oikawa had looked different, she thought.
Sorrowful, but not fatigued.
Minami’s grandmother often pointed out her granddaughter’s keen eye for life’s unusualities. Her parents, however, found it vexatious. According to them, it would be beneficial if she utilized her talents in a way that would be more profitable for the family business. After all, Minami’s life centered around her mother’s company. She was groomed and prepped to take over as head of the company at some point. Which is why they found it an utter waste of time that she decided to take this particular class.
They were probably right.
As Minami allows her teacher’s voice to pass through her, she lazily glances around the lecture hall. Rows and rows of students occupy the numerous seats. An impeccable turnout. Part of her knows that the majority of them are barely interested in the subject matter; they’re merely fascinated by the professor. They’re spectators. Vultures. Intrigued by the tragedy that had befallen the man before them.
Somehow the Oikawa family’s misfortune had turned out to be rather beneficial to the school. Everyone loves a good story after all. Mankind is obsessed with misery and the success stories that are born from them. They adore resurgence; overcoming the odds despite the circumstances breeds hope.
Minami also believes they all suffer from a sadistic sense of voyeurism.
It’s almost perverse.
If the professor knows about this, and she certainly believes he does, he doesn’t show it.
Minami knows that some of the students in the lecture hall had been drawn to this class due to their own impertinence. They were curious; prying eyes glued to the face of a man who’d, according to the media, had nearly lost his own life too. According to the rumors, the professor had been kidnapped and barely made it out alive. It would explain his sudden disappearance, but for some reason Minami never quite believed the lies they fed her.
A sigh passes through her lips—dark eyes gliding across the heads before her.
In the far corner of the hall, she spots a head of auburn hair. Yasuda Tsubaki has a habit of standing out wherever she goes. Minami remembers when she’d shown up one day with short, bleached hair, and a glint in her eye. Her parents had been anything but thrilled about their daughter’s impromptu decision to cut her waist-length, dark hair. It barely reaches her shoulders now.
Minami supposes Yasuda has always been like that. A little rebellious.
She’s currently whispering something into the ear of the student next to her: Shimada Daiki, her boyfriend who Minami suspects has been cheating on Yasuda for quite some time now. They’d been dating on-and-off since high school and Minami recalls Yasuda’s many complaints about her boyfriend’s frequent visits to one of the numerous nightclubs his family owns. She’s heard of the rumors surrounding Shimada’s family. Shady deals and illicit activities. It seems to excite Yasuda for whatever reason. Minami has no interest in meddling in the couple’s affairs as she’s warned Yasuda thrice about Shimada’s behavior.
Two or three rows in front of them, a student seems more interested in what the professor has to say. His eyes are glued to the man with a kind of quiet intensity she rarely sees among her peers. It’s as though he’s carefully analyzing every single word that falls from the professor’s lips.
Even though she’s known Yamazaki Takuya since they were both approximately seven years old, the boy remains somewhat of a mystery to Minami. Most of his academic career was spent in different countries due to his father’s job as a diplomat. From what she remembers, his family moved quite often and he regularly posted photos on his numerous social media accounts, offering onlookers a glimpse into his life through mesmerizing penthouse views in numerous cities.
Shanghai, London, New York. Just to name a few.
It had come as a surprise that Yamazaki chose to enroll in Todai after finishing high school. When asked about his decision to move back to Tokyo, he merely smiled and shrugged, claiming that he’d missed home.
There’s probably an air of truth to his answer, but it’s not the real answer. Minami would know.
While the professor wraps up today’s class, mentioning their homework assignments, numerous students begin to quietly chat among themselves as they gather their belongings. A few of them, namely female students, approach the man—bright-eyed and eager as they bombard him with questions. Some of the questions pertain to the reading material and their assignments while others have nothing to do with anything he’d just said. (Questions about his marital status for example).
He meets them with charming smiles and evasive answers.
Minami remains seated, pinching a lock of hair between her fingers. She observes split ends with pursed lips before twirling the dark strands around her finger while the professor shuts his laptop and smiles at one of his students. Minami vaguely recognizes the girl he’s talking to.
Her dark hair reaches past her shoulders and she removes the glasses sitting at the top of her head before tucking them into her bag. Suzuki is a model student. Smart, kind, ambitious. The type teachers adore.
Perfect.
While Suzuki exits the lecture hall, Minami’s pen slowly continues to tap against her notebook. Five taps.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Three pairs of eyes are aimed at her and she meets their gazes individually. Yasuda. Shimada. Yamazaki.
For the first time that morning, Minami smiles.
𝟏:𝟏𝟓 𝐀𝐌
Suzuki’s screams had stopped a few minutes ago.
The pentagram beneath her body is stained red. White chalk decorates the dark tiles while crimson liquid slowly seeps from her limbs. It crawls across the cold floor, slowly traveling towards the edge of the pentagram. Moonlight filters into the room through one of the small windows. It descends on her body with a sigh, illuminating her pale skin and drowning in dark of her lifeless eyes.
“This sucks,” Shimada complains, a cigarette tucked between his lips.
To his left, Yasuda groans as she reaches for the dark book placed next to Suzuki’s body. Yamazaki hands her a rag and her lips twist in distaste as she wipes it across the book’s cover, removing the blood that threatened to cling to its pages. “I was sure it would work this time,” she says dejectedly.
Minami glances at the body in front of them. At the circle carved into Suzuki’s forehead. At the one, two, three, four candles placed around her body. North, South, East, and West. Just as the book had told them.
Rows of books are lined up against the wall behind her. Most of them are old and weathered. Pages colored yellow and frayed at the edges. Some are unreadable; having fallen victim to the humidity and ice cold temperature of the room. Each time she steps into the room, it feels as though she’s being submerged into a lake at night.
It’s dark, cold, damp. There’s a fireplace that doesn’t work and an old couch that’s likely riddled with twelve types of mold.
Oh, and there’s the occasional bloodstain on the walls and floor.
“I don’t know what we did wrong,” Yasuda murmurs as she offers Minami the book she’d been holding. Minami observes the twelfth page of the book, running a thumb along the bloodstains scattered across the paper.
‘Summoning ritual’ it reads.
“We’ll find another,” she tells her friend calmly. “Suzuki simply wasn’t good enough.”
“Nobody is good enough,” Shimada bites out, tilting his chin upwards as he exhales. Smoke curls from his mouth, climbing towards the high ceiling. An old chandelier looms above them. “It’s a waste of time.”
“We just have to be patient,” it’s Yamazaki who finally speaks. He takes a closer step towards Suzuki, eyes cold and unreadable as he observes her body. Two long cuts run along her arms, from her wrist to her inner elbow.
“We’ve been nothing but patient,” Shimada shoots back with a roll of his eyes. “We need to get rid of the body. Tsubaki make the call.”
“Do it yourself. You know that guy creeps me out.”
As expected, a small argument starts between the two of them. It always does.
Yamazaki tells them to shut up. As he always does.
Minami sighs, eyes darting between the pages in front of her and the corpse laying at her feet. Disappointment crawls through her heart. Bones are crushed beneath its weight. Another failed attempt. Another argument.
Shimada and Yasuda’s voices begin to grow louder and Minami is half tempted to tell both of them to shut up. As her lips part, a syllable formed on her tongue, a gust of wind travels through the room. It’s as though winter itself had crawled into the room, wrapping its long and slender fingers around her throat.
The flames of the candles disappear. Blanketing them in complete darkness. Someone gasps. Someone shrieks. Minami drops the book.
A voice pierces through the veil that’s been cast over them.
“Humans,” it says. “Such peculiar creatures.”
── ⋅♱⋅ ──
𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝟏𝟔𝐓𝐇
Oikawa Tooru doesn’t particularly mind Mondays. It’s the start of a new week and the possibilities are endless. The classes he teaches are pleasant; the first-years are eager and hungry, the second-years are floundering, but ambitious all the same. He can tell which students are overwhelmed—and will likely drop the class—and which ones will persevere. Nevertheless, he’s rooting for all of them equally.
Unlike some of his coworkers, Oikawa doesn’t teach classes with the intention of making students drop out. He merely hopes they learn something. Both about the material and about themselves.
His inbox is flooded with extension requests, miscellaneous questions, numerous resumes, and the occasional witty message from his TAs, who—according to Oikawa’s suspicions—might be dating. Obviously, he doesn’t pry, but they’re not exactly as subtle as they think they are.
He momentarily observes the two boys as they leave his office, nudging one another as they walk down the hallway sporting matching grins, and Oikawa briefly smiles to himself as he wonders how this particular story will unfold. As long as both students are able to do their jobs properly, he won’t complain.
To his left, his phone buzzes twice; the screen lighting up to notify him of the incoming text messages. Rather than reaching for the device, he grants himself another moment of grading the numerous exams stacked in a neat pile in front of him.
On occasion, he’ll write down a short message. A compliment, a question, a piece of advice. Whether they follow the advice is up to them. Some of them do, others barely glance at whatever words are scribbled across a piece of paper that holds no weight to them. They move through the world at their own pace, following a path they’ve chosen for themselves or were pushed towards by parents and caretakers.
His fingers curl around a green bottle of iced tea; nails idly scratching at the label sticking to the plastic. Between the fourth and fifth sip, he sighs whilst tapping his pen against a crumpled sheet of paper. An ache makes itself known between his shoulder blades and the back of his neck—a clear indication of poor posture—and he stretches his arms above his head with a tired groan.
Outside, it begins to drizzle. Drops of water hitting the large windows rhythmically. The sound is somewhat soothing, drowning out the quiet, distant voices of staff and students alike. Clouds swallow every bit of sunlight, casting shadows along wet pavement and brick buildings whilst washing away the worries of those roaming through the Bunkyo area. He briefly eyes the half-eaten egg sandwich laying abandoned at the far end of his desk, toying with the idea of consuming it hours after purchasing it.
Rather than giving into his impulses, removes his glasses. A black microfiber cloth is pulled from the drawer to his left; its fabric gliding across the lenses in his hands before he places the frames onto his nose once more. His gaze lands on the pile again. Eight, nine, ten exams left.
With pursed lips and a dash of optimism he reaches for the first stack of papers.
Roughly three hours and a pile of graded exams later, Oikawa slumps forward—feeling equal parts proud and exhausted—as he presses his left cheek to the cold, wooden surface of his desk. He remains like that for another minute, until a gentle knock causes him to glance towards the door.
It opens slowly, heavy footsteps echoing through the small room. The first thing Oikawa notices is a black shirt, accompanied by a black jacket, firm arms, and broad shoulders. As his gaze travels upwards, he’s met with a familiar face and a dimpled smile he’s seen approximately three-thousand times. Dark eyes regard him, fondness swimming in brown-and-green irises, and Oikawa suddenly notices a rush of warmth traveling through his stomach and concentrating in the center of his chest.
The corners of his mouth reach for the heavens and he’s quick to push himself upright just as his visitor approaches him. Iwaizumi’s quiet ‘hey’ is accompanied by a gentle kiss as he leans over Oikawa’s desk to press their lips together. Relief glides along Oikawa’s spine, seeping into his muscles, and he releases a short hum. Whatever fatigue had settled into his bones moments before, is banished by a pair of soft lips and warm hands. His chin is caught between Iwaizumi’s fingers and he can taste Iwaizumi’s smile on his tongue, briefly, before his boyfriend pulls away and perches on the corner of the desk.
“You look good like this,” Oikawa murmurs, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he reaches for Iwaizumi. A hand settles on his thigh, fingers squeezing the firm muscles underneath layers of clothing. “On my desk.”
There’s a huff and a laugh. An eye-roll too.
Iwaizumi doesn’t relinquish his hold on Oikawa’s chin—if anything he, briefly, tightens his grip. “Working late again?”
“Missed me?”
“You wish.”
A theatrical sigh passes through Oikawa’s lips. “A man can dream…”
The smile Iwaizumi offers him widens slightly, fingers squeezing Oikawa’s cheek. The silver rings around Iwaizumi’s ring finger and thumb feel cool against the warmth of his cheek and Oikawa relishes in the feeling of metal pressing against his skin. They match the small, silver earrings dangling from his left ear.
The moment passes when Iwaizumi drops his hand and says, “C’mon, let’s go, professor. You’re done for the day.”
Oikawa immediately mourns the loss. He pushes himself to his feet while Iwaizumi remains seated atop the desk—his eyes following Oikawa’s movements. Once Oikawa circles the desk, he presses his palms to the wooden surface on either side of Iwaizumi’s legs and leans in slightly; his lips but a breath away from touching his lover’s mouth.
“Say that again.”
The words are met with a cocked brow and a click of Iwaizumi’s tongue. “What? ‘Professor’? You sleaze.”
“Humor me.”
Evidently, Iwaizumi doesn’t humor him. Instead, he cups Oikawa’s cheeks and shifts until he’s properly seated on the desk. A pair of legs find their way around Oikawa’s hips, pulling him closer until he’s falling into Iwaizumi’s orbit. Lips touch, hands settling on Iwaizumi’s hips, and for a moment, he can forget.
The day’s grievances melt away, making place for something much softer. Thousands of thoughts are replaced by a single name.
Hajime, Hajime, Hajime, his brain says over and over.
All it takes is for Iwaizumi to tilt his head slightly to deepen the kiss and Oikawa makes a noise in the back of his throat when he feels a tongue swiping across his bottom lip before it strokes his own. He squeezes Iwaizumi’s hips, allows his hands to roam across firm thighs that have been wrapped around his own waist a dozen of times the past year and a half.
His mind wanders, supplying a number of thoughts that are far too improper given their current location.
Granted, it’s hardly the first time they’ve found themselves in this position. Oikawa remembers sitting in his desk chair at night while Iwaizumi took him apart with skilled hands and an equally skilled mouth. He remembers pulling Iwaizumi into his lap; breathy sighs and broken syllables spilling from his lips with each movement of his hips.
Then there were the nights where Iwaizumi made proper use of the sturdy desk beneath them and Oikawa found himself clutching sheets of paper and digging his nails into polished hardwood. Those were his favorites.
When his hands slide between their bodies, fingers tugging at Iwaizumi’s belt, he’s rewarded with a gentle slap to his wrist before Iwaizumi curls his fingers around Oikawa’s arm. Disappointment washes over him like a bucket of cold water and Oikawa practically feels himself pouting.
“Nuh-uh,” Iwaizumi, the very bane of Oikawa’s existence, tells him. “We’re goin’. You need to eat.”
“Yes, I’m famished, actually,” Oikawa retorts, managing to hook a thumb into Iwaizumi’s belt loop.
A breathy laugh finds its way out. Is his misery amusing to him?
Roughly half a minute later, Iwaizumi hops off the desk—poking a finger into Oikawa’s chest and pushing him back slightly. “We’re going. C’mon.”
“You hate me,” Oikawa complains as Iwaizumi turns away.
“I love you,” Iwaizumi replies easily. For some reason, it causes Oikawa to fall silent even though he’s heard the words numerous times before. Mornings, afternoons, evenings. Whispered, shouted, laughed, sighed. And yet, each time it feels like someone fired an arrow at his chest.
Bullseye.
After collecting Oikawa’s belongings, Iwaizumi jerks his chin into the direction of the door; a coat bunched in his arms and a bag slung over his shoulder. “C’mon, professor.”
Curse him, he thinks. Curse stupid, amazing, kind Iwaizumi and his loving words and equally loving gestures. Oikawa wants to crowd him against the desk and kiss him senseless until they’re both dizzy from the lack of oxygen. His hands itch to explore inches of warm skin, fingertips ghosting across scars and numerous soft spots.
“My place or yours?” Oikawa asks, slipping into his coat with a little help from Iwaizumi before taking Iwaizumi’s hand into his own. A hum is the only response he gets for a moment.
“Neither,” Iwaizumi tells him, sliding their fingers together as he leads him out of the building like he’s done many times before. It’s become somewhat of a tradition ever since Oikawa returned to the university: Iwaizumi picks him up after work on Monday evenings and Oikawa does the same on Wednesdays when he visits the clinic. The decision to work part-time after last year’s events turned out to be a wise one as it required a lot of time, energy, and therapy to process all that had occurred.
Hours were spent sitting in a room he’d become intimately familiar with. He’d sit on a beige sofa, surrounded by peach colored walls while nursing a glass of water. Sometimes the glass would lay abandoned on the dark brown coffee table sitting between him and his therapist. Other times he required two glasses. Or three.
He’d talked and talked. About the past, the present, the future. About hopes, fears, dreams. He analyzed and reanalyzed his thought patterns, assessed various situations, unpacked some unexpected childhood trauma, dissected his relationships, and investigated his coping mechanisms. Needless to say, it had been intense. And very confronting.
On occasion, he cried. Sometimes, he’d yell. Other times he merely sat there in silence—at a loss for words.
His sister came to one of his sessions once or twice. Those were nice. He could tell she had plenty of things to work through on her own, but having her sit with him felt good. Iwaizumi accompanied him as well, which had been nerve-racking at first.
His soul laid bare for all to see. Each crack, fissure, and crevice exposed beneath fluorescent lighting and microscopes. Parts he’d tried to hide were on display, pulled to the surface with tweezers and plucked from his being.
This is who you are, the voice said. This is who you have always been.
Oikawa learned early on that no matter how hard he tried, he could not run nor hide from himself. Which is exactly what Dr. Hayashi had told him early on. She was nice, he thought. Patient, understanding, exceptionally smart and observant; everything one would expect from a therapist.
He thinks of their last session just as they exit the building. Iwaizumi leads them to the nearest subway station and Oikawa’s curiosity stirs inside of him as they hop on the Namboku Line. Rather than questioning what Iwaizumi might have planned, Oikawa merely follows him before getting off at Tameike-sannō Station.
It’s the same route he takes from and to the university and he briefly wonders if Iwaizumi might take them back to Oikawa’s apartment in Aoyama after all. As it turns out, he does not. After changing trains, they get off at Shibuya Station, where they disappear among the masses.
Thousands of lights are reflected off wet pavement, a myriad of noises swallowing their footsteps. Chatter, laughter, car horns, music, shouting, the occasional police alarm. Sometimes it can be too much—the lights, the sounds—and other times he relishes in their intensity.
After a few minutes of walking, they come to a halt in front of a restaurant Oikawa had mentioned offhandedly two weeks ago. He shakes his head with a grin when Iwaizumi ushers him inside and smiles at the server when she leads them towards their table.
“Fancy,” he comments, removing his coat before lowering himself onto the seat. “You sure you can afford this?”
“I’ve got a rich boyfriend,” Iwaizumi says with a shrug.
Oikawa snorts.
“I knew you were using me for my money all along.”
“Took you long enough to figure it out.”
Amusement flashes through Iwaizumi’s eyes as he rests his arm along the table to reach for Oikawa’s hand. Oikawa slides their fingers together once more, relishing in the warmth of Iwaizumi’s skin as he thumbs at a faded scar across his wrist. “Is Ren at your place?” he wonders. “I always feel bad when we leave her behind.”
The question is met with a shake of Iwaizumi’s head. “Kyoutani called. Asked if he could take her with him on a mission tonight,” he explains. “And stop feeling bad—she’s a thousand year old, immortal, wolf spirit. She’s fine. When I was younger, she used to disappear at times—doing gods know what.”
Oikawa merely gives a short hum in response, mumbling that Kyoutani should take good care of her. It pulls a chuckle from Iwaizumi, who squeezes his hand and mentions that his concern is touching.
While Oikawa’s relationship with Iwaizumi had grown and developed over the past year and a half, he’d also gotten much closer to those around Iwaizumi. Friends and family had welcomed him with open arms, treating him like one of their own from the moment Oikawa, accidentally, crashed into their world with the force of a hurricane. He liked Iwaizumi’s family, he loved spending time with Matsukawa and Hanamaki, and he enjoyed getting to know the other members of the Seijoh Group individually.
Both Hanamaki and Yahaba had helped him understand his abilities better. As a result, Oikawa spent quite a lot of time with the two of them and he found that he and Yahaba were fairly similar when it came to their work ethic. He was incredibly driven, ambitious, and surprisingly tenacious. And incredibly witty.
Amidst his contemplation, Iwaizumi seems to have ordered drinks and a few small dishes, and Oikawa didn’t realize how hungry he’d been until he shoves what appears to be a piece of beef into his mouth. It practically melts on his tongue and he can’t help but release a small groan. “This is amazing.”
They end up sharing most of the dishes they order and Iwaizumi only reprimands him once for accidentally skipping lunch today. Oikawa solemnly promises he’ll change his ways and Iwaizumi merely laughs and rolls his eyes.
The majority of the night is spent talking. Oikawa mentions this year’s freshmen and how his TAs are definitely sorta-kinda dating. Iwaizumi hums around his glass while snatching a piece of chicken off the plate between them, “The one with the glasses and the blond guy? Yeah, they’re definitely together.”
“See. Even you can tell. They’re not as subtle as they think they are. Do you think they messed around in my office? Oh God, I don’t wanna think about it. That’s weird. I’ll have to disinfect everything.”
“We’ve done way worse,” Iwaizumi reminds him as he fixes Oikawa with a flat look.
Oikawa’s chopsticks cut through the air as he waves a hand back and forth. “That’s different, it’s my office.We’re allowed. Students should, I dunno, use some abandoned room on the other side of the building. Again, I don’t wanna think about it. Quick, distract me with your beautiful smile.”
The words seem to have their desired effect, because Iwaizumi laughs; ducking his head as a grin cuts across his face. It causes the smile on Oikawa’s lips to widen. Affection swipes through his chest at the sight of the man before him—all warmth and softness—and he can hardly believe it’s been a year and a half since they’d crossed paths.
Almost two years of mornings and nights together. Countless dates. A ton of kisses. A billion words.
He grants himself another moment of observation; taking in the fire behind Iwaizumi’s eyes and the cut across his brow. The scar at the corner of his mouth, the moles along his jawline, the faded scar near his temple, the fullness of his lips, the flush on his cheeks. Greed builds inside of him, longing for a touch, a taste—a moment of reprieve.
(Instead, he takes another sip of his beer while formulating a long list of things he wishes to do to Iwaizumi once they return to his apartment).
“What’s wrong?” Iwaizumi wonders around a mouthful of rice. A single grain sticks to the corner of his lower lip and Oikawa, in a moment of lust-induced hunger, wishes he could swipe his tongue across Iwaizumi’s skin.
“You got a little—” Oikawa murmurs, reaching a hand across the table to swipe his thumb along the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth. “Rice,” he finishes lamely.
Evidently, it causes Iwaizumi to release a chuckle as he scrubs a hand along the lower half of his face. “You’re cut off.”
“I’ve only had three beers.”
“And three beers is all you’re gonna get.”
They spend another hour or so at the restaurant and Oikawa does end up ordering another beer. Dessert turns out to be some type of cake-and-ice-cream concoction that nearly leaves him gasping and he briefly considers ordering another serving to go. (Turns out they were actually willing to put the second serving into a to-go container for him).
After they leave the restaurant, it takes them roughly twenty minutes to arrive at his apartment and Oikawa appreciates the immediate sense of relief that envelops him as he steps across the threshold and onto dark, polished floors. Shortly after last year’s events, he decided to move out of his old apartment and look for a new place.
Something bigger.
Untainted.
He ended up staying in Aoyama because he quite liked the area, but having a new apartment did ease some of the nerves and brought forth a sense of peace.
As Oikawa toes off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, the scent of Iwaizumi’s cologne wraps around him, replacing the fabric of the jacket he discarded moments ago. It settles on his skin like a butterfly finding a moment of peace on leaves covered in dewdrops.
There’s a comforting weight against his back, Iwaizumi’s chest pressing into him as his hands settle on Oikawa’s hip. Lips ghost along the back of Oikawa’s neck as though they long for a taste. Sighing, Oikawa leans into him; hands settling atop Iwaizumi’s own.
“Long day, huh?” Iwaizumi mumbles.
“Didn’t realize how long until now,” Oikawa replies, turning around to wrap his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck. “Thanks for coming to pick me up. I probably would’ve stayed there another hour if you hadn’t shown up.”
A long hum vibrates through Iwaizumi’s throat just as they slowly move down the hallway. “I know.”
When they make it to the living room, Oikawa pulls Iwaizumi towards the couch. He blindly reaches for the tv remote, fingers pressing against the buttons until the images flash across the screen. Voices echo through the dark living room; a man declaring his undying love for a woman he barely knows. Oikawa barely registers the conversation between the characters—he’s a lot more interested in the sound of a steady heartbeat as he presses his ear against Iwaizumi’s chest.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Iwaizumi’s fingers card through Oikawa’s hair, playing with the shorter hairs just above Oikawa’s nape and leaving Oikawa sighing against the fabric of his shirt. A smile finds its way onto his lips as he thinks about how much he’d looked forward to this moment: finding solace in the arms of the man he loves. Iwaizumi’s heart is the sanctuary where Oikawa’s prayers are heard. They’re guarded by its walls, nurtured by the warmth of his love and answered with gentle smiles and thoughtful words.
Devotion sits on his tongue, sweet and syrupy like honey. Honesty coats his words for each whisper is blanketed in truth. It’s undeniable, what he feels for him. A sensation that is too large for his body. Something that has been carried with him throughout multiple lifetimes because Oikawa knows, knows, knows that Iwaizumi has been there at the very beginning of his existence.
He’ll be there at the end too. The last breath. A final sigh of his lover’s name.
Until then, Oikawa will appreciate moments like these. Strong arms will envelop him, gratitude will slip in between the walls of his heart, and Iwaizumi’s heart will beat and beat within his chest; a symphony Oikawa will listen to every single day.
As he counts the beats, he murmurs, “Tell me something fun.”
“Like what?” Iwaizumi wonders.
Oikawa inhales. “Any good work gossip lately? Are some of your coworkers secretly dating like my TAs?”
Laughter, quiet and warm, rumbles through Iwaizumi’s chest. Oikawa can feel its vibrations against his own cheek as Iwaizumi says, “Don’t think so. We’re a small team so I feel like it’d be hard to hide a relationship.”
A number of memories are pulled to the surface; images of the clinic Oikawa has visited many, many times. It was all large windows and soft blue walls and high ceilings. Exercise equipment was scattered along a large room where multiple patients performed whatever exercise Iwaizumi and his coworkers had prepared for them that day. Numerous white doors led to smaller rooms which functioned as treatment rooms. Oikawa remembers climbing on the treatment table once or twice and pulling Iwaizumi on top of him. Somewhere between the sixth and seventh kiss Iwaizumi would always mutter something along the lines of ‘stop, we can’t do this, I have to treat patients on this thing’.
(It was quite ironic, really, because he didn’t seem to have a problem with defiling Oikawa’s desk or desk chair for that matter).
A hum, long and thoughtful, vibrates through Oikawa’s throat. “I don’t know. Workplace romances are quite common. Even among smaller teams.”
“Have you ever dated a coworker?”
A question he could’ve expected, really. “I haven’t. Quite surprising given my devilish charm and striking appearance,” Oikawa snorts. “I was far too caught up in work as you know. Romantic relationships were merely an afterthought, but some coworkers did flirt with me once or twice. Both at the university and at my previous job. A little bit of harmless fun, I suppose.” A pause follows his words. “Maybe if Iwa-chan had been my coworker—”
Iwaizumi huffs a laugh. “You would’ve abandoned all your principles, huh?”
“Without a doubt. One look into those pretty eyes and I would’ve been a goner.”
“You’re full of compliments today, aren’t you?”
Oikawa finally raises his head, chin digging into Iwaizumi’s chest as he glances up at him. The smile he wears stretches into a grin with a wiggle of his brows. “Are you getting shy? Are you filled with indescribable lust at the very thought of sneaking around with me and almost getting caught?”
Almost instantly, Iwaizumi’s hand stills. Instead of tenderly stroking the back of Oikawa’s head, he ruffles his hair roughly with a quiet but amused ‘shut up’. It pulls an annoyed groan from Oikawa, which breaks off into a laugh before he bats Iwaizumi’s hand away. A finger presses against the tip of Oikawa’s nose before Iwaizumi gently flicks it. He is half-tempted to bite him.
“We do plenty of sneaking around already every time I pick you up from work.”
“And it never gets old,” Oikawa muses. “Maybe it’s better that we don’t work together, I would get too distracted and hardly get any work done. I already have a hard time when we go on missions together.”
He remembers their last mission. Roughly a week ago they were trekking through the woods in search of a group of ogres who’d been causing havoc in a small town located just outside of Tokyo. Oikawa had watched as Iwaizumi drew his sword and slashed through a horde of demons when it turned out the group was much larger than expected. Even though he’d witnessed similar scenes many times before, there was something captivating about the way Iwaizumi managed to throw creatures that were thrice his size over his shoulder with ease.
Perhaps it was less about his physical prowess and more about his willingness to sacrifice his own wellbeing to protect those in need. A ferocious protectiveness came over him whenever someone happened to be in danger. Be it a stranger or a friend; or perhaps a lover.
Then there’s the fact that Iwaizumi’s attire absolutely does nothing to hide the firm muscles that are concealed beneath layers of black nylon. Dark fabric stretches across his limbs, clinging to his skin and allowing onlookers to observe the contours of his arms and shoulders with each movement. And, yes, the holsters attached to Iwaizumi’s upper and lower body are a functional choice rather than an aesthetic choice, but Oikawa would be lying if he said that the numerous straps and buckles that stretch across his boyfriend’s chest aren’t visually pleasing to look at.
Sue him.
In the end, there are a number of qualities Oikawa finds attractive about the man before him. He’s spent many hours observing the lines of his face, fingers gliding across his cheeks, nose, brows, lips, jaws, and thumbing at scars and moles alike. Carefully, he’d stripped him bare in moments of worship, whispering gentle phrases into warm, tan skin. He’d fall in love with his voice. A deep sound that was sweeter than any melody Oikawa had ever encountered.
Currently, he finds himself transfixed by a shade of green. It reminds him of strolls through the forest. The color of the leaves in late october. Somewhere between green and brown.
Iwaizumi’s gaze is the gravitational force that pulls him forward; a man at sea, lured in by a siren’s call. Lips meet in a gentle kiss and Oikawa smiles. Smiles because he gets to do this every day. Coming home to his apartment, or Iwaizumi’s apartment, and spending the majority of the afternoon and night exchanging lazy kisses.
When Iwaizumi’s hands glide along the back of Oikawa’s neck, a thumb rubs at a spot just above his shoulders. He’s not sure how much time they spend on the couch, but at some point Iwaizumi slowly pulls away—lips reddened and brows drawn together.
Confusion stirs inside Oikawa’s chest just as Iwaizumi mumbles, “You’re all stiff here.”
Oikawa raises his shoulders in a shrug. “Exam season,” he explains, wincing when Iwaizumi’s thumb presses down a little harder.
“Jesus, Tooru. What have you been doing?” Iwaizumi asks, sounding equal parts surprised, confused, and annoyed. “I told you to stop making such long hours. You always end up sitting in the exact same, uncomfortable position all day and then you’re confused about why your upper back and neck hurt all the time.”
“It’s not my fault. I told you, it’s exam season,” Oikawa tells him. “Okay, that kinda hurts.”
A sigh finds its way out of Iwaizumi’s throat. The type of sigh Oikawa has heard many times before. It’s the only warning he gets before Iwaizumi pushes himself upright, jostling Oikawa in the process. He’s about to complain about the sudden movement when Iwaizumi pulls him to his feet and tugs him towards the bedroom with a shake of his head. The words disappear, climbing down his throat slowly, as he lets himself be tugged forward.
Once they reach the other room, he’s nudged towards the bed—which looks very tempting after a long day. “Take off your clothes,” Iwaizumi instructs, giving Oikawa another gentle push.
His back lands onto the soft mattress while a quiet ‘oof’ escapes his lips. When he pushes himself on his forearms to look at Iwaizumi, he tilts his head ever so slightly and clicks his tongue once before offering him a small grin. “Jeez, Iwa-chan, take me to dinner first.”
“Already did,” Iwaizumi says dryly, exiting the room and disappearing down the hallway. By the time he returns, Oikawa has already discarded two layers of clothing. He shoots another suggestive grin towards Iwaizumi for good measure, but it’s met with a scoff and an eye roll. And a towel to the face.
Oikawa’s complaints are stifled by the soft fabric and he feels the mattress dip beneath Iwaizumi’s weight. “Roll over.”
“I love it when you take charge.”
“Now, funny guy. C’mon,” Iwaizumi instructs, gently nudging Oikawa’s ribs with his left knee until Oikawa complies and rolls onto his front. He folds his arms beneath his head before glancing up at Iwaizumi, whose fingers are curled around a bottle of oil Oikawa recognizes. Small, purple petals decorate the front; the word ‘lavender’ printed across the label.
Oikawa’s smile is half-buried against his own arm upon realizing Iwaizumi’s intentions. “You’re sweet.”
“You’re a menace.” There’s no heat behind his words. It’s all affection and gentle teasing. A smile tugs at the corners of Iwaizumi’s mouth and Oikawa bites back a chuckle.
Iwaizumi’s hands settle on his back after another moment, fingers digging into his muscles and slowly gliding along his spine. He gently works the oil into Oikawa’s skin at first, only reprimanding him once when Oikawa winces, and quickly apologizing afterwards. The movements of his hands are slow, like the push and pull of the waves they move back and forth. It feels wonderful.
With each glide of Iwaizumi’s hands across his back, Oikawa feels his limbs growing heavier. Eyelids fall shut with a sigh just as Iwaizumi applies a bit more pressure to his lower back and begins to rub small circles into his skin. After another moment, his hands begin their path upwards; rubbing at the notches of Oikawa’s spine with a little more force than before.
It’s not painful, just slightly uncomfortable, and Oikawa mentally curses himself for ignoring Iwaizumi’s repetitive warnings the past few weeks. Each day he’d find himself sitting behind his desk, hunched over his laptop while numerous books and sheets of paper covered every inch of the wooden surface. While much has changed in the past eighteen months, Oikawa’s work ethic and ability to completely lose himself in whatever task requires his attention, remains the same. He supposes that he should feel somewhat grateful for the fact that he’s still able to do a job he loves. For a while, he’d questioned whether or not he would return to the university at all. The knowledge he’d gathered in the days he’d spent with Iwaizumi and the other hunters, had made him question all he’d learned and taught prior to meeting them.
His world had been turned upside down in every way possible.
It had given him different insights, opened his eyes to a realm of new possibilities while simultaneously fueling the frustration that simmered beneath his skin because he knew that sharing his newfound knowledge with the outside world would be impossible. Secrets were stored inside the little pockets of his heart, guarded by steel doors and a strange sense of protectiveness.
Those thoughts are pushed aside by another press of Iwaizumi’s fingers as they dance across his spine. Slowly but surely, Iwaizumi manages to work out the knots beneath Oikawa’s skin, and Oikawa murmurs praises against his own arm. A content groan slips out, which seems to amuse Iwaizumi. He continues to rub at the spot between his shoulders, evidently turning Oikawa’s bones to jelly and pushing him towards the edge of slumber. Lavender fills his senses; a sweet, floral scent that wraps itself around his limbs. He inhales deeply, allowing his body to melt into the mattress until it feels like he’s disappearing into a sea of clouds.
It’s become somewhat of a regular occurrence lately: Iwaizumi’s skillful hands rubbing at the sore spots across Oikawa’s body. Be it after a long work day or a grueling mission.
Oikawa appreciates it and Iwaizumi seems to enjoy it. Especially when Oikawa pulls him into his arms afterwards and bestows him with a number of gentle kisses. (Amongst other things).
Currently, the urge to press himself against Iwaizumi’s back and bury his nose into the back of his neck grows and grows. His fingers inch towards Iwaizumi’s knee when he untangled his arms, sliding across the mattress until they find their target. “Hajime,” Oikawa murmurs, tugging on the fabric of Iwaizumi’s trousers. The request is met with a short hum before Iwaizumi’s hands still. A towel is draped across his back moments later, rubbing along his skin a few times before Iwaizumi pulls away entirely.
Slowly but surely, lights are turned off, allowing darkness to spread through the apartment. Upon Iwaizumi’s return, Oikawa can only make out his silhouette as he shifts beneath the covers. An arm is draped across his waist, pulling him closer until he finds himself pressed against Iwaizumi’s side. Legs are tangled together, breaths slowly pass through his chest, and a heaviness settles atop each of his eyelids like a mother kissing her child goodnight.
In the darkness, he can hear it again. Steady and constant.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
A lullaby that guides him towards a different realm.
── ⋅♱⋅ ──
When Oikawa wakes up the following morning, Iwaizumi has already prepared breakfast. Between the third and the fourth bite of his sandwich, he mentions that he wants to drop by the warehouse to pick up Ren and Oikawa hums in agreement as he takes another sip of his coffee.
They leave the apartment a little before eleven a.m., with Iwaizumi informing him that Kyoutani’s mission went fine as they make the journey towards Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s home. (For a moment Oikawa wonders about Ren’s wellbeing, but he’s once again told to ‘stop worrying’ after Iwaizumi assures him for the second time that the mission was a success).
Upon arrival at their friends’ home, they’re greeted by the pair and Oikawa helps himself to another cup of coffee while Hanamaki seems to finish some work-related tasks in the background. His profession remained somewhat of a mystery to him early-on in their friendship, but upon inspecting the numerous photographs that decorated the walls of the loft and observing the collection of cameras his friend seemed to have, it became rather obvious that Hanamaki’s talents included capturing people on film. (“Who do you think did all of those cool headshots for Iwaizumi’s clinic?”).
His portfolio is impressive and his clientele is quite extensive, which leads to speculation when Oikawa watches him walk back and forth through the living room while keeping a phone wedged between his right ear and shoulder. He’s able to pick up traces of the conversation, but before he’s able to come to a conclusion, the phone call ends and Hanamaki announces that he’s ready to leave.
Amidst the drive to the warehouse, they discuss their plans for the night and Matsukawa mentions that his younger sister apparently got into an altercation with a number of malicious spirits near a graveyard in Aoyama. Her exorcism magic clearly requires some work as she found herself haunted for at least three days. “Turns out her new girlfriend had to come and save her ass,” he explains with a laugh.
Hanamaki makes an unintelligible noise as he idly scrolls through his phone. “They’re really dating now?”
“I stopped trying to figure it out, but I’m pretty sure they are. As long as Yuka doesn’t try to kill her, I’m fine with it.”
Oikawa snorts, observing the buildings they pass while Matsukawa drives them to the warehouse. Gray clouds have parted slightly, revealing a blue sky overhead. In his pocket, his phone buzzes twice.
A message from his mother.
‘How are you?’
It’s been happening more often lately: random text messages and even the occasional phone-call. After he’d told the truth about his uncle, and gave his relatives a crash course on their rather complicated family history, things had slowly started to change. His parents actually tried to make an effort to mend semi-broken relationships. Fractured pieces were carefully reattached, held together by quiet apologies and difficult conversations. He likens it to a chipped vase; its cracks still visible despite the many attempts to glue the various parts back together. The cracks will stay, he suppose.
It’s up to him whether they will bother him or not.
Granted, it took a lot of patience, long conversations, and a level of vulnerability Oikawa mostly tried to avoid, but he was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. While he didn’t expect any overnight changes, he did notice a slight difference in the way they all communicated with one another.
Initial skepticism was eventually replaced by something much kinder. Their intentions seemed to be sincere and he even received a decent apology from both of his parents. It was unexpected, but appreciated. Many private conversations with his sister followed suit, who seemed equally surprised by the olive branch their parents extended.
“You don’t owe them anything,” she said one afternoon as she padded through his kitchen. “Neither of us do.”
Oikawa remembers the look in her eyes as a few brown strands escaped her hair tie; a quiet intensity trapped within brown irises. Her voice had been eerily calm, but fierce all the same, and he found himself comforted by the fact that no matter what happened, she would always be in his corner. An older sister protecting her younger brother.
It’s always been like that. Ever since he was a kid.
She’s always felt somewhat responsible, which shouldn’t surprise him. They’re twelve years apart after all.
While he was still taking his first steps, she was in middle school. When he started kindergarten, she was secretly getting her ears pierced and harboring secret crushes on a classmate. Nevertheless, she always made time for him. Each moment spent together is cemented in his heart; memories are written across thousands of pages of the book that is his life.
He should call her tonight.
As he’s writing out a reply to his mother, the car slows to a stop. Oikawa exits the vehicle just as his thumb presses down on the ‘send’ button and he follows his friends into the warehouse. Upon arrival, he’s instantly greeted by Yahaba’s and Watari’s laughter. Kyoutani’s voice echoes through the large space, complaints falling from his lips, while Hanamaki makes a snide remark and pulls another laugh from both Yahaba and Watari. Even the corners of Kyoutani’s mouth begin to lift—the beginnings of a smile playing on his lips.
It’s a familiar sight.
His chest feels a little lighter. Especially when Ren rushes towards him, towards Iwaizumi, and starts sniffing his feet, the backs of his knees, the backs of his hands and his fingertips. “Hey, pretty girl,” he cooes, sinking into a low squat as he buries his fingers into her fur. Nails scratch behind her ears, beneath her chin, and across the top of her head.
Once she’s had her fill, Iwaizumi becomes her next target. Like Oikawa, he pulls the dog’s head between his hands and idly moves his fingers back and forth. “Were you nice to Kyoutani?” he hears Iwaizumi ask. Almost immediately, Ren huffs as if to say ‘of course’.
Oikawa smiles.
While Kyoutani gives them a short debrief of his mission, Oikawa’s legs take him to the rows and rows of lockers lined up against one of the many walls. Light bounces off the black surface and he thumbs at the lock before opening the door. Spare shirts and trousers are neatly folded; his fingers brushing along the fabric of a pair of sweats he thought had mysteriously disappeared weeks ago.
He shoots an accusatory glance towards Iwaizumi.
Once his jacket is discarded and his jeans and sweater have been replaced by a tee and a pair of sweats, he follows his friends to the other side of the building. A few months ago, the Seijoh Group had received some additional funding—as did the Nekoma Group and Fukurodani Group—which meant that the warehouse had gotten quite the makeover. It had been interesting to witness what some upgraded tech, a fancy paint job, and new furniture could do.
The interior consists mostly of black and dark gray tones, with a hint of teal every now and then. The color scheme reminds him of every sci-fi movie he’s ever watched. It’s all sleek, shiny surfaces and high-tech machinery. Futuristic, advanced, and quite impressive. The new computers are much faster, allowing them to gather more information at a quicker tempo.
Oikawa glances at the dozens of large LED-screens that are set up in the training area, observing whatever data the machines had collected over the past few hours. The space has its own makeshift lab, which is somewhat smaller than the “official” laboratory located on the second level, but important nonetheless.
He reads names, vitals, and test scores. Letters and numbers dance together, transforming into graphics and charts he’s seen many times before. Every now and then he spots his own name, flickering across the screen next to a number that’s meant to represent his magical output. On a different screen, he’s able to read the test scores of those who had completed a number of mandatory exercises the past few hours. Hanamaki’s older sister, Nao, sits at one of the many desks that are lined up in a neat row, fingers rhythmically tapping on the keyboard in front of her while she glances between two computer screens. Her free hand rests along her abdomen and Oikawa smiles to himself when her wife appears behind her; a forearm resting atop Nao’s shoulder.
Roughly two weeks ago, they’d announced Nao’s pregnancy and Oikawa remembers the way Hanamaki kept mentioning that the tears in his eyes were caused by Iwaizumi’s atrocious cologne and not by the fact that he was going to become an uncle. They’d all laughed and he admitted that his sister had already informed him a few days prior, but that he was sworn to secrecy. (“I thought I was gonna explode, jesus.”)
Their younger sister, Koharu, rests against one of the other black desks. She’s carrying a tablet in one hand while talking to a tall man with long, black hair and dark eyes. Her elbow digs into his side a few times and Oikawa doesn’t miss the hint of pink that has settled on the man’s cheeks—or the small smile that tugs at the corners of his lips.
Apparently, he’s from a different hunting group and the two of them have been dating for approximately three months.
Oikawa’s moment of observation stops there when Iwaizumi nudges him forward and jerks his chin into the direction of the sparring area. His brows are momentarily raised, an unvoiced question resting on his lips, and Oikawa grins. “Does Iwa-chan wanna go a few rounds with me?” he says airily, reaching for one of the tablets on a small table in front of him. “Still mad that I beat you last time?”
“You cheated,” Iwaizumi, the liar, replies, as he pads towards the weapons rack. Numerous black bō are lined up neatly and he curls his fingers around one of the many staffs before glancing over his shoulder, a single brow raised.
Oikawa shakes his head in response, foregoing the weapon. He does, however, release a long hum. “I utilized my strengths properly. And took advantage of your weaknesses”
This time, Iwaizumi snorts—a loud, undignified sound that often translates to ‘yeah right’. He twirls the bō in his right hand before using one end to pat Oikawa’s hip twice. “Shoes.”
(He’s fairly certain he heard Iwaizumi whisper the word ‘cheater’).
Chuckling, Oikawa pushes the staff away as he toes off his shoes; stepping onto a raised platform moments later. Much like the rest of the facility, the sparring area had undergone renovation as well. There are four different platforms where hunters can engage in a practice match and sharpen their skills. The old mats were replaced by newer models with a higher shock-absorbency and each platform is equipped with its own shield, which can be activated at will.
Oikawa sinks into a low squat at the far edge of the platform and on the other side Iwaizumi does the same. He allows his fingers to glide across a small screen secured into the ground before pressing the pad of his index finger against the fingerprint scanner located at the center.
Seconds later, a wall of blue energy appears at the outer edge of the platform, followed by another one, and another, until the entire area is closed off. A computerized voice cuts through the air. “Area one ready. Shield engaged,” it says.
As he pushes himself upright, Oikawa exhales through his mouth. He stretches his arms above his head with a groan before walking to the center of the platform, where Iwaizumi observes him with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Ready to lose?” he teases, rolling his shoulders and wrists.
“Stretch first,” Iwaizumi instructs, lowering the bō before mimicking Oikawa’s movements.
Oikawa purses his lips. “Strict.”
Nevertheless, Iwaizumi leads him through a number of warm-up exercises for a few minutes and Oikawa pretends not to shamelessly ogle him whenever the fabric of his boyfriend’s tank top rides up ever so slightly. (Iwaizumi only catches him twice).
Once they’re done, Iwaizumi reaches for the staff once more. He offers Oikawa a short bow, which Oikawa mimics before flexing his fingers. He inhales deeply, shifting his focus to his energetic center before pushing some of that energy towards his palm. Almost immediately, he feels a pressure against his skin as blue energy begins to gather around his fingertips. It shifts and stretches, growing larger and molding itself into the shape of a bō. The energy feels stable in this form and he gives the weapon an experimental twirl before altering his stance.
Across from him, Iwaizumi mimics his stance. Oikawa doesn’t miss the wisps of red energy that curl around his fingertips and glide across the staff he’s carrying.
“Bringing out the big guns, huh?” he gibes. “Someone’s scared to lose.”
A chuckle falls from Iwaizumi’s lips, along with a ‘shut up, Tooru’. It’s the only warning Oikawa gets before Iwaizumi dashes forward, swinging the staff with impeccable speed as he aims for Oikawa’s head. Fortunately, Oikawa is able to react in time; blocking the strike with his own staff.
The collision generates a small shock-wave of sorts, pushing Oikawa backwards slightly. He’s used to it by now and it only takes him a few seconds to recover before he steps aside to readjust his grip around the weapon. Half a second later, the staff swings through the air—intending to hit Iwaizumi’s legs, but Iwaizumi jumps at the last second. He keeps his body low when he lands and one of his legs is extended before he makes a big circular motion with it, attempting to kick Oikawa’s legs out from under him.
Oikawa curses when Iwaizumi’s foot connects with his ankle and he stumbles backwards. When he lands onto the mats, he manages to roll sideways, narrowly avoiding Iwaizumi’s staff when he slams the weapon down. Another strike follows when Oikawa lies on his back, but he blocks it just in time, pushing back against Iwaizumi before kicking one of his legs out. His foot connects with Iwaizumi’s abdomen and the force behind Oikawa’s kick knocks him backwards.
Oikawa jumps to his feet moments later, dashing forward as the staff cuts through the air. It connects with Iwaizumi’s weapon repeatedly. Each strike is blocked, each attack is avoided. They both move across the mats like they have done many times before, exchanging blows much quicker than before.
Heat races across Oikawa’s skin, magic pumping through his veins with each movement of limbs while his lips part around harsh breaths. His chest burns and the rapid beating of his heart is almost painful—an odd sensation that’s simultaneously uncomfortable and enjoyable. The kind of ache one might grow addicted to. Each surge of power that travels through his limbs makes him long for more. Briefly, he wonders if Iwaizumi feels the same. Perhaps he’s already accustomed to this sensation.
There isn’t much time to ponder, because Oikawa has to ensure the staff in his hands maintains its shape. Focus, he tells himself.
When Iwaizumi’s weapon aims for his right side, he quickly spins the bō before keeping it close to his body as he blocks the attack. Iwaizumi’s strength exceeds his own, knocking him back, and Oikawa nearly stumbles before catching himself in time. The next strike is aimed at his feet, but he’s quick to slam the staff in his hands down to prevent Iwaizumi’s bō from hitting his legs.
“You’re getting better,” Iwaizumi breathes, flashing a hint of teeth at Oikawa. Sweat has gathered above his brow, a stray droplet sliding down his temple while his cheeks are flush with color. It’s incredibly attractive and, perhaps, slightly distracting. Especially when Iwaizumi’s tongue darts out, swiping across his lower lip.
Really, he needs to focus.
The words are met with a breathless chuckle from Oikawa, who thrusts his staff forward—aiming for Iwaizumi’s stomach. “Impressed?”
“Maybe.”
As expected, the blow doesn’t land, but that doesn’t stop Oikawa from trying again. The weapon slices through the air, connecting with the ground when Iwaizumi manages to jump aside. When he retaliates, Oikawa parries the blow by holding the bō sideways, narrowly avoiding getting struck across the face. The ache in his muscles is starting to worsen and briefly wonders how much time has passed since they started. There is little time to worry about that because Oikawa’s steps wobble when jumps aside to avoid another blow and Iwaizumi must notice because he strikes quick and hard, feinting a blow to Oikawa’s head.
Just as Oikawa is about to retaliate, Iwaizumi blocks the blow before spinning around and surprising Oikawa, whose arm is stuck at an awkward angle. Before he’s able to retrieve it, Iwaizumi curls a hand around his wrist, sinks down and leans forward to throw Oikawa over his shoulder.
A shout escapes Oikawa’s throat and he groans when his back connects with the mats. Before he’s able to get up, the tip of Iwaizumi’s bō is aimed at his throat—his own weapon having disappeared the moment he lost his focus. He exhales roughly, attempting to gather as much oxygen in his chest as possible, while Iwaizumi grins down at him. A foot settles on his stomach, lightly, and the weapon gently taps the underside of his chin. “Keep practicing.”
Oikawa scowls, bristling as he knocks away the staff. His hand shoots out, fingers curling around Iwaizumi’s ankle and he yanks on his leg, evidently causing Iwaizumi to lose his footing. Rather than allowing his boyfriend to catch himself at the last moment, Oikawa’s other hand reaches for him as well. He hooks his fingers into the fabric of his sweats, pulling Iwaizumi to the ground and settling on top of him. With his thighs bracketing Iwaizumi’s waist, Oikawa pins his boyfriend’s hands to the floor with a grin. “What was that?”
Beneath him, Iwaizumi chuckles. He sounds winded, and a little strained when he says, “Cheater.”
“Sore loser,” Oikawa fires back.
“Best two out of three?” Iwaizumi suggests.
Oikawa pretends to ponder when Iwaizumi bucks his hips before throwing his legs up. It catches Oikawa by surprise, who shrieks as his body is knocked to the ground. A pained laugh finds its way out of his throat just as Iwaizumi settles on top of him and pins his hands to the ground. He twists his hands in Iwaizumi’s grip, but resisting is futile as Iwaizumi only presses down harder. “Copycat,” Oikawa breathes, his eyes settling on the smile that blooms across Iwaizumi’s face. His skin is still damp, his cheeks are still red, and Oikawa is still mesmerized by the sight.
His breathing evens out, lungs no longer fighting to push as much oxygen into his body as possible. Sweat cools on his skin and for a moment he forgets that they’re not in his apartment, but on the floor of a training facility. He longs for a bit of privacy.
Especially when Iwaizumi leans down, his mouth but a breath away and his nose brushing against Oikawa’s own. The scent of Iwaizumi’s shampoo and cologne is warm and inviting, but when Oikawa raises his head, intending to close the distance between their lips, Iwaizumi pulls away entirely. The comforting weight atop his body disappears with a quiet chuckle. It taunts him.
Mentally, he’s sifting through a list of ways to exact revenge on the man before him. He barely makes it to number four when Iwaizumi’s hand closes around his wrist and pulls his body towards him. Oikawa stumbles forward, pressing a hand against Iwaizumi’s shoulder to balance himself while Iwaizumi snakes an arm around his waist. “You’re infuriating, do you know that?” Oikawa mumbles, using his free hand to cup Iwaizumi’s cheek.
“I learned from the best.”
Oikawa makes a disapproving noise, clicking his tongue before tapping Iwaiuzmi’s cheek with his thumb twice. “Guess I’ll just have to kick your ass again.”
When he untangles himself from Iwaizumi’s grip, he allows the energy in his body to gather in the center of his palm once more. It stretches into the shape of a bō just as Iwaizumi picks up his own weapon. They resume their original positions, offer each other a short bow, and then the dance begins again.
── ⋅♱⋅ ──
Hours are spent at the warehouse; training, catching up with others, preparing for any possible missions. Oikawa learns that Kunimi and Kindaichi have been sent out to Chūō after the computers noticed some suspicious activity around Ginza. According to the map, a group of unidentified spirits had infiltrated the top floor of the Ginza Six.
Even now, almost two years later, they’re still dealing with the repercussions of what had transpired in woods eighteen months ago. Opening the demon gate, even for a short period of time, had caused an influx of demons and malicious spirits. While the majority of the creatures had been taken care of, every now and then a cluster of demons would reappear in various locations. River spirits hiding in subway stations, mountain creatures appearing on playgrounds in the dead of night. Those who often scurry around temples will suddenly appear in office buildings and Oikawa remembers encountering a group of jikininki in Marunouchi three days ago.
The spirits usually feast on corpses and often lurk around villages and old temples, but for some reason, a number of them infiltrated Tokyo’s financial district. He remembers the smell of rotting flesh they brought with them; teeth large and sharp and stomachs craving sustenance in the form of decaying bodies.
“Opening the demon gate really messed things up,” Matsukawa had mumbled, performing a ritual to exorcize the numerous jikininki that had been roaming the streets. “They shouldn’t even be here.”
This included harmless spirits as well. Those that didn’t intend to inflict pain on the living, but simply wished to move on. Some nights were spent guiding those to their eternal resting place. Then there were spirits that didn’t belong in the realm of living or the realm of the dead. They merely existed among humans, finding their place in a world that continued to change around them. Oikawa enjoyed those encounters.
Now that he has the ability to properly see the creatures, it’s fascinating to see how they blend in with society. Existing among humans as they’d done for thousands of years. Tonight, he thinks of the fox spirit he’d spotted walking along the road when he and Iwaizumi had been on their way back to Iwaizumi’s apartment.
As he passes the threshold of Iwaizumi’s apartment, Ren jogs past him. She disappears into the kitchen, sniffing at her bowl before padding into the living room where she’ll walk a few circles around the coffee table before hopping onto the couch. Oikawa chuckles at the sight.
“Your bowl is literally full,” he hears Iwaizumi say in the background.
“Maybe she’s in the mood for something else,” Oikawa points out, reaching for the remote and turning on the tv.
“She’s an immortal wolf spirit. She doesn’t even need food, technically,” Iwaizumi answers flatly, pouring himself a glass of water. “She’s just spoiled.”
Oikawa casts a glance at the dog, who huffs in response; his head shaking in amusement. “And whose fault is that?”
In front of him, the screen flickers to life. The voice of a news anchor echoes through the room and Oikawa frowns as they begin to roll a clip of the University of Tokyo at night. He reads the words ‘student’ and ‘missing’.
A chill runs down his spine while heaviness begins to gather in his chest. A female student. Barely twenty-one years old. She’d suddenly disappeared a week ago and her family has been searching for her ever since. When her name and photo appear on the screen, a wave of nausea sweeps through him.
His breath stutters in his chest, lips barely able to form the syllables of her name. Kind eyes, a round face, dark hair that reaches past her shoulders.
Suzuki.