Chapter Text
oikawa doesn’t do baseball. he barely does sports that aren’t volleyball. there’s only two types of sport in his dictionary; volleyball and non-volleyball. so sitting in the bleachers at a baseball game feels like some kind of punishment. hanamaki swore he needed company . translation: to have someone to distract everyone from the fact that his entire focus is glued to matsukawa. he has it bad for matsukawa, the second baseman (or third? oikawa can’t remember, doesn’t care), and dragged him along so he wouldn’t look like a total creep staring at the guy for nine innings straight. now hanamaki’s too busy swooning to eat the snacks he bought, and oikawa is stuck watching a sport he doesn’t understand and stealing fries and soda out of pure spite.
he taps away on his phone, texting sugawara, his roommate, complaining about how mind-numbingly boring this whole baseball ordeal is—his eyes are glued to his screen, where sugawara is in the middle of gushing (yet again) about sawamura. apparently, they did something together in their english class today, and sugawara can’t shut up about it. ever since the semester started, it’s been sawamura this, sawamura that, like a broken record of hopelessly romantic pining. oikawa is tired of hearing about it, honestly, but even sugawara’s endless simping is better than watching whatever’s happening on the field right now.
“oh my god, did you see that? matsukawa just hit a home run! home run , oikawa! that’s so hot!” hanamaki practically vibrates with excitement, glancing over his shoulder only to find oikawa completely absorbed in his phone, fingers flying over the screen. no reaction. not even a blink. hanamaki groans dramatically before leaning over and snatching the phone right out of oikawa’s hands. “oikawa, you’re here to watch the game,” he scolds, waving the phone just out of reach. “i promise you, looking up for five minutes won’t kill you.”
“hey!” oikawa snaps, snatching his phone back with an indignant glare. “let me remind you that you dragged me here just so you could drool over matsukawa. i could be in my room right now, snuggled up under my perfectly comfy blanket, watching star trek in peace.” he crosses his arms, clutching his phone like a lifeline. “but no, instead, i’m here, suffering through a sport i don’t care about while you play lovesick puppy.”
“batting third, pitcher, iwaizumi hajime,” crackles the announcer over the speakers.
hanamaki barely spares oikawa a glance before shooting him an unimpressed look. “oh, please. you’ve watched star trek like fifty times already. what, are you aiming for a world record?” oikawa huffs, ready to fire back, but hanamaki’s already turned away, eyes locked on the field. “oh, nice, it’s iwaizumi’s turn. that guy’s the ace of the team. and his batting? seriously top-tier.”
oikawa groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “wow, thrilling!” he mutters under his breath before diving right back into his phone. sugawara’s texts are infinitely more interesting than some guy with a bat.
he starts typing on his phone again, ready to rant to sugawara, but stops short when he realizes the messages have gone silent. looks like that brief moment hanamaki snatched his phone made sugawara assume he was busy. great. now, who’s supposed to entertain him? oikawa groans, slumping further into his seat before reluctantly casting a glance at the field for what must be the second time this entire game.
his eyes land on the batter—strong stance, solid form. even oikawa can recognize good technique when he sees it. volleyball might be his world, but he knows enough about athletic precision to appreciate it across the board. maybe hanamaki was onto something for once.
“fine,” he mutters under his breath, crossing his arms. “i’ll give this guy a minute of my time. let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
the first pitch comes, and the guy doesn’t move an inch. oikawa furrows his brow, confused, until the umpire calls, “ball!” he has no idea what that means, but judging by the cheers erupting from some of the crowd, it seems like iwa—whatever his name is—did something right.
just as the pitcher winds up for the second throw, oikawa feels his phone buzz in his hand. finally. sugawara decided to grace him with a reply. a small smile tugs at his lips as he unlocks his phone. but before he can even finish reading the message, a loud shout pierces the air. “watch out!!!”
oikawa instinctively looks up, and in the next split second, a sharp, searing pain smacks him square in the forehead. his world blurs, and then everything goes dark.
***
oikawa’s eyes flutter open, and the first thing he’s greeted with is hanamaki’s face, uncomfortably close and distorted like that cursed 0.5x camera view. it’s not the gentle, reassuring sight anyone would want to wake up to. no, it’s hanamaki , looking like some kind of cryptid. oikawa groans, squinting at him. “full offence, makki, but your face is not what i needed to see after waking up from… whatever this is.”
oikawa ignores his offended gasp and glances around, taking in the unfamiliar setting. the sterile smell, the bright overhead light, the bed he’s lying on—it all clicks. an infirmary? what the hell happened to him?
“uh… what am i doing here? weren’t we just watching a stupid baseball game—” oikawa cuts himself off mid-sentence when hanamaki pulls a face that can only be described as unflattering and silently hands him a mirror.
confused, oikawa takes the tiny hand mirror and glances at his reflection. everything stops.
he stares at the grotesque bump now proudly occupying prime real estate on his forehead, and then it hits him all at once.
a piercing scream tears through the infirmary, shrill and dramatic, like a horror movie heroine spotting the monster. “what the hell is this?!” he shrieks, clutching at his forehead as if that might somehow make the bump disappear. “why do i have this ugly, disgusting, grotesque bump on my face?! oh my god, this is ruining my beautiful face! what happened?! someone get rid of it! fix it! now!”
hanamaki lets out a long, exasperated sigh at oikawa’s theatrics. “you and i both know this isn’t some prop you can just poof away in an instant,” he says, crossing his arms. “you got hit… well, the ball came flying straight at you and smacked you right in the forehead—” he pauses, quickly raising his hands defensively when oikawa’s expression shifts into something akin to pure, unfiltered horror.
“hey, quit the dramatics!” hanamaki groans. “you’re not going to die from this! at least you didn’t crack your skull or something. it’s just a bump. it will heal. ” but oikawa is barely listening. his hand is still holding back his bangs as he angles the mirror to inspect the damage from every conceivable angle, his face twisted in despair. hanamaki rolls his eyes when he realises his words have done absolutely nothing to comfort him. “seriously, it’s not that bad—”
“not that bad?!” oikawa snaps, cutting him off. “this thing is ruining my entire aesthetic! i look like some cartoon character who walked into a lamp post!” hanamaki pinches the bridge of his nose, already regretting staying by his side.
“okay, look, i’m sorry,” hanamaki says, trying to placate him. “this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t dragged you to this game, but accidents happen! none of us saw this coming—”
“who’s the bastard responsible for this atrocity on my gorgeous face?” oikawa cuts him off, seething with indignation.
hanamaki rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “well, if you must know, it was iwaizumi. he pulled off a home run, and… well, it landed straight on your forehead.”
oikawa’s jaw tightens, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. damn baseball player. he’s going to pay for this. oh, he’s going to pay.
“bring him to me right now—”
before he can finish, the curtains around his bed are yanked open, and standing there is a man with dark, spiky hair, a lean build, piercing olive-green eyes, ridiculously good-looking, wait—baseball uniform!!!
“oh, hey, iwaizumi,” hanamaki says casually, gesturing toward oikawa. “are you here to check up on—”
“ you! ” oikawa yells, pointing an accusatory finger, his voice dripping with fury.
iwaizumi blinks at oikawa’s outburst, his face a mix of guilt and concern. “uh… yeah. me,” he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “look, i just came to check if you were alright. that was… uh, definitely not how i wanted that hit to go.”
oikawa glares at him, still clutching the mirror like it’s his lifeline. “do i look alright to you?! my flawless face has been permanently scarred! ”
hanamaki snorts in the background. “it’s a bump, not a scar, drama queen.”
iwaizumi sighs, stepping closer to the bed. “seriously, though, i’m really sorry. i didn’t mean to hit anyone, let alone you.” his voice softens. “is there… anything i can do to make it up to you?”
oikawa narrows his eyes, considering his options. if he’s going to milk this, he might as well go all in. “oh, there is something you can do,” he says, crossing his arms.
iwaizumi straightens, looking genuinely eager. “name it.”
“you’re going to make this up to me by….” oikawa trails off, thinking. then, with a smirk that promises trouble, he declares, “take me to dinner. fine dining. must be the best one in this city.” oikawa’s smirk widens, his fingers delicately brushing his wounded forehead like. “i expect nothing less than perfection,” he says, already imagining a lavish meal to make up for his suffering.
hanamaki groans, dragging a hand down his face. “you’ve got to be kidding me. dinner? seriously? why not just ask for an apology and be done with it? like a normal person?”
“normal is boring,” oikawa quips, waving him off.
iwaizumi doesn’t seem fazed by the demand. instead, he crosses his arms and gives a curt nod, his expression steady and resolute. there’s no sign of annoyance, no exasperation—just a quiet determination that throws oikawa off for a second.
“okay, fine,” iwaizumi says firmly. “i’ll do it. tell me when and where.”
oikawa blinks, caught slightly off guard by how quickly iwaizumi agreed. “uh… good. i’ll let you know. and don’t think you can skimp on this! i expect five stars, minimal.”
iwaizumi’s lips twitch, almost like he’s fighting back a grin, but he doesn’t argue. “deal.”
hanamaki watches the exchange, his mouth half-open in disbelief. “you’re really going to go along with this?” he asks, looking at iwaizumi like he just agreed to fly him to the moon.
iwaizumi shrugs. “i hit him with a ball. it’s only fair.”
“damn right,” oikawa interjects, flipping his hair with dramatic flair. “i’m a victim here.”
hanamaki sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s already exhausted by the sheer ridiculousness unfolding in front of him. “this is either the weirdest form of reparations i’ve ever seen or the start of something painfully cliché. i can’t decide.”
oikawa, still basking in the glow of his impending fine dining experience, shoots hanamaki a pointed look. “oh, please. don’t ruin my moment with your uninspired commentary.”
“yeah, yeah,” hanamaki mutters, waving him off. “just remember, you’re the one turning a mere forehead bump into a five-course meal.”
iwaizumi chuckles under his breath, drawing oikawa’s attention. “what’s so funny?”
“nothing,” iwaizumi replies, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “just... you’re really something else.”
oikawa arches a brow, his smirk returning. “i will take that as a compliment.”
“of course you would,” hanamaki snorts, before standing up and stretching. “alright, well, i’m done being a third wheel in this soap opera. let me know how it goes. or don’t. actually, yeah, don’t.”
with that, he saunters off, leaving oikawa and iwaizumi in an oddly charged silence. iwaizumi scratches the back of his neck, looking slightly awkward now that hanamaki is gone.
“so,” iwaizumi starts, meeting oikawa’s gaze, “any preferences for this fancy dinner?”
oikawa grins, all too pleased with himself. “oh, don’t worry. i’ll send you a list.”
oikawa and iwaizumi exchanged numbers before parting ways, though oikawa made a dramatic point of saying, “only so you don’t conveniently forget about our dinner plans.”
the next day, oikawa drags himself to class, despite vehemently not wanting to be seen in public with the grotesque bump still looming on his forehead. his irritation doesn’t outweigh his fear of falling behind in his classes, so he trudges to campus, muttering under his breath, “i can’t look like a knockoff unicorn and fail my classes at the same time. one humiliation at a time, please.” after an embarrassing amount of time standing in front of the mirror, he decides to put on a bucket hat to hide the offending lump. at least it’s winter, he thinks bitterly, adjusting the hat so it covers as much of his forehead as possible. iwaizumi should be thankful it’s cold out, he grumbles internally. if i had to wear something to cover this in summer, let’s just say his compensation would’ve been a lot bigger than one dinner.
over the week, he spots iwaizumi on campus a few times, always near the field. now that he knows who he is, it’s almost impossible not to notice him. sometimes iwaizumi is standing with his teammates, other times practising pitching solo, his form focused and confident. oikawa can’t help but admit—grudgingly—that iwaizumi’s dedication to his sport is impressive. oikawa can tell, he’s a volleyball maniac himself. he notices the way iwaizumi moves, how he practises with almost obsessive precision— yeah, that’s the mark of an athlete . it’s kind of impressive, really. not that oikawa would ever admit it aloud.
still, oikawa doesn’t go up to him. he waits, biding his time until the weekend when iwaizumi has to fulfil his end of the deal. besides, oikawa thinks smugly, what could be worse for a broke university student than footing the bill for a fine dining dinner? this would teach him a valuable lesson: don’t go hitting people’s perfect faces with home runs. baseball is clearly a dangerous game, and oikawa has become its tragic victim.
a few days later, the day finally arrives. oikawa had told iwaizumi to come to his dorm to pick him up, even though, as he later learns, their dorms are only three minutes apart. still, he’ll take the extra attention—it’s part of the glamorous life of being oikawa tooru. he puts on a formal tuxedo, because it’s a fine dining restaurant after all. he has to look the part. the only thing that’s keeping him from being the pinnacle of perfection is the bump on his forehead.
it’s healed a lot, way more than oikawa had expected. okay, maybe he was being a little dramatic, but what’s done is done. no turning back now. he can’t wear a hat with his tuxedo, of course. so he decides to hide the fairly noticeable bump with his bangs, hoping that’s enough of a distraction. the bump might be smaller, but it’s still there, and he’s not about to put a band-aid on his forehead with formal attire. thankfully, sugawara’s off at his part-time job, or else he’d be teasing oikawa into oblivion.
oikawa hears a knock on the door. it must be iwaizumi. he takes one last look at his reflection, adjusts his tuxedo, and runs to open the door, expecting to see his dinner date in a nice, formal outfit to match his own. but what he sees next catches him completely off guard.
iwaizumi is standing here, wearing a white formal shirt—tucked in neatly. his hair is a little less spiky than usual, still messy but in a less... chaotic way. everything else is just as it always is: that serious expression, the faint muscle tone beneath his shirt, the usual rough edges. but despite all of that, iwaizumi still looks handsome.
but that’s not what surprises oikawa the most. no, what’s truly shocking is the bouquet of fresh red roses iwaizumi is holding out to him.
“for you,” iwaizumi says, his voice a little quieter than usual, but there's a strange sort of softness in it that catches oikawa off guard.
oikawa blinks, momentarily speechless, as he stares at the flowers. red roses. roses. he hasn’t been given flowers in... well, he can’t even remember the last time.
his fingers hover over the bouquet, still processing the gesture. “uh... i... thanks,” oikawa says finally, his voice almost a little breathless. he can't help but feel his heart skip a beat. iwaizumi... bringing him flowers? it is a very sweet gesture after all.
iwaizumi just shrugs, his usual stoic expression returning. “it’s just dinner,” he says, almost as if trying to brush off the sentiment. but the faint pink in his cheeks betrays him.
“yeah, right... dinner,” oikawa says, his voice suddenly teasing. this just got interesting.
oikawa carefully puts the flowers in his room, deciding he’ll arrange them in a vase later, after dinner. with a small smile, he turns back to iwaizumi and, with exaggerated flair, holds out his arm. “shall we?” he says, smirking slightly.
iwaizumi looks confused for a moment, furrowing his brows, but then realisation dawns on him. his cheeks turn faintly pink as he takes oikawa’s arm, clearly flustered but going along with it. they step outside, walking side by side in a brief silence that feels strangely loaded. eventually, oikawa decides to break it.
“so, how are we getting there? it’s pretty far, isn’t it?”
“don’t worry,” iwaizumi replies confidently. “i’ve got it covered.”
then, without a hint of hesitation but with eyes that seem to sparkle, he points toward a motorbike parked nearby.
oikawa blinks. “uh… this is our ride?”
iwaizumi nods, moving toward it with a casual ease.
oikawa crosses his arms, raising a brow. “but who goes to fine dining on a motorbike? and, no offence, but your bike looks… uh, well-loved.”
iwaizumi climbs onto the bike, unfazed. “none taken,” he says easily. “it’s my dad’s old bike. he gave it to me so i’d have something to get around with while i’m here. it’s all i’ve got, so… yeah. now, here.” he tosses oikawa a helmet. “put this on.”
oikawa stares at the helmet like it’s a foreign object. ugh, my perfect hair is going to be ruined. but he doesn’t complain—he doesn’t have a ride himself, after all. he puts the helmet on, though before he can adjust it properly, iwaizumi is already stepping in, his hands at the strap, making sure it’s snug. he’s close, so close, and oikawa feels a weird flutter in his chest that he quickly shoves aside.
after that, reluctantly, he gets onto the bike behind iwaizumi.
“hold on tight,” iwaizumi instructs, glancing back briefly. “or you might fall.”
oikawa awkwardly places his hands on iwaizumi’s shoulders. “uh… yeah, sure.”
iwaizumi gives him a flat look, one that screams, are you serious? before grabbing oikawa’s hands and pulling them firmly around his waist. “this won’t do,” he mutters. “have you never been on a bike before?”
oikawa freezes for a moment, blinking at the sudden closeness. wait, what just happened? his hands are now securely wrapped around iwaizumi’s waist, and he can’t help but feel like this is… weirdly intimate. but he doesn’t argue. he’s never ridden a bike before, so maybe this is just… normal?
the ride starts off quiet and a little awkward. oikawa, at first, is sceptical and more than a little terrified. but as they speed up and the cool evening breeze rushes past him, he starts to relax. the city lights blur around them, and the rhythmic hum of the engine somehow feels calming. the wind against his face, the sense of movement, and the crisp air—it’s all unexpectedly liberating.
by the time they approach the restaurant, oikawa is almost disappointed the ride is over. iwaizumi slows down, parking a short distance from the entrance. oikawa lets go of iwaizumi’s waist and takes off the helmet, his hair a hopeless mess. “well, that was… something.”
iwaizumi smirks slightly as he gets off the bike. “didn’t hear you complaining by the end.”
oikawa scoffs, running a hand through his tousled hair. “please, don’t let it get to your head. it’s not like i’d ever choose this over a proper ride.”
iwaizumi just chuckles softly, waiting for him to join before they head toward the restaurant.
as they near the restaurant, iwaizumi pauses and, much to oikawa’s surprise, extends his arm like a proper gentleman. “shall we?” he asks, his voice steady but his expression carrying a flicker of something—maybe nerves, who knows?
oikawa blinks, caught off guard for a moment, but then his lips curve into a faint smirk. “well, aren’t you chivalrous,” he teases lightly, slipping his hand onto iwaizumi’s offered arm.
as they walk toward the entrance, oikawa feels the weight of the moment settle over him. it’s… oddly formal, more so than he anticipated. his hand rests on iwaizumi’s arm, and for a split second, he allows himself to notice the warmth radiating through the fabric of his shirt. this feels awfully a lot like… a date.
and there it was. date. hanamaki’s words echo in his mind, smug and teasing. “you basically asked him out on a date, oikawa.” of course, oikawa had scoffed at the idea at the time. he didn’t ask people out. they asked him out. and besides, this wasn’t a date—it was compensation. strictly compensation.
except now, as they step inside the restaurant, oikawa starts to feel the cracks in his confident façade. the place is beautiful, upscale, and undeniably romantic. soft music plays in the background, and the warm glow of candlelight dances off every table. couples—clearly couples—are scattered across the room, their heads leaning close together, sharing intimate whispers and soft smiles.
oikawa swallows, suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings. was this the right place? but then again, he was the one who chose it. he feels a wave of self-consciousness wash over him, tugging at the edges of his composure. this was supposed to be just dinner—just some extravagant payback. but the atmosphere makes it hard to ignore the weight of this moment, and for once, oikawa feels unsure of himself.
“you okay?” iwaizumi asks, looking down at him with genuine concern, his voice cutting through the haze of oikawa’s spiralling thoughts.
oikawa quickly recovers, flashing a breezy smile. “of course,” he says, tilting his head playfully. “why wouldn’t i be? i mean, who wouldn’t love being treated to such a fancy dinner?”
iwaizumi smiles faintly and nods, leading him further into the restaurant. but as they’re shown to their table, oikawa can’t help but feel like this night might turn out to be far more complicated than he initially planned.