Chapter 1: The Dead Should Stay Dead
Notes:
Content warning: explicit sex scene involving overstimulation, multiple orgasms, use of sex toys, edging, dirty talk, anal fingering and penetration
Chapter Text
Breathe in.
In the midst of a crisis, Oikawa needed to remind himself to breathe. However, instead of a proper inhale, Oikawa hissed air through his teeth.
Breathe out.
“Argh—”
A painful groan escaped his lips. Out of reflects, Oikawa clenched the left side of his upper abdomen. Through the palm of his hand, Oikawa felt the mixture of dirt and half-dried blood around his wound. His communication device crackled incoherent voices; some Oikawa recognized as gunshots and others as an attempt to call out his name.
“Oi—crack—ka—crack—san!” Oikawa reached his com, but before he is given the chance to respond, it continues. “Checkpoint—crack—all clear—crack—where are—crack—you?!”
They’d been ambushed—fast, coordinated. The split was clean: Kageyama pushed left; Oikawa was forced into a back alley with two armed men and a knife he didn’t see in time.
Now he was bleeding out, alone, and off-grid.
“Shut up—Kageyama,” Oikawa groaned. His head is pounding, his side bleeding, and the last thing he needs is his on-site partner’s frantic screams. But the all-clear confirmation was essential; at least Oikawa can now set up a concrete plan for himself.
Breathe in.
“Fuck,” Oikawa cursed. He can feel more blood oozing from his side. Oikawa struggled to open his leather jacket. The front of his shirt is already soaked in sweat, dirt, and blood. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad if Oikawa had a stab-proof Kevlar instead of a bulletproof one. But then again, he was undercover, and a stab-proof body armour would be too thick to wear under plain clothes.
Oikawa’s heartbeat kicked up. Too fast. Too early. It is the first stage of shock: in response to blood loss, the human body will shut down blood vessels, which will lower blood pressure. Then the heart rate goes up to compensate. Left unattended, his condition will only go further down the drain.
Breathe out.
Oikawa crashed through the door, splattering blood on the floor as he fell. The cold hit him first—sharp and sterile. He smelled antiseptic, faint but unmistakable.
A hospital.
Not just any hospital, but he didn’t have time to think about that.
Oikawa’s free hand pushed his wounded body up, but his legs failed him. Not willing to give in, Oikawa crawled into the room. Cabinets. Metal drawers. Clean gauze. Medical-grade silence.
You’re okay, Oikawa told himself, you’ve had worse.
“Oikawa to mission control,” Oikawa tries to say as clearly as possible, “I’m down—I’m—“
Breathe in.
“I can’t make it to rendezvous,” Oikawa hissed in between painful groans, “R-request—backup.”
Oikawa attempts to send his location through the device. It’s not responding. Oikawa tries again, but the comm drops as Oikawa loses control of his trembling hands.
“Shit—“
Breathe out.
With immense effort, Oikawa sat himself on a chair. He leaned his heavy head on the table in front of him with one hand still clenching his open wound. His other hand rummages through the drawers underneath. He grabbed a roll of clean bandages and bit them to muffle his painful groans. His hands took another set of gauze, and without wasting time, he plunged it into the open wound.
Oikawa screamed in pain. The bandage roll helped muffle his voice, but it isn’t doing enough. Oikawa’s voice echoed through the empty room; he could only hope that the walls were soundproof. The gauze helped slow the blood flow, but he’s still bleeding. Oikawa is supposed to clean the wound before stuffing it; the dirt will lead to infection and cause more problems, but he has neither the time nor energy, so he opts to stuff it. If his hands weren’t so shaky, Oikawa would do emergency stitches.
Quickly, add more gauze and stop the bleeding, Oikawa’s brain is telling him. But it is as if every nerve cell in his body is reacting to the pain. He cannot get himself to carry on, at least not now. Oikawa felt betrayed by his own body.
Oikawa has had worse. He knew he’d had worse. But what if this was it? What if this was the mission he didn’t come back from?
The thought curled cold in his gut—uninvited, unwelcome, and it hit harder than it should have. Not the pain. Not the failure. But the raw, sudden flicker of panic—sharp and quiet.
Oikawa didn’t want to die.
He didn’t want to leave him.
The realization rooted in his chest like a blade. Undeniable.
Oikawa bit down hard on the bandage. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to stop the bleeding. He needed his hands to work.
After the few seconds that felt like a lifetime, Oikawa reached for another gauze. This time, his body complied. He bit the roll of bandages in his mouth tightly as he pushed the gauze into the hole in his upper abdomen. The pain is indescribable.
Breathe in.
If blood vessels are a big tank and the heart is a pump, as long as that pump is going and there’s a hole in the tank, water will be coming out. Stop the leak. Stop the bleeding, get going.
Oikawa knows the emergency procedure by heart. He forced another roll into his wound. In between his painful groans, Oikawa notices he isn’t breathing properly. He’s also losing consciousness abnormally fast.
“Stop—the bleeding,” Oikawa chants to himself as the bandage in his mouth fell out of place, “Get going.”
Breathe out.
Oikawa’s hands are trembling hard, making it difficult to work with.
Breathe in.
“Stop the bleeding—get going.”
Breathe out.
“F-fuck—“
Oikawa’s hands failed him. His body is convulsing, and his vision is blurring.
Breathe in.
But the breath never comes.
10 days before the incident — A hotel room somewhere in Tokyo
“I-Iwa—” Oikawa gasped, his voice hitching as his spine arched. He was on all fours, knees sinking into the mattress, forearms braced against the headboard. Oikawa’s spine dipped low, hips tilted back in offering, shameless in the way he presented himself.
Iwaizumi sat cross-legged at the other end of the bed, eyes locked on the way Oikawa’s body trembled under his touch.
“Please just—just give me—”
A moan ripped out of him as Iwaizumi’s fingers curled, precise and merciless, finding that spot with the kind of ease that only came from fucking him too many times before.
Oikawa’s hands clenched around the headrest, white-knuckled, like he was holding on to keep from unravelling. His breath hitched again as his hips rocked back into the thrust of Iwaizumi’s fingers.
“You know the rules, Tooru,” Iwaizumi said, voice low and maddeningly patient. “Say it.”
Oikawa bit his lip, still resisting even as his body betrayed him. “Y-you’re in control,” he breathed.
“Precisely.”
Iwaizumi drove two fingers into the base with firm precision. Oikawa whimpered, high and breathless, as the pressure deep inside him intensified, heat pooling low in his abdomen.
Then, Iwaizumi pulled out without warning, leaving only the obscene slick sound of lube—and a gaping, aching emptiness behind.
Oikawa’s eyes flew open. The sudden emptiness left him aching and hollow. When he turned his face aside, Iwaizumi was no longer behind him—he had moved up the bed, now right beside him, close enough for Oikawa to feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
“You need to be reminded who you belong to, don’t you?” Iwaizumi said.
Oikawa’s heart sank. “No, please… I’ll do better—”
“Ah ah,” Iwaizumi shook his head. “If you’re going to misbehave, then you better be ready to take what’s coming.”
Oikawa’s breath ragged as Iwaizumi takes his hand and guides him to reach back. Oikawa can feel the lubricant slathered around his entrance, some flowing down his legs. He swallowed, gaze thrown to Iwaizumi, silently begging for anything else than this.
“Prepare yourself,” Iwaizumi said, voice low and final. “And do it right. I’m not fucking a tense hole.”
Oikawa’s breath caught. Shame burned hot in his cheeks, his spine tensing like he could somehow pretend he hadn’t heard it. But his cock twitched helplessly, traitorous and aching.
Oikawa turned his face away, avoiding Iwaizumi’s gaze. But Oikawa did not move away. He couldn’t. He stayed perfectly still, thighs trembling, silently pushing his index finger into his backside. First one, then another.
Oikawa hissed at his ministration. Every stroke was a quiet confession. He could take bullets without blinking, get stabbed in the chest without flinching, but this—this is unravelling him. Oikawa didn’t like the way his own fingers felt. They’re not like Iwaizumi’s, skilled and knowing, but he obeyed.
“Look at you. Filthy little thing, putting on a show just for me.”
Oikawa’s breath stuttered, half from the discomfort and half from the sheer rush of being seen like this. Shame curled hot in his belly. His fingers stuttered inside him, but Oikawa didn’t stop. He hated how much it turned him on to be told that. Hated how it made his cock throb harder in the cool air.
“Keep going,” Iwaizumi said, and the words weren’t cruel, but they weren’t soft either. “I’m watching.”
Oikawa hated how much his body responded to this. How even the shame made his skin burn in anticipation. Every stroke was a quiet confession. Every squelch was filthy. And every dragged breath Oikawa exhaled reeked of desperation.
Iwaizumi gave a kiss between Oikawa’s shoulder blades, lips felt cold on his skin. His hand ran along Oikawa’s arched back, down his spine. Those strong hands lingered along Oikawa’s hips as Iwaizumi leaned closer.
“Doing so good for me, baby,” Iwaizumi murmured, his voice a current of heat against Oikawa’s spine. Yes, yes, please.
“Knees wide, beautiful, you know what comes next.”
Oikawa spread his legs obediently, trembling with anticipation, need flooding every nerve. He lined himself up, already pushing back just enough to feel the heat of Iwaizumi’s cock at his entrance, desperate for more. His forearms braced against the headrest, muscles tight with tension.
“So desperate to be fucked,” Iwaizumi laughed, low and sharp. Oikawa hated how it only made him hotter—how the mockery went straight to his gut, tightening everything, making his hole clench in need.
Iwaizumi grabbed his hips and thrust in all at once—no warning, no pause. Just the sudden fullness, the delicious burn, the solid press of cock buried deep inside.
Oikawa choked on a gasp, his spine arching in surrender. He was already trembling. Already wrecked.
Iwaizumi gave a few slow, deliberate thrusts, letting the slick settle, feeling Oikawa’s body adjust. He didn’t say a word—just breathed in harshly through his nose, eyes locked on the way Oikawa swallowed him so greedily.
And then he changed.
The rhythm shifted. Iwaizumi’s hips snapped forward—once, twice, then relentlessly, setting a brutal pace that punched the air from Oikawa’s lungs. Each thrust was deep, hungry, full of something darker than usual. Possession. Intention.
Iwaizumi didn’t fuck like a man giving pleasure. He fucked like a man taking what was his.
Iwaizumi’s thrusts were feral, merciless. Every push dragged the walls of Oikawa’s insides with delicious friction, but it was not for him—it was Iwaizumi’s to enjoy.
Iwaizumi did not hide the ecstasy Oikawa’s body is offering him. He’d groan openly every time he bottoms out, let out a guttural sigh as he grinds inside. Oikawa whimpered, his cock bouncing obscenely against his stomach. Every grind inside him brought him closer, made him clench harder, dizzy from the buildup. There were times when Iwaizumi was calm and composed—when he unraveled Oikawa with clinical precision. But tonight wasn’t one of those times.
Iwaizumi leaned forward and kissed Oikawa’s nape, a touch incredibly gentle in the midst of wild thrusting. One hand took Oikawa’s chin, forcing him to look into his eyes, and said, “You don’t come unless I say you can.”
Oikawa’s eyes widen, pupils blown. Panic flickered there—panic and arousal, tangled up so tightly they were indistinguishable.
“No—” Oikawa muttered. “No, please—Hajime, please—”
“You’ll earn it. If I think you’re worth it.”
Iwaizumi released Oikawa’s chin and hoisted him further up for a better angle. Unfortunately for Oikawa, it is an angle that directly hits his good spots. Oikawa wailed as Iwaizumi regained pace. The drag of his cock was ruthless now, greedy. The sound of skin hitting skin, Oikawa’s needy moans and constant begging for release. Oikawa’s leaking cock bounced with every thrust, but the poor thing found no relief, not when Iwaizumi is only focused on his own climax. Using Oikawa like his personal plaything.
Iwaizumi’s rhythm deepened, each thrust forcing Oikawa’s hips to shudder, his forearms pressed tight against the headboard as he moaned, open and pliant.
Then, with a possessive growl, Iwaizumi slowed—only to slide out just far enough to grip Oikawa’s waist and haul him upward. Oikawa gasped, legs trembling, as Iwaizumi guided him back onto the mattress.
In one controlled movement, he flipped Oikawa onto his back, never letting go, never breaking the heat between them. Oikawa’s knees bent instinctively, spreading open as Iwaizumi leaned over him, lined himself up again, and thrust home in one smooth stroke.
“H-Haji—” Oikawa’s voice broke. Their eyes locked—finally, painfully—and Oikawa lay there raw, exposed beneath the weight of the man who owned him.
“You take me so fucking well,” Iwaizumi panted, voice wrecked and heavy. “My pretty little plaything. Only I get to fuck you like this.”
Iwaizumi took Oikawa’s wrists and pinned them above his head. Iwaizumi keeps thrusting as he buries his face in the nook of Oikawa’s neck, biting and nibbling at the sensitive skin.
With Iwaizumi’s body pressing onto his own, his every move involuntarily giving more friction and pressure on his neglected cock, Oikawa could only cry in desperation. Oikawa’s breath came in sharp bursts. Too fast, too shallow, too broken. His toes curl at every thrust, fearing that the next would be the one to tip him over despite his orders.
“It’s too much—Hajime, please, let me come—”
But Iwaizumi isn’t listening. He pressed Oikawa’s wrists into the bed, restraining him from any chance of running or relieving himself. His breath caught in his throat. The rhythm turned ragged, becoming less about control and more about need.
“So fucking perfect.”
Iwaizumi’s hips jerked harder now, faster, slamming into Oikawa’s body with a relentless desperation. Then his whole body tensed, hips stuttering. With one final, brutal thrust—buried balls deep—Iwaizumi spilled into Oikawa’s heat.
An amused laugh escaped him as his grip on Oikawa loosened. His hips roll the last few grinds as he rides out every spasm, every shot of come deep inside Oikawa’s body. The room turned silent. The only sound was their breathing—raw and uneven.
Oikawa lay there, thighs still trembling, his cock flushed and untouched. He didn’t speak—not yet. Not while his body still pulsed with need and his heart thudded too fast in his chest.
Iwaizumi didn’t pull out right away. He rested his forearms on top of Oikawa’s head, leaning down to press their foreheads together.
“That’s my good boy. So beautiful, so obedient,” Iwaizumi muttered, tired and spent, but he meant every word.
Oikawa whimpered. He hated how his heart flutters at the praise, how hard he falls whenever Iwaizumi does that, despite how hard it was to do as told. His cock twitched helplessly between them, glistening with precum, every vein standing out like it was begging for mercy.
Slowly, Iwaizumi eased himself free, letting his body settle beside Oikawa’s on the bed. Turning onto his side, Iwaizumi reached down. His hand immediately finding Oikawa’s aching cock. Their eyes locked, Iwaizumi’s tender yet commanding stare met with Oikawa’s glassy, hopeful gaze.
“You’ve been so good for me,” Iwaizumi said, caressing the length of Oikawa’s shaft. “Now, let me take care of you.”
Iwaizumi’s hand moved slowly, tenderly stroking Oikawa once, a gentle reminder of their connection. Oikawa melted at the touch, muttering broken efforts of Iwaizumi’s name. But instead of continuing, with deliberate ease, Iwaizumi pulled his hand away, eyes never leaving Oikawa’s flushed face. His arm slid across the bed, reaching just out of sight. A faint hum filled the air as he picked up the wand vibrator resting within reach.
With careful precision, Iwaizumi brought the toy to Oikawa’s twitching length, pressing it lightly against the sensitive skin.
Oikawa flinched—the sudden vibration made his hips jerk and a strangled moan catch in his throat. His chest heaved as his eyes flew open, wide with need and something dangerously close to dread. Relief flooded through him at the long-denied stimulation, but it came hand-in-hand with tension. He was too close already—too swollen, too desperate—and the toy’s hum was merciless.
His legs gave a slight tremble, instinctively trying to pull away—his whole body wired for flight even as his cock betrayed him.
“H-Hajime—” Oikawa gasped, voice unsteady. “I–I can’t... not like this—”
“You can,” Iwaizumi murmured, low and firm, moving the toy in slow, steady circles. “You will.”
Oikawa gripped the sheets above his head, lips parted in a breathless whine, caught between the sharp edge of stimulation and the mounting pressure he could no longer hold off.
It happened fast, too fast—embarrassingly fast.
Oikawa’s back arched as the climax rips through him. His cock twitched as threads of come shoots out of him, messily slathered around his stomach. His toes curled and his legs trembled as the wave crashed. It was explosive, sharp, intense… and it is still going on.
Iwaizumi barely gave Oikawa a moment to breathe. He held the toy onto his spent cock, full power and nothing less, and Oikawa’s body jolted with a choked gasp.
“Too much—” Oikawa tried, voice cracking with the strain of overstimulation.
Iwaizumi didn’t answer. He shifted closer again, rolling onto his side and sliding a thigh between Oikawa’s, locking him open in place. When Oikawa tried to squirm away, Iwaizumi moved fast—pining both wrists above his head with one firm hand. The other never wavered from its task, holding the vibrator where Oikawa couldn’t take it.
Oikawa wailed. His back arched off the sheets and his stomach tightened against his will. Iwaizumi leaned in and kissed along the side of his neck, slow and deliberate. A stark contrast to the merciless rhythm of the toy buzzing against Oikawa’s flushed cock.
“Pretty things like you are made to be pleasured.”
But it was not only pleasure. There was pain, too, and brutal sensitivity.
Oikawa moaned—helpless, trembling, pinned between pleasure and pain. His legs tried to close reflexively, but Iwaizumi’s thigh blocked him, unrelenting. The pressure mounted, white-hot and impossible to stop. Oikawa wanted it to stop, it was too much—but his cock betrayed him. It pulsed, throbbed, then exploded—white heat tearing through him like it had claws. Oikawa’s eyes squeezed shut as the second orgasm crashed through him, violent and involuntary.
It wasn’t gentle. It was raw, overpowering—an orgasm dragged out of him, ripped through his nerves when he had nothing left to give. Oikawa’s body convulsed in surrender, caught in the crossfire of pleasure and pain, raw and helpless. He sobbed through it, shattered and completely given over. His chest is heaving, overwhelmed, and obedient.
When it ended, Oikawa collapsed in a trembling heap, breathing like he’d just been dragged out of a fire. His mind is hazy, and he couldn’t tell which way was up. But before he could spiral any further, Oikawa felt a gentle touch across his cheek. Then another hand ran through his hair, stroking his scalp in a deeply soothing motion.
“Breathe, Tooru. I’m here,” Iwaizumi whispered, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead. “You did so good for me.”
Oikawa’s body trebled once more, then slowly stilled. He melted into the warmth, the heartbeat, the voice that anchored him back to earth. Oikawa tilted his head to the side, his cheek pressed into Iwaizumi’s shoulder, skin tacky with sweat and come. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, with a voice hoarse and low, Oikawa let out a half-broken laugh.
“You’re such an asshole.”
His eyes closed and turned away, denying Iwaizumi any chance of staring into his eyes. Words more fond than angry.
Iwaizumi gave a quiet hum, hand still in Oikawa’s hair.
“I know.”
Iwaizumi pulled Oikawa closer, held him tighter. Like it was an apology. Or a promise.
The kind they never said aloud.
They lay there for a while, the room still thick with heat and sweat and everything they refused to name.
Oikawa kept his eyes closed. Not to rest, but to pretend—for just a moment longer—that the world outside this bed didn’t exist. That the clock wasn’t ticking. That Iwaizumi wouldn’t get up.
But he did. Eventually.
“Get some rest,” Iwaizumi said, voice quiet but steady.
He sat up, and the absence of his touch struck colder than it should have.
He reached down, pulled a blanket from the floor, and draped it gently beside Oikawa. Not over him—never over him—but close enough to reach, if he wanted it.
Then he headed to the bathroom without looking back.
The door clicked shut.
And suddenly, the room felt too big.
The warmth of Iwaizumi’s hands still clung to Oikawa’s skin like a fading imprint. His scent lingered in the sheets—salt, sweat, safety—but the heat between them had already been swallowed whole by the silence. No more ragged breath. No desperate moans or swallowed whimpers. Just the distant hum of the hotel mini-fridge and the wind slamming tree branches against the window like skeletal fingers trying to claw their way in.
It was too quiet. And in the quiet, the voice came.
One of these days, you’re going to destroy him.
Oikawa’s chest tightened. He turned onto his side, arm draped over his eyes like it could block out the world—like it could block out himself.
Sooner or later, you will. Because you burn everything you touch.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, but it was too shaky to pass as calm. His heartbeat was still racing, caught in the echo of a moment he’d sworn he wouldn’t let happen again.
Oikawa hadn’t wanted to need this. To need Iwaizumi.
You swore you’d walk out. You told yourself you’d stay out. That was the plan. Walk away before the blood hits him. Before he winds up collateral.
Yet, you came back. Again.
The sound of the shower running filtered through the wall—soft, distant, domestic. It should have grounded him. Instead, it made it worse. Because for a second, it sounded like home. Like something he could have had, in another life. In a softer one.
Oikawa’s fingers dug into the sheet.
You know it’s not just sex. It hasn’t been for a while. Not since he started touching you like you were something worth coming back to.
He should have pushed Iwaizumi away. He tried to. Again and again. But every time, Iwaizumi held him like he wasn’t just a weapon with a pretty face. Like Oikawa was human—not a liar buried in redacted files and bloodstained secrets, an impostor navigating through different faces.
And Oikawa—goddamn it—let himself fall. Every time.
Because Iwaizumi wasn’t just comfort. He was clarity. The only place the voices quieted. The only warmth that didn’t blister.
But now?
Now the line between desire and recklessness had vanished. Smudged by every stolen breath, every time he let himself need more. And if Iwaizumi got hurt because of that—because of him? Oikawa wouldn’t survive that.
Oikawa’s eyes stung. He blinked into the darkness.
You don’t get to have him. You don’t get to need someone like that. That’s not how this ends for people like you.
Oikawa swallowed down the lump in his throat and whispered to thin air.
“I’m sorry.”
*
The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.
Iwaizumi exhaled—slow and controlled. He rested both hands on the edge of the sink, head bowed, watching the water bead on the porcelain before turning on the tap. The sound of running water filled the silence, but it didn’t drown anything out.
His hands were trembling, just faintly. He flexed them under the stream. Watched the steam rise. Waited for the heat to burn something clean—but it didn’t.
It wasn’t always this way.
When they first started having sex, they didn’t even kiss. Kissing was a hard boundary, as peculiar as it sounded. It was an intimate act that had no place in their strictly business sexual partnership.
Now, that is all Iwaizumi wanted to do. To kiss Oikawa. Gently, harshly, hungrily, passionately.
Now, their sex is no longer strictly business. Regardless of what their rationale said.
It started several months ago. They’d been sleeping together for nearly two years when they decided to experiment. Iwaizumi had long since made peace with who he was—he never hated himself. Not for the way he liked control, not for the way he liked men. But in a world ready to twist truth into weakness, he’d learned to live in the shadows. Oikawa was untested, but curious. Willing. Open in a way Iwaizumi could never afford to be.
From simple arrangements—no strings, no complications—to setting boundaries, assigning safewords, buying equipment.
And that was the mistake. A huge mistake. Because once they slipped into that rhythm, there was no going back.
And Iwaizumi would do it all over again.
Because it was only after such intense sessions did Iwaizumi really had the chance to appreciate the finer details in Oikawa’s figure. He was objectively gorgeous, there is no doubt in that, but it was only in the afterglow of submission did Iwaizumi allowed himself to bask in that beauty. Iwaizumi started noticing the grace in Oikawa’s physique, the curves that shape his facial features, the elegance in the way he presents himself, the breathtaking beauty that contradicted his gruesome line of work, and the flaws that make him human.
Iwaizumi stepped into the shower, let the water hit his skin hard. He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, arms braced against the tile, eyes shut like he could hold something in by will alone.
Just one more night. That’s what you told yourself. Always just one more. And now look at you—hooked, haunted, and too far in to claw your way out.
What the hell was he thinking?
Every time they crossed this line, he told himself it was the last. That this couldn’t happen again. Not because he didn’t want it—by god, he wanted it—but because it made him a liability. A loaded gun in someone else’s hand.
He was the Prime Minister’s son. Which meant he wasn’t just a person. He was a symbol. A chess piece in a conservative society. One that could be cornered, threatened, or used.
And Oikawa… Oikawa was already carrying enough weight to sink a warship. His job was shadows and secrets. Danger followed him like a second skin.
You’re not just a man in his bed. You’re a bloody weakness. A flaw in his armor. And one day, someday, someone will aim for you just to get to him.
And still…
Still, he let it happen again.
Because when Oikawa held him, he didn’t feel like a pawn in someone else’s game—like a figure in a headline, or a scandal waiting to happen. When Oikawa moans his name, Iwaizumi felt something close to fulfilment.
And no matter how many times he told himself to walk away, his feet always stayed right there, unmoving.
He had told himself this would be the last time. But truth clung to his skin stubbornly. The way Oikawa’s lips felt against his, the way he held onto Iwaizumi as he was being made to come, the sounds he made as if nothing else mattered but them. The way their hands held each other, like drowning men refusing to let go.
It was a mistake.
One he couldn’t undo.
One he’d repeat.
The hot water ran down his back in steady streams, but it did little to wash off the weight pressing into his spine. Iwaizumi stood there longer than necessary, as if the spray might scour away the feelings he wasn’t supposed to be having.
Iwaizumi’s eyes shut, his jaw clenched.
It shouldn’t have happened. None of this should have. But if Oikawa reached for him again, if he whispered his name like that again, if he touched him like Iwaizumi is the only one keeping him afloat—damn it, Iwaizumi would let him.
With a breath sharp enough to feel like surrender, Iwaizumi turned off the water. The sudden silence rang louder than the stream ever had.
Iwaizumi stepped out slowly, drying himself off with a rhythm that felt mechanical. His fingers trembled only once, when they brushed the faint indent of teeth on his collarbone.
And even as he wrapped the towel around his waist, as if layering armor over exposed skin, the thought refused to leave him.
Please stay.
Iwaizumi opened the bathroom door. A part of him hoped that Oikawa would still be there when he walked out of the shower. Waiting for him. Looking back at him.
But tonight, like many nights before, Oikawa was gone, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in Iwaizumi’s chest.
The room was still warm, the sheets tangled and creased where their bodies had pressed too close, too long. His scent still clung faintly in the air—amber, sweat, and something that always felt like a goodbye.
Iwaizumi stood at the threshold in silence, towel loose around his waist, water still dripping from his hair. The only sound left was the clock ticking and the wind clawing at the windows. No footsteps. No voice calling him back.
Just absence.
He let out a slow breath through his nose and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to smother the sting in his chest. He should be used to this by now.
But knowing the pattern didn’t make it hurt less.
Not when he still looked at the empty bed like it might answer him. Like it might explain why someone who held him like that could still walk away without a word.
Iwaizumi turned away.
He didn’t curse Oikawa. He didn’t cry. He just sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the door he already knew wouldn’t open.
“Coward,” he whispered—not sure if he meant Oikawa, or himself.
Maybe both.
8 days before the incident — Koanchosa headquarters
There is a knock on Oikawa’s office door, and since he left it open, a tall, slim figure with jet black hair slides between the door and his office.
“Oikawa-san, do you have a moment?”
Oikawa lets out an audible sigh. He recognized the voice—hell, he recognized the footsteps—and he was really not in the mood for guests.
Kageyama Tobio, one of the new recruits and as of last year Oikawa’s trainee, is standing half in Oikawa’s office and half holding back. Oikawa watched the junior agent hesitate through the reflection in his monitor. But before Oikawa could make a snarky comment, another figure stepped in and opened the office door wide.
“My my, if it isn’t Commander Kuroo himself,” Oikawa said sarcastically. He turns his swivel chair in an unnecessarily dramatic manner, facing his two visitors. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Kuroo raised an eyebrow, always wary of Oikawa’s sweet talk.
“As much as I’d like to reminisce about the nostalgia of sharing an office with you, Oikawa, I’m afraid Kageyama and I are here with rather unpleasant news,” Kuroo said, his facial expression showing hints of displeasure. Not because Kuroo Tetsurou is easily readable, but more because Oikawa has known Koanchosa’s new commander since their trainee days.
“Very well,” Oikawa gets the hint. “I’m all ears.”
Kuroo signals Kageyama to step forward and present his case.
“According to your mission log number HX456 from day 12, month 9, you reported a mission accomplished with the following description—”
“Hold up,” Oikawa hissed, cutting Kageyama’s report short. “You went through my mission logs?”
“I gave him clearance,” Kuroo stated.
“Without a heads-up?” Oikawa turned toward Kuroo, voice laced with indignation. “Rude. And here I thought we were friends, Tetsu-chan.”
“It’s related to his case,” Kuroo said, unfazed. “Protocol doesn’t require prior notice. We just do that out of courtesy. You were out of office, and this was time-sensitive. So I gave Kageyama the clearance. It’s nothing personal.”
“Still rude,” Oikawa huffed and folded his arms across his chest.
Kuroo’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers flexed slightly at his side—a tell only someone like Oikawa would notice.
Kuroo was a field agent as well before going up to the commanding office. He understood Oikawa’s annoyance. Mission logs weren’t just paperwork. They contain all things related to past cases. They also record the sensitive information obtained during an active mission. Fallen into the wrong hands, mission logs can be used against the agent who reported it—accuse them of wrongdoing, or used to steal confidential information known only to the said agent. Koanchosa agents have a silent agreement to inform each other before accessing someone’s past mission logs.
“So, Bokuto wasn’t exaggerating about you being more irritable lately,” Kuroo commented.
Oikawa grimaced. “That statement, coming from Bokuto, is an exaggeration by definition.”
“I believe you’ll want to hear this, Oikawa-san,” Kageyama interjected before the banter could spiral. He stepped forward and neatly laid out a file across the desk.
“This is your mission log from three years ago. Video footage and comm recordings are available to support your report—“
“You think I’d lie in a report?” Oikawa cuts off yet again, voice thick with offence.
“Let him finish,” Kuroo snapped. “He’s new, not incompetent.”
Oikawa rolled his eyes, but the tension in his jaw hadn’t relaxed.
“However, this,” Kageyama pulled another sheet from his second folder. “This is from my latest recon mission. I cross-referenced all data. Unfortunately, it is a match.”
Something clicked behind Oikawa’s eyes. A delay. A snap. His entire frame straightened, suddenly and fully alert. He leaned forward, scanning the side-by-side documents.
Same name. Same face. Three years apart.
Shidou.
His report said eliminated.
Kageyama listed him as a suspect.
If Oikawa’s heart skipped a beat, it didn't show—but his fingers stilled on the edge of the desk, and a faint crease formed between his brows. Beneath the practiced calm, something cold and familiar twisted in his gut—a creeping unease he hadn’t felt since his early years in the field. The evidence was solid. Too solid. His instincts whispered the one thing his pride refused to admit: someone was two steps ahead. And they wanted him to know it.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Oikawa muttered, barely audible. His eyes flicked back and forth between the two reports, as if a third reading might rewrite reality. One corner of his mouth twitched downward. Both reports were airtight, and yet they told stories that couldn’t coexist.
“It’s okay, Oikawa, we all make mistakes at some point,” Kuroo said with a slight tease. But Oikawa isn’t in the mood for jokes.
“It’s not a mistake,” Oikawa snapped, the sharpness in his voice undercut by something deeper—defensiveness or fear, it was hard to tell. He jabbed a finger toward the file. “I did my job. I logged every step. If anyone screwed up, it’s him.”
Oikawa shot Kageyama a look sharp enough to cut.
“No,” Kuroo said calmly. “We had Nishinoya vet the footage. It’s clean. Kageyama did good work. You trained him well.”
Oikawa’s eyes didn’t move from Kageyama, but something fractured.
“Then why the hell is my dead target doing in his suspect list?!”
Oikawa’s hands slammed onto the desk with a loud crack, fingers splayed wide. Papers jumped with the hit, and Kageyama blinked hard, flinching instinctively. Oikawa’s breath came sharper now, shoulders drawn tight. The polished exterior finally fractured, and it echoed through the office like a shot. Any field agent would feel humiliated having their closed case reopened, let alone a high-ranking agent like Oikawa.
“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Kuroo said, unaffected by Oikawa’s frustration. “I am reassigning you. Drop your current case and back Kageyama on this one. Status updates by the end of the week. Kageyama, your first official solo case will have to wait.”
Kageyama stuttered while answering a yes, mostly because of Oikawa’s immediate protest.
“No. No, I am not working with him,” Oikawa shot to his feet, the chair spinning slightly behind him. He crossed the space in three long strides until he stood toe-to-toe with Kuroo. Hierarchy line be damned, Oikawa looked like he’d punch the next person who spoke.
Kuroo didn’t flinch.
“You want the mess cleaned? Fine. I’ll kill that shady bastard again if that makes you happy. But I am not following my former trainee around like a shadow.”
National security is the only specialization field in Koanchosa where their agents are not assigned a fixed partner. It’s always every man or woman for themselves. New agents are assigned a mentor in the beginning, but it is more to show them the ropes of the organisation and less about carrying out the job. Kageyama was Oikawa’s trainee until recently, and now Kuroo wants him to be his backup? Kageyama isn’t even in the agency long enough to gain Oikawa’s trust.
“Have some manners, Oikawa, you're hijacking his case. Not the other way around.”
“Well, you know what, Tetsu,” Oikawa threw his hands in the air, so close to fed up, his voice thick with venom. “Have Kageyama finish the damn job. He’s full-fledged now, right? Welcome to national security, Tobio-chan. We don’t have friends here, only liabilities.”
“I swear, you are so exhausting sometimes,” Kuroo narrowed his eyes. He forcefully placed the documents in Kageyama’s hands on Oikawa’s desk. “Be his backup. That’s an order.”
Oikawa exhaled sharply through clenched teeth.
“You don’t see the bigger picture, Tooru,” Kuroo continued, voice dropping. “Someone on your confirmed kill list just rose from the dead and went for classified documents.”
Oikawa’s composure wavered—just a flicker—but Kuroo saw it. His mouth parted slightly, a breath caught mid-exit, as if the realization had knocked something loose in his mind.
“Kageyama,” Kuroo said without breaking eye contact, “National Security has only one rule. Say it.”
“Get the job done,” Kageyama replied, just barely holding his voice steady.
“Exactly.” Kuroo tapped the files. “Get the job done, Oikawa.”
Oikawa gave Kageyama a final glance before turning his stare back to the commanding officer, “Yes, sir.”
“Atta boy,” Kuroo gave his final note, ignoring the sarcastic remark in Oikawa’s affirmation.
Kuroo turned on his heel and exited the office. Kageyama followed without being asked—relieved to escape the heat radiating from Oikawa’s silence.
Kuroo’s pace was just brisk enough to convey irritation, his usual swagger absent. Kageyama kept up, stealing glances through the glass windows that lined the hallway. He found his commander’s upset expression, second only to those of Oikawa’s.
“Sugar coating gets us nowhere, so I’ll be blunt,” Kuroo started as they reached an elevator. “This case is a trainwreck. Normally, I’d reassign it to someone with more experience. But you’ve already done too much groundwork. Reassigning it now would be inefficient.”
So you partnered me with an upset Oikawa instead? Thoughtful. Kageyama couldn’t help but think.
The elevator dinged softly.
“However, the fact that the case revolves around Oikawa irritates me,” Kuroo admits as they enter.
“How so, sir?” Kageyama asked. “Is it because of the suspect?”
“Partly. Shidou always had a thing for going after Oikawa. But that’s not my biggest concern.”
They entered the elevator.
“Oikawa’s the highest-performing field agent we’ve got. And somehow, a man he claimed to have eliminated walked right past our security net. That alone is suspicious. But when you, his former trainee, are the one to uncover it?” Kuroo shook his head. “Too many coincidences. I don’t trust patterns like that.”
Kageyama nodded. “Understood, sir.”
The elevator stopped. They exited.
“I owe you an apology,” Kuroo said as they neared his office. “Oikawa’s response was out of line. That’s not how we treat teammates.”
“It’s fine, Commander. I get it. I challenged his credibility. That can’t be easy.”
“He was wrong about one thing, though,” Kuroo said, stopping just short of his door. “You do have friends in national security. We just don’t always act like it.”
Kageyama blinked.
“In our line of work, trust is like ammo. Scarce and finite. So you ration it. Oikawa doesn’t waste it on untested agents. He has caught double-agents before—he knows well the cost of trust.”
Kageyama nodded again.
“You’re doing good work, Kageyama. Don’t let his attitude undermine that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kuroo grunted and opened the door.
“And for god’s sake,” he muttered, “stop with the ‘sir.’ It sounds... wrong.”
“You mean it sounds kinky!” Bokuto’s voice exploded from inside.
Kuroo sighed long and hard as he stepped back into the chaos.
Chapter 2: Until It Hurts to Breathe
Chapter Text
There’s a body in the morgue.
The statement sounds completely normal, remembering what a morgue is for, but the sight before Iwaizumi says otherwise.
There’s a body in the morgue.
No, not on the examination table. On a chair by the cabinet. Who is that?
Iwaizumi found blood, lots of blood painted the otherwise pristine white tiles. Someone else was on shift last. But no sane medical professional would leave the morgue like this. What happened?
Iwaizumi steps closer, aiming to answer the first question before even thinking about the next. He enters carefully, as blood on his soles would be very inconvenient. The body is slumped by the cabinet. Any other person would probably panic, but for Iwaizumi, who slices open dead bodies for a living, the sight is far from gruesome.
It was, however, until the body flinched. It was not a corpse. Not yet.
Iwaizumi’s training surged forward before panic could. Help first, ask questions later. When was the last time he had to stop death instead of explaining it?
But when Iwaizumi reached for the jaw to check vitals, he saw the face.
It was a familiar face.
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi breathed.
Oikawa was clutching his side with one hand, the other pawing at supplies. Iwaizumi saw what he’d been trying to do. The wound was packed, barely, with gauze. Amateur, but not wrong. Oikawa was trying to stop it. Iwaizumi quickly yet cautiously checks for pulse (irregular), then observes his breathing (barely).
“What did you get yourself into,” Iwaizumi hisses as he checks the rest of Oikawa’s vitals.
Bad. Everything is bad. Oikawa is seconds from cardiac arrest, and if he does, Iwaizumi might not get him back.
Chest compression, stat.
Iwaizumi braced his hands over the sternum and pushed. Hard. Five centimeters down, just like they taught him. One hundred to one-twenty beats per minute.
Iwaizumi harshly pushes down in rhythm while his eyes observe Oikawa’s condition. Scratches. Bruises. Defensive wounds. One major bleed—upper abdomen.
“Come on, work with me!” Iwaizumi growls, but nothing. No twitch. No breath.
Artificial ventilation.
Iwaizumi seals Oikawa’s mouth and breaths in. His hands go back to Oikawa’s chest. Compress. CPR is a harsh procedure. It is brutal, but necessary. Better bruised ribs than a dead heart. Iwaizumi is certain Oikawa will have chest pains later—if he survives.
“I said work with me!” Iwaizumi yells.
Another breath. Force it in. Don’t stop.
“I’m not going to make this easy on you, got that?” Iwaizumi is practically screaming.
More compression.
“Respond, asshole!” Iwaizumi roars.
Again, try it again. Don’t stop.
“Please!”
One final push. Iwaizumi leans in, listening.
And he found one. Yes. Good—for now.
CPR buys time. But it won’t fix the rhythm. For that, Iwaizumi needs a jolt. TV gets it wrong. Defibrillators don’t start hearts—they reset them. No shock can fix a flatline. But if there’s something left—something weak—it can be reset.
If Oikawa doesn’t get a shock soon, his heart won’t hold up. Iwaizumi knows he has to get a defibrillator and fast. Unfortunately, the morgue has none. Why would it need one anyways? Anybody ending up in this room is beyond saving.
6 days before the incident – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital
In the final months of his residency, Iwaizumi finds himself drifting into old memories more often than he’d like—especially during the rare moments when the morgue is quiet, untouched by the mess of an ongoing autopsy.
The morgue is rarely like this. On most days, there’s always something: new arrivals wheeled in, families identifying the dead, detectives asking for forensic details. Or, at the very least, colleagues drifting in and out.
Today, there are none, and Iwaizumi cannot stop his mind from going back to how it all began.
If anyone had told his fifteen-year-old self that he’d end up cutting open corpses for a living, Iwaizumi would’ve laughed them off. Raised in a rigid, image-obsessed family of politicians, his future had always been planned for him—mapped out in quiet expectations and sharp-edged traditions. Medical school had no place in that plan, and forensic pathology even less. He spent years pushing back, carving out space for himself where there was none. Eventually, they stopped resisting—not out of acceptance, but calculation. A doctor, after all, was easier to explain than a son who loved other men. Medicine became the easier scandal to stomach.
And when his father finally took office, that unspoken agreement hardened into something colder: Iwaizumi could live as he pleased, so long as he didn’t live loudly. The terms were clear. Stay out of the spotlight. Stay away from scandal. His existence was already a liability—what mattered now was containing it.
“Oh, Iwaizumi-san, I wasn’t expecting you here today.”
Iwaizumi turned his chair to his approaching colleague and unexpected friend from college. Matsukawa Issei entered through the double doors, the edge of his white coat and the spikes of his black hair waving with every step he took.
Even though they are lab partners in Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital, Iwaizumi and Matsukawa go way back. They first met during cram school. Iwaizumi appreciated Matsukawa’s calm manner in an otherwise hectic cram school, and it turned out that Matsukawa knew enough people to obtain quality learning materials. When Iwaizumi’s father was elected prime minister sometime during their medical school years, Matsukawa was one of the few people in his immediate surroundings that ceased to change.
“I’m not on the clock,” Iwaizumi replied. “But I’d rather sort paperwork here than back home.”
If it even counts as home anymore.
After his father took office, the family moved into the Kantei official residence, which is a heavily secured compound that doubles as a venue for state meetings and diplomatic receptions. Foreign dignitaries came and went, and entire wings of the residence felt more like a hotel than a household. Iwaizumi never saw the point. They already lived in luxury—why relocate to a space designed more for image than intimacy? The official reason was heightened security. Iwaizumi suspected it had more to do with optics and proximity to power. It always was.
Matsukawa hummed in response, saying nothing. He didn’t have to. He already knew.
He turned to his workstation and began sterilizing his equipment.
“By the way,” Matsukawa said casually, tone offhand but eyes sharp, “a little bird told me you’re leaving Tokugawa Hospital after residency?”
Iwaizumi exhaled, rubbing at his brow. “Well… I haven’t talked to my family yet. So, until then, let’s just say it’s very likely.”
“That wasn’t what I meant, my liege,” Matsukawa added, grinning just wide enough to be annoying. Three years of title-based torment, and Iwaizumi had long since given up trying to stop him.
“I mean, you’re leaving the hospital for another institution.”
That got Iwaizumi to turn and squint at him. “Who told you that?”
“That acceptance letter from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department lying open on your desk,” Matsukawa said, gesturing with a jerk of his chin.
“You went through my stuff?”
“It was on top, Hajime. And maybe if you returned my pens, I wouldn’t have to go rifling through your drawer like a desperate man.”
Fair. Iwaizumi did have a bad habit of permanently borrowing things.
He leaned back in his chair, lips pressing into a thin line. “So am I right?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Matsukawa didn’t answer right away, turning his attention back to sterilizing his equipment. The hum of the autoclave filled the quiet for a moment.
While Matsukawa had already accepted a fellowship at Tokugawa, Iwaizumi was still weighing his options. He’d been offered the same fellowship—an impressive one—but something about spending years buried in academic research didn’t sit right. He wanted movement. Fieldwork. Unravelling something messy and unknown. But joining the police department’s forensic division... felt like trading one kind of compromise for another.
“Let me guess,” Matsukawa said at last. “Your family doesn’t want you working with law enforcement either?”
“If it were up to them, I’d be making speeches in the Diet,” Iwaizumi muttered, eyes narrowed in tired frustration. “But the truth is, I’m the one stalling. I don’t know what I want.”
Matsukawa snorted. “Why would you even want to go there? They’re understaffed, underfunded, and no one takes medical science seriously. M.D. or not, they treat you like a glorified technician. And God help you if you need time to do things properly.”
“You seem to know a lot about the department,” Iwaizumi said, arching an eyebrow.
“My cousin works as a forensic examiner in Hakodate. It’s the same across the board,” Matsukawa replied. “You’d learn way more staying here.”
“I know.” Iwaizumi’s voice softened into a sigh. “But you also know how things are with my family. The choice might be mine on paper—but never in practice.”
Matsukawa looked over, gaze unreadable for a beat.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”
He didn’t say more, but Iwaizumi could feel the weight of it. Matsukawa came from a working-class family, one that scraped together what they could to get him through med school. For him, a job offer was a blessing, not a battleground. The idea that someone’s family might actively sabotage their career—because of pride, because of politics—was unthinkable. But Matsukawa didn’t pity him. He just understood.
Maybe that was worse.
Iwaizumi didn’t respond right away. He stared down at the autopsy table—clean, empty, stainless steel gleaming under the cold lights. A perfect surface, untouched. Unlike his future.
With a rough sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers briefly gripping the back of his neck before letting go.
“I just want to do the damn job,” Iwaizumi muttered.
Across the room, Matsukawa dried his hands with a towel and tossed it into the bin without looking. He was quiet for a beat, the hum of the overhead vents the only sound between them.
Then, as if flipping a switch, Matsukawa straightened, slapped his palms lightly against the edge of the table, and said with mock gravity, “Anyways, on a more important matter—”
Iwaizumi glanced up, side-eye sceptical but playing along.
“Friday evening,” Matsukawa chirped, the grin back in full force, “two sets of volleyball, free game. Losing team pays for food, winners pick the bar. You’re coming—I’m one wing spiker short.”
Iwaizumi squinted, suspicion creeping in. “I thought the hospital court is booked for basketball on Fridays.”
“It’s not hospital staff.” Matsukawa waved him off. “It’s a club thing. Some guys from Radiology invited me—”
“Radiology?” Iwaizumi cut in, eyes narrowing in recognition. “Wait. That Hana-something guy you won’t shut up about is in Radiology, isn’t he?”
Matsukawa’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “Excuse you—how dare—”
“You just want to impress him!”
Matsukawa chuckled nervously and shook his head.
“Alright, okay, fine, maybe. But come on, Hajime, you gotta help me out here! I need backup!”
Matsukawa crossed his arms in a dramatic pout, but before Iwaizumi could answer, the door swung open behind them.
“He can’t come.”
Both men turned toward the voice.
Standing at the threshold was Sawamura Daichi, dressed in casual but sharp attire—comfortable jeans, a dark leather jacket, the subtle glint of an earpiece visible only if you knew to look. He moved with quiet authority, the kind that didn’t need to be announced.
“Sorry,” Daichi added, genuinely apologetic, closing the door behind him.
Matsukawa raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”
Iwaizumi groaned, already remembering. “Diplomatic dinner at the residence. I forgot. Bad timing, Mattsun—you’ll have to find another wingman.”
“Wing spiker,” Matsukawa corrected, deadpan.
“Whatever,” Iwaizumi smirked as he gathered up his documents and stuffed them into his bag.
Daichi stepped in to help him into his coat, moving with a practiced ease.
“Was I early?” he asked.
“No, you’re on time. I just didn’t finish what I wanted to do,” Iwaizumi replied with a tired shrug, looping his scarf around his neck.
“What about him?” Matsukawa said suddenly, jerking a thumb toward Daichi. “Iwaizumi told me you played too.”
“Duh. Nationals,” Daichi replied, a little too proudly for Iwaizumi’s comfort.
“Third year of high school,” Iwaizumi grumbled. “Don’t get him started, Mattsun. He’ll never shut up.”
He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. “And no—if I can’t play volleyball because of some stupid diplomatic dinner, neither can my bodyguard.”
Matsukawa groaned in protest.
“Maybe next time, Matsukawa-san,” Daichi said with a grin as he opened the morgue door for both of them.
5 days before the incident – Koanchosa headquarters
“Why the flying fuck can I still not get through Kantei’s security?” Oikawa snapped, his voice cracking just enough to betray the strain underneath. He raked his fingers through his hair, gripping a little too tightly, like he was trying to stop the pressure in his head from spilling out. A harsh groan followed, low and guttural.
The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, but Oikawa suddenly felt like they were drilling into his skull.
“Can’t work without access,” he muttered, barely keeping his voice under control.
Bokuto’s head popped up from behind his terminal. “Wait—what? You don’t have access? You’re you.”
Oikawa didn’t answer. Just let out another frustrated breath and slammed his fingers onto his keyboard, harder than necessary.
“Aren’t national security agents basically the all-access gods of intelligence?” Bokuto asked, puzzled, his tone somewhere between genuine confusion and playful incredulity.
When Oikawa didn’t respond, Bokuto’s eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the twitch in Oikawa’s jaw. His grin faltered for half a second. Something was off. He knew Oikawa too well to mistake that tension for just work stress—but rather than call it out, he eased into his usual banter like a cushion. “I mean, especially you. Kantei’s darling, or whatever, right?”
Kageyama cut in quickly, sensing Oikawa’s fraying patience. “Koanchosa archives, yes—but Kantei’s system is different. Permits expire if you’re not in an active mission. You only get back in when it’s officially reassigned. They’re strict.”
“This doesn’t count as an active mission?” Bokuto asked, eyes darting between them.
“Technically, it’s my mission,” Kageyama said carefully, his voice low. “Commander Kuroo looped in Oikawa-san a few days ago. Our Kantei liaison’s already pushing the request. Sugawara-san is fast, so…”
“Still not fast enough,” Oikawa muttered, barely audible but sharp enough to cut glass.
Bokuto leaned forward, arms crossed, peering at him. “You’re way more irritable than usual, Oi-kun, and I’ve seen you get shot in the thigh without blinking.”
He meant it as a joke—but part of him wasn’t joking anymore. For a second, his usual grin flickered—like a lightbulb about to go. Something wasn’t funny anymore.
Oikawa was usually polished, his temper honed like a blade. But now he looked frayed at the edges—posture coiled, fingers twitching restlessly against the desk. Most agents, regardless of specialization, see Oikawa as Commander Kuroo’s right-hand man. His unofficial first officer, his eyes and ears in national security. Bokuto, especially, has known Oikawa for many years now. They started the agency together. Even though they rarely work together, Bokuto has seen the things Oikawa is capable of. The talks that circulate around headquarters. The legacy Oikawa has built around himself.
So now, seeing it all slowly fall apart, amused him.
Bokuto leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, eyes narrowed in a rare moment of actual curiosity. “Still, it’s not like you to spiral over paperwork.”
Oikawa’s jaw ticked.
Kageyama swallowed and looked away.
“You’re usually ten steps ahead, even when shit’s on fire,” Bokuto went on, voice too loud for the room. “No way a temporary clearance delay has you this bent.”
Oikawa kept typing, as if ignoring him would make him disappear.
Bokuto’s eyes narrowed. “It’s something else.”
Oikawa stopped. Not slowly. Not calmly. Just—stopped.
Kageyama could feel the temperature drop.
“Bokuto-san…” he said, barely a whisper.
But Bokuto only tilted his head. “What? I’m not wrong.”
“You’re out of line,” Oikawa bit out.
“I’ve always been out of line,” Bokuto grinned. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Oikawa slammed his notebook shut with a sharp snap. The sound startled even Bokuto. Yet, it did not stop him.
“Something is bothering the Grand King.”
The look Oikawa shot him could’ve frozen a room full of burning agents. Kageyama tensed.
“Gee, I wonder what that is,” Oikawa bit back, sarcasm sharp as glass.
“No, no, I mean besides the whole ‘dead target not being dead’ thing,” Bokuto said, hands raised in mock surrender. But even that came out gentler now, as though he wasn’t sure if it was safe to push further.
Kageyama shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He’s been working nonstop on this case, Bokuto-san. Cut him some slack.”
Oikawa gritted his teeth. “I’ve been stuck at the same point for days. I have no lead. So pardon me if I’m not my usual charming self.”
“Nah now, that’s not it,” Bokuto muttered, almost to himself. He leaned back, scrutinizing Oikawa more seriously now. “You don’t come undone this easily. Not over intel blocks.”
Oikawa’s skin prickled under the too-white light. Every breath felt thick, like he was inhaling through gauze. The faint chatter from another room bled through the walls, distant but irritating—like static.
Bokuto continued, eyes narrowing. “I think it’s personal.”
That snapped something.
Oikawa’s chair screeched back as he shot to his feet. His notebook slammed shut like a gavel. Every movement was sharp, too fast, like he’d been burned.
“I like my case studies as quiet as fucking graveyards,” he snarled. “Now I have to work with you—and him of all people.” His eyes flicked to Kageyama. “There. That’s what’s bothering me.”
He turned and stormed off, footsteps heavy on the tile, heels clicking like warning shots. The door shut hard behind him, not quite a slam, but loud enough to leave a silence in his wake.
“I need a fucking break,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
Kageyama stared at the door, unsettled. His senior was sharp and driven—but this wasn’t frustration. This was something deeper. Something is shaking the foundation.
“Something’s really wrong with him,” Kageyama said under his breath, furrowing his brow.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Bokuto said after a beat. “That was a little more meltdown than I was aiming for.”
Kageyama blinked. “…You were aiming for a meltdown?”
Bokuto didn’t answer immediately. His usual grin faded into something more thoughtful. He drummed his fingers once on the desk. “I wanted to see if he’d snap. Guess I got my answer.”
“That’s not funny,” Kageyama muttered.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Bokuto said, half to himself. Then, with a shrug, “Still think it’s personal.”
Kageyama glanced toward the closed door. “You think it’s… about someone?”
Bokuto’s grin came back in full. “Ten bucks says it’s a guy.”
He said it like a joke—but his fingers paused mid-type, hovering just above the screen for half a second too long.
Kageyama’s face burned. “Wh—What?!”
Bokuto chuckled, the sound a little too loud. “Come on. That’s not even gossip, that’s pattern recognition.” He finally tapped something on his phone, more like muscle memory than interest. “What do you think, someone from before? Or someone here?”
Kageyama hesitated, clearly flustered now. “I… I don’t think we should speculate about that.”
Bokuto waved him off, but his eyes lingered on the door, jaw ticking faintly.
He’s seen this before. Another agent, once a colleague but now a former agent, years ago—how fast strength starts to rot when you pretend it isn’t cracking.
Oikawa had always seemed untouchable. That might’ve been the real problem.
*
Oikawa stormed out of their shared working space without giving much thought to where to go. He only knows that his mind is blurry, everything feels stuffy, and he needs fresh air. Before long, Oikawa found himself at the Koanchosa building’s rooftop terrace. The place is thankfully empty, allowing Oikawa to choose a bench by the flowerbeds and lie down with an arm covering his eyes from the evening sun.
It is a luxury to be able to find a quiet hideout in the heart of downtown Tokyo. The city murmured beneath him—loud, alive, indifferent. He tried to match its rhythm with his breath, but every inhale caught just short of his chest, like he was bracing for something that hadn’t hit yet. He focused on the slow breeze of wind going through his hair and the gentle warmth of the sun against his skin, slowly setting down to end the day.
After a while, Oikawa carefully opens his eyes and sits up on the bench. Though he successfully calmed down his nerves, Oikawa slowly acknowledged another emotion creeping up: yearning. Amid a hectic workday, Oikawa yearns to see Iwaizumi. Not for the sex, just to see his face and probably also his cocky chuckle. Oikawa’s mind wandered, imagining how pleasant it would be to end a frustrating day like today by coming home to Iwaizumi.
Oikawa sighed heavily. He never meant for things to go this far, and now he finds himself spiralling down a path he’d rather not go.
He wasn’t built for this kind of softness. Not when it crept in through the cracks and made everything feel harder to control. Wanting someone like Iwaizumi—someone who saw him, not just the operative—wasn’t part of the deal.
Oikawa first met Iwaizumi several years ago at a gala held in Kantei. As an immediate family member of the current prime minister, Iwaizumi Hajime’s presence was expected. Every person holding office in Kantei and their families were invited, as well as several other important people in the government. Oikawa Tooru was there, too, even though he didn’t feel comfortable being amongst political figures, and neither did Kuroo Tetsurou, although he handled it better than Oikawa did.
When Iwaizumi approached him, Oikawa didn’t immediately recognize him as the Prime Minister’s son. The Prime Minister was notoriously private and fiercely protective of his family—but Oikawa had come to understand that this wasn’t just about security or privacy. It was a deliberate, painful effort to keep Iwaizumi’s sexuality hidden from the public eye—an uncomfortable truth his father feared could shatter not only his son’s life but the very foundation of his political career. It wasn’t fair to Iwaizumi, living under a shadow of silence and expectation, but Oikawa also understood why the Prime Minister did it: in their world—politics and intelligence alike—truth could become a weapon, and the cost of exposure was too high for any of them to bear.
And when Iwaizumi approached Oikawa, it didn’t seem like Iwaizumi noticed who he was talking to. Oikawa often wonders whether Iwaizumi would still make a move, had he known he was a national security field agent from the beginning—but then again, in hindsight, Oikawa is certain that Iwaizumi didn’t approach him out of boredom, but rather out of attraction. Their paths crossed again several weeks later. It really wasn’t too difficult since Iwaizumi lives in the Kantei residence and Oikawa frequents the office for business. They exchanged pleasantries, and by their third meeting, Iwaizumi asked him out. Although flattered, Oikawa had to decline. There was no official rule against entanglements—but unspoken consequences carried more weight than written ones.
But it didn’t stop them from sharing a simple sexual exchange.
For both Oikawa and Iwaizumi, it was the perfect arrangement. Iwaizumi’s social circle is constricted by his father’s prominent position in office—if the press ever finds him sleeping around, and with another man to boot, it would be Prime Minister Iwaizumi’s public downfall, as unfortunate as it is. The nature of Oikawa’s work forced him to be extremely cautious with whom he spends his company. But with Iwaizumi, Oikawa does not have to be. The necessity of their situation opened an opportunity—and their amazing compatibility was the icing on the cake. Oikawa probably should have known better than to start anything with anyone from a prominent political figure’s family, but he’s not a hermit, and at the end of the day, he is human with biological needs. Besides, it's casual, and they mutually benefit from their arrangement.
It’s just a physical thing, one they both agreed to.
It’s harmless fun and games.
Until it isn’t anymore.
Oikawa bit his lower lip as he held his phone in one hand, his thumb slowly and uncertainly typing in Iwaizumi’s contact. He wants to see him so, so badly, but fear is pushing him back—fear of falling deeper, fear of inflicting danger to those around him. He slams his phone down on the bench and grunts in frustration.
He didn’t send the message. Of course, he didn’t. Wanting was already dangerous. Wanting Iwaizumi was suicide. But still, he stared at the name like it could reach back.
Oikawa rarely regrets his decision to get into this line of work. But lately, he often wished that things were different.
And sometimes, when he let himself feel too long, he even meant it.
4 days before the incident – downtown Tokyo
Sugawara Koushi is an odd one, Iwaizumi decided.
When they first met, Iwaizumi hadn’t paid him much attention. Just another sharp-suited Ministry liaison slipping through Kantei’s maze of halls and conference rooms. Young, good-looking—even if not Iwaizumi’s type—but still a far cry from the aging bureaucrats who usually populate the building.
It wasn’t until Oikawa, in one of his rare slips of vulnerability, mentioned Sugawara being involuntarily caught in an op—a “near miss,” he’d called it—that Iwaizumi reconsidered him.
Oikawa didn’t share details. He never did. But the stray comment had shifted something in Iwaizumi’s understanding of Koanchosa.
He used to assume field agents were chosen through rigorous training programs, maybe elite tests behind closed doors. Admin staff, sure—application processes, department vetting. But agents?
If people like Sugawara were recruited through exposure and survival... what did that say about the agency? About Oikawa?
What didn’t help was how disturbingly normal Sugawara looked. Not a hair out of place. Suit pristine. You could pass him on the street and never guess he’d brushed up against the underworld of intelligence.
Then again, you could say the same about Oikawa.
Today, Iwaizumi ran into Sugawara just as he was leaving Kantei, and Iwaizumi was exiting from the residential wing. They exchanged polite nods—the kind of professional acknowledgment reserved for those who shared corridors more often than conversations.
When Sugawara asked where he was headed and Iwaizumi mentioned the hospital, the offer came naturally: I’m driving that way—want a lift?
Iwaizumi hesitated.
He was supposed to wait for Daichi. Always did. Not just protocol—habit. Daichi was the only bodyguard he’d ever tolerated this long. Of all the security details assigned to him over the years, he was the only one Iwaizumi ever actually liked. A former detective, sharp enough to catch threats before they showed, and just laid-back enough to laugh at Iwaizumi’s dry jokes. Their routines were well-rehearsed by now: Iwaizumi’s morning coffee, Daichi’s check-ins, the occasional shared complaint about bureaucratic absurdity.
But lately, even Daichi felt like a barrier.
Iwaizumi didn’t mind security—he minded the suffocation of being watched. Even by someone he liked. Even by someone who didn’t seem to mind watching.
Sugawara wasn’t part of his regular perimeter. And more than that, he was part of Oikawa’s world. The one Iwaizumi was starting to realize he knew nothing about.
Daichi couldn’t answer the questions that kept circling in Iwaizumi’s mind.
And Sugawara?
He might not answer either.
But he’d know where to look.
Maybe that’s what made the offer hard to resist.
“Mind if I ask you something?” Iwaizumi asked. He adjusted the air vent on his side, feigning nonchalance.
Sugawara glanced sideways, hands still holding the steering wheel, mildly amused. Little did Iwaizumi know that Sugawara noticed him staring.
“That depends. Are you about to break NDAs I didn’t know you signed?”
Iwaizumi smirked.
“I heard you were involved in an op before you became Koanchosa’s liaison officer for Kantei,” Iwaizumi said. His tone was neutral, casual. He waited, then added, deliberately vague, “Allegedly.”
Sugawara didn’t laugh, but the corner of his lips curved.
“Hypothetically… that would be a state secret.”
A pause settled between them—casual, but weighted.
Iwaizumi kept his voice level and continued carefully.
“Came up in a conversation. Someone at Kantei mentioned a transfer from the Ministry after a situation. A close call, they called it.”
“Sounds dramatic,” Sugawara murmured, the curl in his smile still present, unreadable.
“Didn’t sound like gossip. And after that, I started seeing you around the office,” Iwaizumi shrugged. “I can put together two plus two.”
Sugawara made a small hum, the kind that didn’t confirm or deny.
“I never took you for naive, Iwaizumi-san. But you’d be surprised how often Koanchosa recruits that way.”
Iwaizumi glanced at him, brows lifting slightly. “They prefer people who’ve already been caught in the crossfire?”
Sugawara’s fingers drummed lightly against the wheel. “No. They prefer people who’ve already survived it.”
Silence settled in again, this time heavier.
Then he added, almost like an afterthought, “Sometimes it’s the ones who’ve already been burned that know how not to flinch.”
Iwaizumi looked back out the window, watching the city pass by in blurred streaks of motion and light.
A memory flickered—Oikawa, bruised and furious after a mission.
He hadn’t flinched then either.
“Doesn’t sound like a safe work environment.”
“It isn’t,” Sugawara said. His voice was still even, but there was something almost personal in it. Like he was remembering something he didn’t want to.
“And it’s a very disturbing recruitment policy.”
That made Sugawara laugh. A soft, human sound that somehow unsettled Iwaizumi more than silence.
“You’re a forensic pathologist, aren’t you?” Sugawara asked. “That’s an unusual specialty. Not a lot of med school grads head that route.”
“Yeah, I’m the only doctor in Asian history who managed to shame his family.”
Sugawara offered a sympathetic smile. He understood. Of course he did.
“So… what’s it like?” Iwaizumi asked, leaning back. “Working for an intelligence agency. Is it like the movies?”
“A lot more paperwork than you'd think,” Sugawara said dryly. “Depends on your department. The accounting team probably has the least exciting stories.”
Iwaizumi chuckled.
“You’re awfully curious, though.” Sugawara glanced at him again. “If you weren’t the Prime Minister’s son, I might have flagged you for suspicious interest.”
He said it like a joke. Mostly.
Iwaizumi shrugged.
“I’m thinking about what to do after residency. Tokyo Police Department approached me. Made me wonder what other institutions would want a pathologist.”
“The military does,” Sugawara said, sounding thoughtful. “But if I were you…”
He slowed at a red light and glanced over, more serious now.
“…I’d consider Koanchosa.”
Iwaizumi blinked, caught off guard. He turned to face Sugawara fully, but the man was already looking forward, the car creeping ahead again.
“We have a small forensics team. We often coordinate with the Metro Police, but our commander’s been pushing for expansion. If that happens…”
He paused. “Well. I think you’d be a good fit.”
Iwaizumi swallowed. He hadn’t expected that. Not in a million years.
“Our background checks are strict,” Sugawara added. “But you’ve got the credentials. And the clearance… well. That helps.”
They didn’t speak again until the car pulled into the hospital lot.
Sugawara fished a card from his pocket and held it out.
“I’ll be at the upcoming Kantei dinner. If you’re interested, we can talk more then.”
Iwaizumi took the card. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He stepped out, adjusted his scarf, and closed the door behind him.
“Thanks for the ride.”
Iwaizumi walked toward the hospital, the card burning a silent weight in his pocket.
4 days before the incident – Koanchosa headquarters
On any other occasion, Kageyama would be thrilled to complete an investigation with conclusive evidence. Ever since he identified Shidou as a suspect in his ongoing investigation, Kageyama and Oikawa have been working hard to navigate the mess. He split the workload with his senior, assigned help from Bokuto to cover the counter-terrorism aspect of the case, and Kageyama decided that both he and Oikawa should cross-check each other’s investigation results aside from their own. Peer reviews aren’t unusual—another pair of eyes often catches what one misses. But for a closed case? That’s not common.
Kageyama never once doubted Oikawa’s work; he is, after all, someone Kageyama looks up to. But that belief puts him in a difficult situation. Oikawa finished reviewing Kageyama’s case yesterday, and the senior agent found no fault. Kageyama just finished cross-checking Oikawa’s, and he, too, found no inaccuracies.
And they can’t both be right. Shidou cannot be dead and alive at the same time.
At this point, Kageyama is dying to have this anomaly resolved. The tension within the team consisting of him, Oikawa, and Bokuto was almost unbearable. God knows Oikawa is barely holding it together—his credibility was on the line, and Bokuto’s unfiltered panic under pressure was a time bomb. Kageyama clearly doesn’t want to be in the same room as those two when that bubble bursts. Even Kuroo, usually the calm in any storm, had gone tense. The Ministry of Justice and Kantei were breathing down his neck.
Kageyama takes a breath before opening the office door, sensing the undercurrent before he even enters. He’ll have to deliver his investigation results to the team, to both Oikawa and Bokuto, and it won’t be pretty. Kageyama pushes the door open with the back of his hand, two files tucked under one arm, but immediately holds back when he finds the room half abandoned.
Kageyama was expecting Bokuto to cross over his heaps of documentation with both enthusiasm and exaggeration, or Oikawa to yell at whichever poor unfortunate analyst was at the end of his call. Instead, there is silence. There are traces of Bokuto’s work spread across the room and Oikawa’s surprisingly neat handwriting all over the case board they built to help visualize the investigation, showing the aftermath of a supposedly heated argument. Kageyama stepped cautiously into the conference room, which now looked more like a war zone than an office, but immediately stepped back as he noticed a figure slumped at the corner table.
It’s Oikawa—looking the worst Kageyama has ever seen him. He leaned his head onto the desk with his eyes closed and a phone pressed to his ear. His back is slightly hunched, not with tension, but something quieter. Quieter than anything Kageyama had witnessed from him.
“OK, great. And sorry for the last-minute call. Like I said, desperate times.”
Now, Kageyama is glad he decided to step back. That didn’t sound like anything Oikawa would want his colleagues to know of.
“I’m looking forward to it, Iwa-chan.”
Oikawa sounds... soft, surprisingly so. And tired, both of which are unusual for him.
“Yes, it’s really me, idiot.”
Oikawa laughed—a sound so unexpected Kageyama almost doubted he heard it, at least not in these times and not without a sarcastic remark.
“I guess there’s a first thing for everything.”
Oikawa sat up straight and rubbed his eyes.
“I have to go—”
The other party seems to cut his words short, and Oikawa’s brows furrowed.
“I’m fine.”
Kageyama knew it was a lie—transparent, and worn thin by repetition. Even without seeing the way Oikawa grits his teeth, he knows better than most that Oikawa is far from fine.
“...No, I really am. I told you—don’t worry,” Oikawa said softly, the kind of voice Kageyama had never heard from him before. Warmer, less clipped. Almost... exhausted.
A pause, like whoever was on the other end hadn’t believed him.
Oikawa let out a breathy chuckle. There was no joy in it.
“Iwa-chan, please. I’m at work. I’ll see you later, text me the details.”
He hung up without waiting for a response.
As Oikawa lowered the phone, Kageyama caught it—just for a second. The contact photo still glowed faintly on the screen. That mystical Iwa-chan.
The screen doesn’t show a full name, only the nickname Oikawa used earlier, but the senior agent must have been fond of him, because why else would he set a picture for him? It shows a man with spiky black hair and a muscular back. It shows no face, only a silhouette of the person’s side while shirtless and lying beside the photographer, which can only be Oikawa himself. Kageyama does not need to see a face to know; the intimacy is unmistakable. The picture alone says it all. Private, sensual, comforting.
Kageyama’s breath caught in his throat. He looked away, instinctively.
Oikawa turned.
They both froze.
Kageyama saw the moment in Oikawa’s face—that flicker of surprise, then mortification. And then, just as quickly, it vanished.
Oikawa straightened, his expression flattening. His work mask clicked into place with a kind of mechanical grace. It came on so fast, Kageyama almost questioned if he’d imagined the whole thing.
“What is it?” Oikawa asked, voice clipped, perfectly leveled.
Kageyama hesitated, thrown by the change.
“I, uh—there’s been an update from the Seidou op,” he said, holding out the folder. “Urgent. I thought you should see it right away.”
Oikawa took the file without looking up. “Alright.”
Silence stretched uncomfortably. Kageyama’s fingers twitched at his side.
Kageyama lingered a moment too long, then said quietly, “I didn’t mean to… walk in on anything.”
“You didn’t,” Oikawa said flatly. Crisp and dismissive.
Kageyama almost winced. “Right.”
He scratched his head awkwardly.
“I’ll go find Bokuto-san. He should be updated, too.”
Kageyama turned to leave, but paused at the door.
He’d always thought of Oikawa as cold. Controlled. Unreachable, even. Someone who didn’t need anyone.
But now he wasn’t so sure.
There was someone who cared enough to ask if he was okay—and Oikawa, even if he denied it, clearly wasn’t.
Maybe that made it worse. Or maybe, Kageyama thought, it made things just a little bit better.
At least someone was looking out for him.
Chapter 3: The Risks We Keep Taking
Notes:
Content warning: explicit sex scene involving overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dom/sub undertones, anal fingering and penetration
Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a quick detour back to the morgue. Iwaizumi had only gone back for a charger and left his laptop in the 24-hour cafeteria. A simple detour. Instead, Iwaizumi found himself running, lungs burning as he ran to the nearest defibrillator available. The morgue doesn’t have one. Of course not—no one in there is meant to survive.
Iwaizumi found one by the back exit. He gritted his teeth as he ran across the empty hallway, under fluorescent lights, accompanied by echoing footsteps. The morgue door was heavy, but Iwaizumi kicked it open anyway. His shoe slid through Oikawa’s blood. Cleaning it later was a distant problem—if there even was a later.
Clear.
Oikawa’s body jolts. Without an electrocardiogram, Iwaizumi can’t precisely say how effective it was. He could install one, but does he have the time?
“There is a reason medical emergencies are handled in teams!” Iwaizumi exclaims in frustration as he preps the defibrillator again. “Clear!”
No response.
“Don’t you dare die on me!” Iwaizumi yells as he charges the defibrillator.
Still nothing.
“You better respond, you asshole, clear!”
A twitch. A breath. Finally—signs of life. Oikawa’s eyes shot open, and he groaned in pain. His body jolted up for a second, but immediately crashed back down. Oikawa’s hands tried to grasp his open wound, but he was immediately held down by Iwaizumi.
“I got you—I got you, it’s going to be alright, I’m here—I got you,” Iwaizumi chanted, in an attempt to calm both Oikawa and himself, hands never stopped working.
Out of reflex, Oikawa grabs Iwaizumi’s hand and shoves it away.
“Holy shit—you’re this strong even when dying?” Iwaizumi grunts as flailing hands catch his face.
It doesn’t last. A moment later, Oikawa goes limp again. He tries to clutch his wound, but there is nothing he can do now.
Iwaizumi kicked the defibrillator out of the way and grabbed for a monitor—fast and frantic. Before the machine properly started, he had already jumped to his next task. He was far from finished. With effort, he hauled Oikawa onto the autopsy table. The monitor beeped with a pulse. Now, Iwaizumi had to keep it steady.
Oikawa muttered something. His words were slurred and meaningless. Then his eyes rolled back, and he slipped out of consciousness again.
Iwaizumi flicked on the overhead light and snapped on a pair of gloves. He leaned over and reached for the hem of Oikawa’s shirt, soaked dark with blood. He needed access to the abdomen—fast.
He tore the shirt open from the bottom up, fabric sticking to skin. As he peeled it back, the collar yanked loose around the neck.
And that’s when he saw them.
Faint, scattered marks near the base of Oikawa’s throat—just above the collarbone, half-hidden in the curve where neck met shoulder.
Hickeys. Kiss marks. Love bites.
Iwaizumi froze. His hands hovered.
They were his.
He’d left them three nights ago—skin flushed, mouth hot, Oikawa laughing into his shoulder in the dark.
Now, Oikawa lay beneath him pale and slack, soaked in his own blood. Cold. Barely breathing.
The contrast was so brutal that it left Iwaizumi breathless.
But only for a moment.
His medical instincts surged back to the surface, shoving the emotion aside like a closing door.
Focus. Focus.
“How the hell were you even walking,” he muttered through gritted teeth, already moving again. He reached for gauze, for pressure, for anything to slow the bleeding as the monitor blipped its fragile rhythm beside him.
Without a mask, it’s all blood—metallic, warm. Still, Iwaizumi breathes deep and gets to work.
He focused on the stitching, on keeping Oikawa alive. But later—later, when his hands weren’t shaking with adrenaline—the bruises would come back to him. And the night they were made.
3 days before the incident – a hotel room somewhere in Tokyo
Oikawa had just gotten out of the shower when the front door whirred open. He stood in front of the balcony window, one hand towel-drying his hair, the other resting limply by his side. He didn’t bother turning all the way—just glanced over his shoulder.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Iwaizumi’s voice called from the entryway. “Had to clear some stuff before I could leave.”
When Iwaizumi appeared, he carried a takeaway bag in one hand and his backpack slung over his shoulder. A scarf was draped around his neck, already half-undone.
“I should probably shower too,” he muttered, mostly to himself. He placed his things on the coffee table, unbuttoning his coat and tugging off his watch. As he shrugged out of the outer layer, the white of his doctor’s coat peeked through, catching Oikawa’s eye.
Oikawa blinked. He knew Iwaizumi worked at Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital. Knew the scrubs and the title and the gruelling shifts. But somehow, seeing Iwaizumi in that coat—unfiltered and professional—startled him. A reminder that there were pieces of Iwaizumi’s life he’d never been allowed to touch.
His cheeks warmed.
“Did you order takeout on your way here?” Oikawa asked, hoping to pass the flush off as heat from the shower.
“Yeah. Got some for you too.” Iwaizumi was already peeling off his white coat and scrubs as he made his way toward the bathroom. “Help yourself, I’ll eat something after I shower.”
Oikawa frowned. This is too intimate for his liking. Too casual, too close.
“This wasn’t part of the deal—”
“Tooru,” Iwaizumi interrupted, voice flat with fatigue. He paused at the bathroom door, now shirtless with a towel wrapped low on his hips. His shoulders were slouched, eyes ringed faintly with exhaustion. “I just got off a ten-hour shift. I need a shower and a decent meal before I can do anything else, alright? I got enough for you, too. Take it or leave it.”
The door shut behind him before Oikawa could reply.
He stood still for a moment, huffed quietly, listening to the low hum of the city outside filtering through the glass. The soft hiss of running water came from behind the door. Then, reluctantly, he padded over to the coffee table.
Oikawa peeked into the paper bag, lifting out two takeaway boxes. Steam clung faintly to the lids. Beside them, nestling snugly in wax paper, was a piece of milk bread from a named bakery in downtown Tokyo.
Oikawa paused.
He stared at it for a moment too long.
His fingers brushed the wrapping, tracing the familiar bakery logo—one of the few comforts he’d always craved after long field ops. Soft, sweet, easy on the stomach. Something he used to get on his way to meet up, something for in-betweens. He once told Iwaizumi, in passing, that he liked the ones from this bakery. And Iwaizumi had remembered.
He bit the inside of his cheek and stood, carrying the bag to the small table by the window. The food was still warm. Not hot, not fresh, but thoughtfully timed.
He opened the box and poked at the contents with a disposable chopstick. Ginger pork, still glossy with sauce. The smell alone made his stomach growl—traitorous. He hated this.
He hated that Iwaizumi had done this without asking.
He hated that it was exactly what he needed.
Somewhere behind the bathroom door, water ran in steady rivulets. Oikawa sat and ate in silence, forcing each bite to go down evenly. He didn’t rush. He didn’t want to admit how long it had been since he had a full meal that wasn’t wolfed down in between reports.
When Iwaizumi emerged minutes later, hair damp and skin flushed from the shower, he wore a bathrobe from the hotel. No coat. No scrubs. No scent of hospitals.
Oikawa was on his milk bread, posture slouched in a way he’d never allow in public. He didn’t look up, but he saw the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth twitch when their eyes finally met.
Iwaizumi sat down and picked at his own box, eating without speaking. It wasn’t tense. It wasn’t cozy, either. It was just… quiet.
Oikawa leaned back against the couch, chewing slowly. The savory bite had long gone cold, but he barely noticed. His mind was too busy untangling itself.
He should have left already.
That had been the plan. A fast fuck. A necessary fix. He was not supposed to be here, legs folded beneath him on some hotel couch, eating sweet milk bread and warm ginger pork rice that he didn’t even order.
“You finished eating?” Iwaizumi asked, voice low.
“Yeah.” Oikawa stood abruptly, dropping the chopsticks back into the empty takeaway box with a loud clatter. “Let’s just get it done.”
A beat passed.
Iwaizumi didn’t move. His arms were crossed, brow faintly furrowed. He looked at Oikawa the way one might look at a stray dog—skittish, wounded, bristling against a kindness it didn’t trust.
“You don’t have to be like this,” Iwaizumi said finally.
“Like what?”
“Rushing through it. Like I’m some chore you’re trying to check off your list.”
Oikawa rolled his eyes, walking past him toward the bed. “Oh, please. You think I came all the way here for ginger pork rice?”
Iwaizumi grabbed his wrist—not hard, but enough to stop him. The contact was warm and solid and maddening.
“Maybe not,” Iwaizumi said. “But you didn’t come here just for sex, either. Don’t lie to me.”
Oikawa’s jaw tensed. He stared at the floor between them.
“You think too much of yourself,” he said, voice quieter now.
“You think too little of yourself,” Iwaizumi replied without hesitation.
That landed harder than it should have. And Oikawa hated how accurate it was.
His throat went dry. His wrist remained in Iwaizumi’s hand—still not held tight, but still not released. And that, somehow, was worse. Because Iwaizumi wasn’t keeping him here. He was waiting.
So Oikawa looked up.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Iwaizumi replied. “And you don’t need a medical license or special training to notice.”
“Don’t start—”
“Just an observation.”
A long breath slipped through Oikawa’s nose. He shut his eyes, jaw twitching like he wanted to speak but didn’t trust the shape of the words. When he did speak, his voice was low and flat, like something scraped off the bottom of a burned-out pan.
“I’ve got a moving target, three years’ worth of recon to backlog, the Ministry breathing down my neck, and a team that’s barely holding together.” He exhaled through clenched teeth. “And I needed to get railed so bad I called you like some kind of cheap wh—”
“—Like someone who needed a break,” Iwaizumi interrupted, not allowing Oikawa to finish his words. “You’re allowed to need that, Tooru. And I can help you, if you let me.”
Oikawa bit his lip. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His wrist still sat in Iwaizumi’s hand—warm, steady, unyielding. Not a grip. Not a demand. Just… there.
It was the absence of pressure that undid him.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said under his breath, like it were a secret the world could not find out. “This isn’t like me.”
“I know,” Iwaizumi said gently. He stepped forward, their bodies brushing faintly. “Rest isn’t weakness, Tooru. Needing help isn’t either.”
Oikawa’s breath hitched. His gaze dropped to Iwaizumi’s chest, like he couldn’t meet his eyes anymore—not without crumbling. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t trust himself to.
“I don’t know how to do this properly,” he admitted. The words were bitter, reluctant, like they’d been clawed from his chest.
Iwaizumi’s grip softened, running a thumb slowly across the pulse point. He stepped in, slow and deliberate, until their bodies nearly touched.
“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to know. I’m here. Let me help.”
Oikawa wanted to scoff, but the sound caught in his throat. He turned his head, but Iwaizumi leaned in, brushing their foreheads together with practiced ease.
The contact was unassuming. Familiar. Terrifying.
“Hajime,” Oikawa warned, breath shaky.
“Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll stop,” Iwaizumi murmured.
Oikawa could’ve said something cruel. He almost did. Words balanced on the tip of his tongue like a knife’s edge—but then Iwaizumi said his name again, soft, certain, and all that sharpness folded in on itself. Instead, Oikawa said nothing.
Iwaizumi stayed and kept their foreheads resting together.
“Say you need this,” he murmured.
Oikawa didn’t speak. His eyes turned to look at Iwaizumi’s lips, just a breath away from his, then back to Iwaizumi’s eyes. There was a crack in his gaze, something that’s a surrender in disguise.
Oikawa lifted his chin slightly, brushing their mouths together—tentative, searching. Iwaizumi kissed him back, slow and steady, thumb rising to stroke beneath Oikawa’s jaw.
It wasn’t hungry. Not yet.
It was grounding.
Oikawa exhaled through his nose, tension bleeding from his spine. The kiss deepened, the edge of his irritation melting into something warmer, hungrier. Iwaizumi guided him back toward the bed with sure hands and no hurry, like there was all the time in the world.
They kissed like they weren’t in a hotel room.
They kissed like they didn’t need to pretend.
With every meeting, Iwaizumi learned something new about Oikawa. The first was his name, Oikawa, then his given name, Tooru. The next was his occupation, Koanchosa field agent, followed by his specialization, national security. Afterwards, it was Oikawa’s phone number and then the fact that he almost always had Thursday evenings free unless of a national emergency. The rest varies, ranging from his favorite food, milk bread, to his weirdest obsession, extra-terrestrial life, to his filthiest fantasies, in line with Iwaizumi’s.
Over the years, Iwaizumi had memorized things about Oikawa no dossier ever would. Details that felt earned, the kind that made Iwaizumi grow fond of Oikawa Tooru beyond their sexual endeavours. And when Oikawa had called, voice tight and brittle, Iwaizumi knew this wasn’t just about sex. It was a flare, fired into the dark.
“Do you trust me, Tooru?” Iwaizumi asked as he pulled their faces apart. He gently lifted Oikawa’s chin up, insisting on eye contact while his thumb brushed the side of Oikawa’s cheek. A gesture so soft yet electrifying to touch.
Oikawa nodded once. “I trust you, Hajime.”
Iwaizumi smiled—small, grateful. He pressed a kiss to Oikawa’s forehead, soft and sealing.
Then Oikawa lifted his face again and took Iwaizumi into another kiss, this time hungrier. He parted his lips wider, inviting the other to come closer. Iwaizumi understood the hint and gladly accepted the welcome. He held Oikawa’s nape with one hand, holding him close as they deepened their kiss. Iwaizumi’s other hand slid beyond Oikawa’s waist and settled on his back, pressing their bodies close. Oikawa groaned at the kiss, melting in the familiar touch. He’s not going to pretend that he’s too good for it. He’s never too good for Iwaizumi.
As their kiss grew more heated and lustful, Iwaizumi worked his way around Oikawa’s bathrobe. It’s only a piece of clothing to begin with. He undid the belt with ease and zero resistance. The bathrobe slid down Oikawa’s waist and pooled at his feet. Iwaizumi paused for a beat, taking a moment to appreciate the body standing before him.
“You’re gorgeous,” Iwaizumi whispered. Instead of returning to the kiss,
Iwaizumi’s lips landed on the side of Oikawa’s face and closer to his neck. Oikawa melted into the touch, feeling Iwaizumi’s warm lips against his skin—kissing, biting, marking him his.
“You have no idea how you fucking excite me.”
A shiver ran down Oikawa’s spine, and his arousal grew at the praise. He’s long accepted that he reacts nicely to praise, and Iwaizumi seems never to forget.
Iwaizumi leaned in, mouth dragging down the curve of Oikawa’s neck. Not fast. Not with the single-mindedness of lust. But like he wanted to be there. Like he had all the time in the world and no intention of rushing.
Oikawa shivered. “You’re going to make me regret this.”
“No,” Iwaizumi whispered against his pulse. “I’m going to make you feel safe.”
That did something terrible to Oikawa’s composure. He didn’t speak—he couldn’t. But his hands moved on their own, grabbing fistfuls of Iwaizumi’s bathrobe and pulling them chest to chest. Oikawa rolled his hips up, chasing friction against Iwaizumi’s clothed erection. He looked up, eyes fluttering with lust as he gestured for more.
“Ah ah,” Iwaizumi pulled away, much to Oikawa’s frustration. “Today we’re doing it my way.”
Oikawa bit down on his lower lip, now red and tender from being thoroughly kissed. The pace was slower than he preferred, and while part of him ached for more, anticipation only sharpened his excitement. Iwaizumi was a generous partner—attentive, deliberate. Even when the dynamic tilted in his favor, he never left Oikawa wanting.
Or maybe they’re just that compatible.
“Sit on the bed and spread your legs.”
There is a certain commanding nature in Iwaizumi’s voice. A hint of dominance that reveals itself only behind closed doors. Oikawa is used to navigating his way between political power influences, but none of those people will ever come close to what Iwaizumi does to his subconscious. Oikawa takes several steps back and carefully sits on the edge of the bed. He left his legs partially open, suddenly feeling embarrassed about being exposed.
Iwaizumi walked towards his backpack and took a bottle of lube. Before returning to bed, he pulled the standing mirror from the corner of the hotel room and placed it right at the end of the bed. Exactly in front of Oikawa, his face now flushed red.
“H-hajime,” Oikawa whimpered. He closed his knees together, unable to overcome the embarrassment of being forced to look at his own aroused state.
The bed dipped when Iwaizumi took his place behind Oikawa. He responds with an innocent hum as he sets the lube somewhere at the side and pulls Oikawa back to lean onto his chest.
“I’m here, Tooru,” Iwaizumi merely said. His hands are all over Oikawa again. Running up and down his bare chest, circling his abdomen, leaving scratches along his thighs. Iwaizumi lousily bit down on Oikawa’s neck, trailed his tongue on Oikawa’s side, and nibbled on his earlobe—all because he knew it would push Oikawa deeper into euphoria.
“Look how beautiful you look.”
Oikawa shut his eyes and vehemently shook his head. In response, Iwaizumi’s hands crept up his chest and twirled around his stiff nipples. Iwaizumi twisted and tugged, slowly and surely unraveling Oikawa’s defenses. Then, Iwaizumi drew a line with his fingers down from Oikawa’s chest, lightly scraping the skin below until both Iwaizumi’s hands reached Oikawa’s knees.
Oikawa is strong, it comes with the job, but he finds himself powerless against Iwaizumi’s hands forcing his legs open. He’d rather not look; he didn’t dare to as Iwaizumi spread him wide and vulnerable. As if it wasn’t enough, Iwaizumi hooked his legs around Oikawa’s, not only forcing him butterflied open but also holding him in place.
“Now this is a sight for the gods,” Iwaizumi cooed. He caressed Oikawa’s inner thighs, enjoying the mess he was unraveling. In this position, Oikawa was not given a choice but to lean his head back onto the curve of Iwaizumi’s shoulder with his hips slightly having room to roll back and forth.
“I told you to look at yourself, Tooru,” Iwaizumi repeated. It was an order and not a request. Oikawa shivered at the command. Slowly, Oikawa dared a peek, and once the image of him in the mirror became clear, Oikawa’s eyes shot open in horror.
There he was, spread open on the bed, leaning back against Iwaizumi’s chest. His face is red with embarrassment, although his expression shows obvious need and excitement. Iwaizumi’s legs entangled around his own, forcing him open, exposing the most private parts of his body while Iwaizumi’s hands ran everywhere around his body—anywhere except his painful erection, standing lewdly tall and needy between his spread legs. Oikawa wanted to scream at the obscene sight. His horrid stare met with Iwaizumi’s in the mirror, but Iwaizumi merely smiled into it.
“That’s better now. So good for me.”
There is a hungry flash in Iwaizumi’s eyes like he cannot decide whether to relish the treat or ravish it all at once. Oikawa felt Iwaizumi’s growing arousal hard against his back, but for some reason, Iwaizumi remained composed—unlike Oikawa, who is seconds away from begging to be taken here and now.
“I really wanted to use restraints tonight. Tie you up, wide open and vulnerable. Then use a toy on you. Our wand vibrator, preferably. The strong one so I can make you come, one orgasm at a time until you’re all spent and milked dry,” Iwaizumi said with his lips close to Oikawa’s ear. His one hand swirled painfully close to Oikawa’s cock without sparing it any mercy.
“You’d do that for me, right? You know how much I love seeing you delirious with pleasure.”
“Y-yes,” Oikawa breathed out. “Yes, anything for you—please—Hajime, please touch me—”
“Such a needy boy,” Iwaizumi cooed. He lightly tapped Oikawa’s erection with the tip of his fingers, making Oikawa buck up, chasing for more. But Iwaizumi’s hold only let him go so far, and Oikawa was left without further stimulation.
“Patience, beautiful. You haven’t earned it yet.”
Oikawa whimpered and fought back tears. Iwaizumi’s hand crept up Oikawa’s neck, grasped his jaw, and forced him to look at their reflection in the mirror. His other hand made its way down, tracing Oikawa’s abdomen and inner thigh until it reached the cleft of his ass—making gentle, circular motions around his hole. Oikawa moaned at the touch, although embarrassment washed over him once again as he noticed how easy it was for him to get excited.
“Well, that was easy,” Iwaizumi laughed, almost degradingly. He poked around and tested the muscle ring and the opening. “Have I fucked you so many times that your body remembers me?”
Oikawa couldn’t answer, only gasped as Iwaizumi probed around his hole.
“You’re such a tease,” Iwaizumi said with his voice turning deep again.
Iwaizumi reached for the lube and managed to coax his fingers with one hand. He smeared some of the gel around Oikawa’s opening and took his sweet time observing the minuscule changes in Oikawa’s face as he eagerly waited for the touch.
When Iwaizumi finally protruded a lubed finger into Oikawa, it went in without much resistance. Oikawa lets out a gasp—relief, expectation, need, all at once. He lets his eyes close and leans his head back as Iwaizumi systematically fingers him open. One knuckle at a time, one push and pull motion after another. They do this often, before every intercourse even—but there are times, such as now, when Iwaizumi takes the pleasure of working Oikawa open slowly, piece by piece. Oikawa’s eyes close as he is forced to focus on the stimulation, his lips slightly parted open as blissful whimpers escape him. Iwaizumi took in the view and savored the feeling of having Oikawa push back against his chest as he fingers him open.
When Iwaizumi pushed in a second finger, Oikawa thought he was going to lose his mind. The extra finger added to the feeling of fullness as Iwaizumi made penetrating movements from his wrist. After a while, Iwaizumi made scissoring gestures, and it reminded Oikawa that all of this was just foreplay.
But just because it was the appetizer, doesn’t mean it cannot be fun.
Iwaizumi buckled his legs around Oikawa’s, making sure that he was still spread open, setting his debouched hole on full display in the mirror. Then, Iwaizumi curled his two fingers upwards, forming a hook up in Oikawa’s insides until his fingertips felt a ridged gland.
Oikawa moaned at the touch. The sounds that came out of his pleasured body sounded more like something that would come out of an amateur actor in a cheap porno instead of an intelligence operative like him. And Iwaizumi, now certain that he had found his target, grinned at his ministrations like a hunter locking on his prey.
“Oh—Haji—there!” Oikawa wailed.
Iwaizumi does not need to be told twice. He focused his aim around the bud, stroking, scissoring, and curling his fingers for sweet friction.
“Does it feel good, Tooru?” Iwaizumi asked, his voice abnormally low considering the wildness of his hand movements.
“Tell me, if I’m not making you feel good, maybe I should stop.”
“It’s good!” Oikawa screamed hastily, terrified that Iwaizumi would stop if he didn’t answer. “You make me feel so good—ahh—Hajime!”
Iwaizumi grins. He moved his fingers so that they directly penetrated through Oikawa’s weak point. “And here too?”
“Y-y-yes!” Oikawa barely managed to give an audible response.
Iwaizumi chuckled and kept stroking that spot. “This is your prostate, baby. You remember what happens if I keep stimulating you here, no?”
Oikawa could only whimper, mind already hazy from carnal lust.
“You’re going to come so hard for me,” Iwaizumi whispered to Oikawa’s earlobe.
A shiver ran down Oikawa’s spine as he registered those words. The pressure on his groin constantly builds up with every stroke of Iwaizumi’s fingers. The heat crippled up from the edge of his toes all the way to his erection. It is overwhelming, scarily overwhelming even, Oikawa would probably run if he didn’t earnestly trust Iwaizumi.
Iwaizumi finger fucks him with a system, alternating between direct strokes, pinching, and running around the gland. With every passing second, Oikawa felt his sanity leaving him, making space for lust and need. Oikawa pushed his hips upward, welcoming Iwaizumi’s ministrations and unconsciously drawing his open legs further and further back. His cock stood angrily untouched. Iwaizumi licked his lips at the sight, but that is for later.
Then, Iwaizumi vibrated his hand at the wrist, and Oikawa wailed loudly as he came hard. His legs jerked up and were only held down by Iwaizumi’s own legs locking around him. He came in messy, shuddering spurts, twitching as his release splattered across his stomach. Oikawa tried to wriggle free, but there was nothing he could do against Iwaizumi’s hold around him, forcing his body to lean against each other as his orgasm hit.
“If only they knew,” Iwaizumi growled, a surge of possessiveness overwhelmed him. He turns his face to plant butterfly kisses along Oikawa’s side. “Oikawa Tooru, Koanchosa’s finest and Kantei’s most trusted—coming undone from my fingers.”
Oikawa whimpered at the words, the aftermath of his climax still lingering thick. His untouched cock was now spent after coming hard, now lying half-hard towards the side. Oikawa groaned as he crashed down into Iwaizumi’s hold. However, Iwaizumi maintained his hold… and kept fucking his fingers into Oikawa’s trembling hole.
“H-hajime!”
“You’re not finished yet, Tooru,” Iwaizumi warned. His hand continued thrusting in and out, and a devilish smile grew on his face as he drove Oikawa towards overstimulation.
Iwaizumi’s cock throbbed against Oikawa’s back, aching for friction. But he didn’t move—not yet. Not until he wrung every drop of pleasure from Oikawa first.
Oikawa sobbed, and hot tears escaped his eyes.
“It’s too much—please, I can’t!”
“You always say that,” Iwaizumi murmured. “But your body’s telling me something else.” He didn’t stop—only watched, carefully, as Oikawa’s hips rocked in time with his thrusts.
Iwaizumi’s movements turned rougher, haphazard, and brutal. He curled his fingers with every thrust now, dragging painful pleasure along Oikawa’s insides with no finesse. Slowly, the pain morphed into pleasure, so much so that it overwhelmed Oikawa.
Iwaizumi’s other hand made one last pinch around Oikawa’s nipple before it glides down. First along Oikawa’s abdomen, then his thighs, before it reached for Oikawa’s cock—half-hard, spent, and so inviting. Iwaizumi saw red as he stroked the length, earning desperate sobs from Oikawa. He teased the tip, rubbing his palm against the sensitive head—clenching his hold on Oikawa tighter as he tried to escape the touch—and Iwaizumi finally grabbed the length, stroking it in sync with his fingers.
Oikawa’s eyes rolled back at the overwhelming sensation. Only chopped syllables of Iwaizumi’s name escaped his lips as his body convulsed, forced to another climax in Iwaizumi’s arms.
Iwaizumi growled in satisfaction and leaned for a kiss. Oikawa doesn’t fight back. He couldn’t. Not with Iwaizumi’s fingers fucking him open and his hand stroking his painful erection to oversensitivity.
Then, after what felt like forever, Oikawa’s hips bucked. His legs quivered, and his back arched to welcome the climax.
Oikawa moaned Iwaizumi’s name, so beautifully erotic, as the wave rushed and his climax rippled through. Iwaizumi saw it all through the mirror by the bed. A dark look came from his eyes, filled with need and possession.
“You always say you can’t. But at the end, you cum anyway.”
Iwaizumi untangled his legs and let go of his hold. Oikawa fell to his side with his legs trembling hard and his breathing uneven. He let out a relieved sob after Iwaizumi pulled his fingers out, and he curled to the side, holding his aching legs. The rim of his hole throbbed with aftershocks, slick and twitching from Iwaizumi’s fingers. Through the mirror, Oikawa caught the satisfaction and pride in Iwaizumi’s smile, and Oikawa felt butterflies in his stomach knowing that he was the one drawing that out of Iwaizumi.
The serenity, however, did not last long.
Not when Iwaizumi is still hard, still hungry.
Iwaizumi shifted his body and knelt on the bed. He then hoisted Oikawa’s tired body by the hips while pushing his upper body down the bed. Oikawa’s cheek pressed to the bed, looking to the side facing his own reflection in the mirror, as he watched how Iwaizumi folds him to place, exactly how he wants him to be—face down, ass up. Oikawa’s arms are pulled back, held by the wrists against his back with one of Iwaizumi’s hands. Iwaizumi’s other hand worked on more lube, slathering a generous amount onto Oikawa’s gaping hole.
In the mirror, Oikawa looked ruined—mouth parted, hair stuck to his forehead, skin flushed and damp. He hated how much he loved seeing himself like this. Especially in Iwaizumi’s hands.
“God, baby, look at you,” Iwaizumi literally drooled at the sight. “So lewd and sloppy for me. I’m going to fuck you up even more, yeah? Nice and deep with my cock, exactly how you like it. The only way you’ll take it.”
“Y-yes,” Oikawa whimpered helplessly, despite the lingering overwhelm from his previous climax. He felt his tired cock slowly getting hard again. “Please—Haji, please take me—”
Iwaizumi laughed diabolically. “Such a desperate boy.”
Iwaizumi poured lube onto his own length and lined it directly onto Oikawa’s hole. Iwaizumi’s hand lingered by his ass, playfully kneading and spreading the cheeks aside before resting by Oikawa’s hips for stability. Oikawa felt exposed, even more so than before, and he felt used. Reduced. Owned. And god, it thrilled him. The degrading positions and demeaning words, in any other setting, should upset him—but with Iwaizumi, it only turns him on. It’s like a craving, one that never truly gets satisfied.
Oikawa gasped as Iwaizumi shoved in his length, inch by inch, stretching his entrance. Every time—it always took his breath away. That moment when pleasure blurred with pressure, with helplessness. But this was Iwaizumi, and with him, surrender felt like safety.
Iwaizumi grunted with every inch buried, his fingers digging into Oikawa’s hips like he’s trying to fuse them together. As Iwaizumi entered his full length in, he let out an animalistic growl.
“Fuck you’re so good, Tooru.”
Oikawa’s cock twitched at the praise, and a mix of shame and pride washed over him. He is horrified once he notices that he’s hard again.
“You take me so well like you’re made for me.”
Oikawa sobbed—he couldn’t tell if it was from overstimulation or how much that praise undid him.
Iwaizumi started moving, and the excess lube squelched obscenely as it got shoved in and out of Oikawa’s hole. Iwaizumi grunted with every push and pull. The slap of skin on skin echoed across the room. Iwaizumi's fingers dug bruises into Oikawa’s hips, anchoring him as if he might float away.
Oikawa gasped each time Iwaizumi thrust inside of him as he pushed the air out of his lungs. They rock back and forth with Iwaizumi having to hold Oikawa’s limp body in place, fucking him like nothing more than a sex doll.
And yet, he never felt even more wanted.
As Iwaizumi splits him open in the most intimate and vulnerable ways imaginable, Oikawa met his own eyes in the mirror again—glassy, distant. He looked ruined. He looked beautifully owned, claimed. And all he could think was: this is what it means to be his.
However, suddenly, instead of carrying on, Iwaizumi pulled out and shifted Oikawa onto his back. The sudden change drew a broken noise from Oikawa’s throat—half protest, half need—but he didn’t resist when Iwaizumi hooked one of his legs over his shoulder, lining himself up again.
The new angle forced their bodies flush, more skin, more heat, more him. Iwaizumi’s chest pressed into Oikawa’s, their sweat mixing, their breaths uneven. Oikawa moaned at the contact, hips twitching at the friction, the open vulnerability of being seen like this—sprawled and trembling beneath someone who knew him too well.
Iwaizumi’s expression was focused, brows knit, jaw set. He leaned forward, bracing himself on one arm above Oikawa’s head, the other guiding his cock back in—slow, deep, a single glide that stole the air from Oikawa’s lungs.
The stretch was sharp, then overwhelming. Oikawa arched under him, whimpering, as the fullness hit somewhere unbearably sweet. His fingers clutched at Iwaizumi’s back, nails dragging faint lines, as if he could anchor himself there.
Iwaizumi’s thrusts were slow, deep, and purposeful—measured not for show but to be felt. Each one landed with weight and grind, burying himself to the hilt, pressing into every part of Oikawa that still held tension. And he knew. Of course, he knew.
Oikawa was always braced for collapse. Always biting it back, stuffing his rage and stress and exhaustion into the spaces between smiles. But not here. Not with him.
Iwaizumi ducked his head to mouth at Oikawa’s throat—biting, kissing, licking up the sweat that clung to Oikawa’s skin, marking the territory as Iwaizumi forced Oikawa to feel every inch of him inside.
“Let me feel you,” Iwaizumi muttered, voice low, hot against his ear.
Oikawa shuddered. “H-Haji—I—”
“Take it, Tooru,” Iwaizumi growled. Another deep thrust. Another grind of hips that made Oikawa gasp. “Take everything I give you.”
Oikawa’s cock twitched, already red and neglected between them, spilling a fresh bead of arousal even without direct touch.
“I can’t,” Oikawa choked out. “I—there’s nothing—”
“You can.”
The words were a command and a promise all at once. Iwaizumi slowed, grounding himself with a kiss to Oikawa’s temple. Then his hand found Oikawa’s cheek, steady, firm, guiding his gaze back.
“You’re not done. Not until I say. You need this, Tooru.”
Oikawa stared up at him, dazed. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted as if the next breath might undo him.
He nodded. Barely. Just enough.
Iwaizumi pressed their foreheads together, and his voice dropped to a whisper only Oikawa could hear. “Let go. Just for tonight. I’ve got you.”
A whimper caught in Oikawa’s throat—soft, helpless.
He’d wreck Oikawa a thousand times if it meant seeing that look—unguarded, dazed, trusting. This was his, all of him, and Iwaizumi cherished every ruined second of it.
“I’ve got you,” Iwaizumi repeated. And he meant it. Every thrust after that was laced with care, even as they grew faster, rougher, building to that inevitable edge.
Iwaizumi pressed their foreheads together. He placed a hand under Oikawa’s jaw, holding them just enough to feel Oikawa’s breath, and kept their gazes locked as Iwaizumi continued penetrating into him—deep and thoroughly. Building another momentum, Oikawa didn’t realize was possible.
“That’s it, beautiful. Just like that,” Iwaizumi whispered. He ground his hips in time, earning another whimper from Oikawa.
He adjusted the angle—again and again—until he found the spot that made Oikawa’s back bow, made him sob out Iwaizumi’s name like a prayer.
“Right there?”
Oikawa nodded frantically, tears slipping down the corners of his eyes. “Right there—”
“Good boy. You’re doing so good for me.”
That undid him.
It was too much—but maybe that’s what he needed. To be undone completely. To be known so thoroughly, it left no room for pride or pressure or perfection. Just him, coming apart in the arms of someone who never asked him to hold it together.
Oikawa broke with a raw, cracked moan, his body locking tight as the third orgasm ripped through him. There was no touch on his cock—he didn’t need it. Just Iwaizumi inside him, solid and relentless, as every wave hit hard and fast.
Oikawa cried out, half-sobs as he came, clinging to Iwaizumi like he’d fall apart otherwise.
And Iwaizumi held him through it all. Whispered reassurances. Let him tremble and shake. Didn’t stop until the aftershocks faded and Oikawa collapsed fully beneath him—spent, wrecked, and finally, finally at ease.
Oikawa clung to him, shaking and breathless, his body still fluttering around Iwaizumi’s cock in the aftermath. His muscles twitched involuntarily, still sensitive, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he held Iwaizumi closer.
Iwaizumi’s breath hitched at the feeling of Oikawa still pulsing around him, warm and pliant and so fucking trusting.
“That’s it,” he whispered hoarsely, dragging his lips across Oikawa’s cheek. “So fucking gorgeous when you come.”
Oikawa hummed—wrecked, content. His eyes fluttered open, still dazed, and Iwaizumi swore he saw something unguarded there. Something soft.
It unraveled him.
Iwaizumi’s thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming erratic, desperate. His hand fisted in the sheets beside Oikawa’s head, trying to hold on a little longer, but it was no use.
“I—fuck, Tooru—”
While Iwaizumi was concentrating on his release, Oikawa lifted his head and captured Iwaizumi’s lips into a kiss. He took him in, letting Iwaizumi breathe harshly against his lips, swallowing every carnal moan and deep grunt that escaped Iwaizumi as he pounded relentlessly.
Iwaizumi’s hips stuttered, slick skin slapping loudly against Oikawa’s thighs. He grunted like an animal, chasing his end with single-minded need, driven half-mad by the feel of Oikawa clenching around him.
The scent of sex hung thick—lube, sweat, the raw, metallic tang of bitten lips and broken skin.
Oikawa’s spent cock was pressed between their bodies, twitching with every thrust, drizzling pearls of what’s left of his orgasm, and keeping him in his overstimulated state. His eyes rolled back with every sway of movement, and his legs still gripped Iwaizumi like a vice, like it wanted to keep him there.
“Tooru—fuck, let go—I’m close.”
Iwaizumi’s words slurred as his climax came near. But Oikawa didn’t let go. He turned his head, lips brushing Iwaizumi’s ear.
“Inside—” Oikawa gasped, voice raw. “Come inside—me.”
That was all it took.
Iwaizumi gave several last thrusts and pushed the last one to the hilt, as if making sure Oikawa got every last drop of what he asked for. Iwaizumi groaned as he came, burying himself deep as his release hit. His entire body tensed as he spilled inside Oikawa, every pulse of it grounding, anchoring. He stayed there—pressed against Oikawa, forehead buried in Oikawa’s neck—as aftershocks rolled through him.
They lay like that for a while, their chests rising in uneven rhythm. Sweat cooling. Skin sticky. Silence, heavy but not uncomfortable, settled over them like a blanket.
Iwaizumi didn’t pull out right away. He didn’t want to.
He just breathed in Oikawa’s scent—clean sweat, skin, something sweet he could never name. And he felt Oikawa’s hand, light and shaky, brush gently along his back, as if making sure that the person he’s holding is real. Then, Oikawa’s hand stilled over Iwaizumi’s heart. Just resting there, like it belonged. Neither of them said it, but the silence was full of everything they meant.
There are lots of things Iwaizumi wanted to tell Oikawa. You’re beautiful, being one of them, and I think I’m falling in love with you is another. But as Iwaizumi watched Oikawa struggle to stay awake by his side with a blissful smile on his face, his body relaxed, and all the tension previously dominating his expression now melted away, Iwaizumi decided to keep his thoughts to himself.
Chapter 4: Caught in the Crossfire
Chapter Text
Iwaizumi isn’t used to rushing work. He’s not stationed in an emergency room, where every second counts, or in the ICU, where patients crash and need stabilizing within minutes. Iwaizumi works in the morgue with dead bodies, mostly doing autopsies, and everyone in his field knows autopsies take weeks to complete.
After checking for the umpteenth time that Oikawa is still stable, Iwaizumi drops his exhausted body onto a chair. He feels droplets of sweat roll down the side of his face, and he simply wipes them with the sleeve of his white coat. The constant beeping of the heart rate monitor is like music to Iwaizumi’s ears. It’s weak, but not erratic like before. Oikawa is breathing properly, which is a relief. Perhaps the initial crisis really has passed.
The right thing to do is to call another doctor, preferably a trauma surgeon, to properly and thoroughly handle Oikawa’s wounds. The smart thing is not to, not with Oikawa’s background. Assault wounds must be reported to authorities, and Iwaizumi is certain Oikawa would do anything to stay below the radar.
With a heavy sigh, Iwaizumi looks back at Oikawa. He is alive, the heart rate monitor confirms it. But from where Iwaizumi sits, Oikawa looks no different than the dead bodies he works with. Oikawa lies unconscious on an autopsy table. It must be cold and uncomfortable, but the morgue isn’t equipped for live patients to begin with. Oikawa’s face is pale. His breath is so soft, it is hard to tell if he is breathing at all. His torso and upper abdomen were marked with deep red blotches—dried and fresh. Emergency stitches were visible around his wound, just barely enough to keep him in one piece.
Even though Iwaizumi knows that Oikawa is alive, it looks like he isn’t—he looks like another lifeless body waiting for an autopsy.
And seeing Oikawa like that frightens Iwaizumi—more than he wants to admit. His hands, steady moments ago, are now trembling, and the fear crawls up his spine like a cold hand. He’s never seen Oikawa this close to death. Not like this.
2 days before the incident – a hotel room somewhere in Tokyo
Oikawa knew it was a bad idea.
That’s why he hesitated before calling, before asking for another hookup, even though sex had always been a reliable way to burn the stress out of his bloodstream. But in the end, he caved and called Iwaizumi anyway.
A last-minute hookup. One more lapse. One more night.
What was one more time, compared to the hundred they’d already spent losing themselves in each other’s bodies?
He rarely misjudged a move. He’d built a career on precision, control, and discipline. Those weren’t virtues, they were his brand. And yet, here he was. Miscalculating, again. Because logic had no jurisdiction where Iwaizumi Hajime was involved.
Now, hours later, clean and quiet beneath the weight of hotel sheets, Oikawa found himself wrapped in Iwaizumi’s arms. The other man’s breath was warm and steady on his nape, lulling but not calming him. His body was sated. His mind? Not so much.
I can’t keep doing this.
It wasn’t the sex. That part he could handle. Hell, he craved it. Iwaizumi took care of him in ways no one else could, reading him without asking, holding him without smothering. Iwaizumi knew how to read him, how to take him apart and put him back together.
No, it was the aftermath that Oikawa couldn’t stand—the echo of guilt once the high faded, when the truth crept back in. Iwaizumi was the one thing he couldn’t control, couldn’t protect. He was the risk in Oikawa’s polished persona.
The one that brought up fears, Oikawa didn’t think he had in him. The fear of dragging an innocent person into his hectic world. The dread of having a weakness that can be exploited, a living and mortal emotional liability.
Oikawa turned, needing to shift the thoughts loose. But he stilled when he found himself face-to-face with a half-asleep Iwaizumi.
The ache in his chest deepened.
I want you, Hajime.
In the middle of the night, within the anonymity of a discreet hotel room, Oikawa found his trained subconscious and his yearning heart clashing. Meeting Iwaizumi is a blessing and a curse, and for the first time in his adult life, Oikawa is terrified of what the future may bring.
Suddenly, as if pulled by a wire, Iwaizumi’s arm tightened around him. His eyes stayed closed, but his fingers slid along Oikawa’s hip, curling with intent.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he muttered, voice sanded by sleep.
Oikawa exhaled, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and leaned into the touch instead of pulling away. That surprised them both.
Oh, this is new.
“…You okay?” Iwaizumi asked, his voice quieter now, as if aware of how fragile the air had turned. He pulled Oikawa into his chest, his thumb grazing across bare skin along Oikawa’s hipbone.
“Yeah,” Oikawa said quietly. “Yeah. I feel better now. Thanks to you.”
“That’s good.” Iwaizumi yawned into his shoulder, the sound boyish in contrast to the raw intimacy they’d just shared. He nuzzled in closer, lips brushing the slope of Oikawa’s neck. “Sleep. You’re exhausted.”
“I should be saying that to you, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, softer than usual. His voice dipped in fond guilt. “Sorry for dragging you out after a ten-hour shift.”
That made Iwaizumi lift his head, squinting at him in sleepy disapproval. “Don’t ever apologize for wanting to be fucked so deep you forget your name.”
This is definitely new.
Oikawa barked a startled laugh. “I never said that!”
“Your googly eyes did,” Iwaizumi grumbled, collapsing back onto his chest. “You know I can’t say no to that.”
Warmth flared in Oikawa’s chest. He didn’t fight it this time. Just dragged slow circles on Iwaizumi’s back.
“You always take good care of me,” he said. Quiet. Gentle, and genuine.
Iwaizumi froze for half a second—just enough to register the rarity of the words—before relaxing again, letting his hand drift down to rest on Oikawa’s abdomen. His fingers traced lazy lines around his navel.
Then Oikawa shifted, turning onto his back. Iwaizumi followed without hesitation, molding to his side, their legs tangled like roots. He pressed a kiss to Oikawa’s cheek, and Oikawa took his hand, lacing their fingers together beneath the sheets and grounding both of them in the contact.
“Did something happen?” Iwaizumi asked after a beat.
“What gave it away?” Oikawa chuckled softly, too tired to deflect.
You never let me hold you this long, Iwaizumi thought. But he said instead, “You were tense.”
“It’s work,” Oikawa sighed. “An old case. It’s been reopened.”
“Oh,” Iwaizumi hummed. “Is that bad?”
“The worst,” Oikawa said, turning his face into Iwaizumi’s collarbone. “Imagine a patient from three years ago suddenly climbing off your autopsy table.”
“…I’d lose my license, my mind, and probably my will to live,” Iwaizumi replied.
Oikawa snorted, then let the sound dissolve into a real exhale. Iwaizumi tightened his grip just slightly, as if he could ward off the weight of it all through sheer presence.
“I’m sorry. That sounds like hell.”
“It is,” Oikawa said, eyes closing. His fingers resumed their path on Iwaizumi’s arm. “Our analysts think it might be a trap. An attempt to discredit me. They’re investigating it now.”
Iwaizumi tensed, his hand pausing mid-motion. “They think someone’s targeting you?”
“I mean… that’s just another Tuesday to me? Three organizations already have me on their kill-on-sight list,” Oikawa said dryly. “I’m not the record holder, though. There’s a counter-terrorism agent in five. I call him Mad Dog.”
“That’s not funny,” Iwaizumi muttered.
“Let me cope,” Oikawa groaned. “I’m this close to a breakdown. Don’t take away my gallows humor.”
Iwaizumi didn’t reply. But his worry settled between them, heavy and silent.
“If anything ever happens—”
“You’d know,” Oikawa interrupted. “Your home is the national crisis center.”
They shared a breath of laughter, faint but mutual. Shared and tired. Iwaizumi brushed a strand of hair from Oikawa’s face, letting his hand linger.
It was rare. This. Having Oikawa linger after the high was gone. Having him stay.
Iwaizumi studied the lines of his face in the warm, filtered light from the bedside lamp. His fingers trailed slowly across familiar terrain—not with hunger, but reverence.
Then the phone rang.
The sudden chime fractured the stillness like glass.
Iwaizumi cursed under his breath as he untangled himself and grabbed his phone.
“Sorry, it’s my bodyguard—I have to take this.”
He disappeared into the bathroom. The warmth he left behind faded fast. And for the first time, Oikawa didn’t welcome the space.
He felt… irritated.
How dare he leave?
He shook off the ridiculous thought. But the hollow remained.
The call didn’t last long. When Iwaizumi returned, his jaw was tight.
“Regular check-ins are better than trackers, but I swear to you those calls don’t get easier,” Iwaizumi muttered as he slid back under the sheets.
“I didn’t think you still had security details,” Oikawa commented.
Iwaizumi scoffed. “As if I’m ever allowed without one. This new guy is decent, though. At our age, played volleyball. My father thought that if we had more in common, we’d be friends.”
“Politician logic is wild,” Oikawa chuckled.
“At least now I’m not shadowed 24/7,” Iwaizumi said. “Would’ve been useful back when we started hooking up. I still wear trackers for the political gigs, though.”
“Damn,” Oikawa sighed dramatically. “There goes my plan to chain you in my basement.” He shot Iwaizumi a sideways look. “I had big dreams, you know. A top-tier lineup for my sex dungeon.”
They shifted closer, foreheads brushing in a gesture too soft to be casual. The air between them pulsed with affection disguised as banter.
“You’re a Koanchosa agent,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
Oikawa chuckled, eyes dark with mischief. “Don’t challenge me. I might pull through.”
“I’m afraid so,” Iwaizumi muttered, but his smile gave him away.
Then, he added in the aftermath. “He’s alright, though. I like him personally.”
“But he still called after sex,” Oikawa said in mocking sing-song. “You shouldn’t be talking to other men while we’re still in bed, Iwa-chan. That’s just good manners.”
“I’d rather not think of Daichi in that way… at all.”
Oikawa went still, but Iwaizumi couldn’t see.
“Besides, I think he has a partner. Kind of read between the lines, but I don’t care enough to dig deeper. Good for him if that’s the case.”
“You said this Daichi is your bodyguard?” Oikawa asked, slowly.
Iwaizumi blinked.
“Um… yeah, Daichi—”
“—Sawamura,” Oikawa finished the name.
“Right,” Iwaizumi said, astonished. “How did you know?”
Oikawa let out a frustrated groan. And that alone was enough hint for Iwaizumi.
“Wait, no, don’t tell me—” Iwaizumi’s eyes widened. “Daichi is ex-Koanchosa?!”
“Field. Counter-terrorism. We actually started together, he was good,” Oikawa said lightly, as if reminiscing about old times. “I’ve always wondered where he ended up. Now I know.”
“What the hell?” Iwaizumi gasped. “They told me he was a detective at Tohoku Police Department!”
“Before he got profiled and recruited, yeah, definitely,” Oikawa said, shrugging.
Iwaizumi tried to process that.
“What happened?” Iwaizumi dared to ask.
Cover blown up. Mission went terribly wrong. Witness protection program. Career-ending injury. Memory loss, and he doesn’t even remember being a Koanchosa agent. Of the many dramatic possible scenarios that went through Iwaizumi’s mind, Oikawa’s answer is not at all what he expected.
“His partner happened.”
Oikawa too shifts to his side, now face to face with Iwaizumi as he continues, “Civilian. Nearly died in an attack. Daichi saved him. Of course, there were other things involved, but his partner was the catalyst.”
Oikawa didn’t say it like gossip. He said it like recalling a memory. Like the weight of what happened had never fully left any of them.
“Love is a force to be reckoned with.”
That’s a story Iwaizumi hopes to hear in full detail.
“If Sawamura didn’t resign, I’d probably have way less stress than I do now,” Oikawa groaned, remembering the counter-terrorism agent backing up his current case. “I work exclusively alone, but once in a while, my cases require support from the other division. There used to be three counter-terrorism agents I trust. However, one got transferred to the commanding line, Sawamura resigned, and the other, unfortunately, the loudest of all three, is the only one with enough experience to assist my current case.”
“You agents are allowed to resign?” Iwaizumi asked.
“Yes and no,” Oikawa said, surprisingly without sarcasm in his voice. “Administratively speaking, yes. Although in practice, there’s no stopping. There are some things that can’t be forgotten, some skills that can’t be unlearned, and some situations that will permanently change who you are as a person. Each agent is unique, for none of us works on the exact same case. And over the years, the information entrusted to us accumulates. In some ways, we’re Koanchosa’s archives in human form. Being an agent means being a national asset and being treated as such. The agency keeps tabs on its former agents. In case of a dire emergency, they may be put back into the scene temporarily, or in very unfortunate cases, a third party may seek the information they possess. Like I said, national asset.”
Iwaizumi wanted to say something. But instead, he just memorized this version of Oikawa: quiet, unguarded, maybe even afraid.
“Do you ever think of quitting?” Iwaizumi dared himself to ask.
Oikawa smiled—sad, unreadable. “All the time.”
Iwaizumi swallowed. “And would you?”
“…No.”
Silence stretched. Then Oikawa shifted onto his side again, their faces inches apart.
“I don’t know who I am outside of the mission,” Oikawa said, slowly and heartfelt. “It’s all I have, and probably all I ever will be.”
He looked down, avoiding Iwaizumi’s gaze.
But Iwaizumi reached up and touched Oikawa’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone.
“Don’t say that.”
Oikawa didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either.
There’s a lull, the kind only possible in places outside time—hotel rooms behind blackout curtains, the hush just before sunrise, the space between two heartbeats.
Oikawa doesn’t say anything after that. He just breathes. The blankets shift as he inches closer, as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away.
“You should sleep,” Iwaizumi murmured.
Oikawa responded with a hum, routine and trained. But Iwaizumi doesn’t push. He just threaded their legs together and reached for Oikawa’s hand beneath the blankets. A silent offering. A line held steady in a storm.
Oikawa took it.
They lie there, back to front again, their breaths syncing over time. No words. No confessions. Just skin and ghosts.
Koanchosa agents may leave the building, but they never leave the war. And Iwaizumi knows—when morning comes, Oikawa will walk out that door like nothing ever happened.
When morning comes, they’ll get dressed in silence, slip out without touching, and go back to their assigned roles in a world where vulnerability gets people killed.
But for now, they sleep. Two lives that shouldn’t be allowed to touch, wrapped in borrowed quiet.
1 day before the incident – Koanchosa headquarters
It’s final.
Their case had hit a dead end—one that couldn’t and shouldn’t exist. Two investigation results, both airtight, staring each other down like loaded guns.
Had Oikawa really terminated Shidou all those years ago?
And if so, why were Shidou’s biometrics lighting up every alarm in Kageyama’s latest security breach?
Kageyama sat hunched over the spread of open files, an hour deep into the same unbroken loop. The overhead fluorescents buzzed with a steady, insect-like whine; the stale air burned faintly of cold coffee. Oikawa had stormed out earlier, cooling his temper elsewhere, and Bokuto was buried in his own work until Kageyama, as mission lead, made the next call.
He rubbed the tension knotting the base of his neck. A routine breach investigation, something a junior agent should have chewed through in a weekend, had turned into a spiralling mess, dragging Oikawa’s credibility down with it. Working the case together felt less like collaboration and more like two predators circling, waiting for the other to slip. Both of their reports were watertight. Both irreconcilable.
And they couldn’t both be right.
“Kageyama-kun.”
A sharp rap on the door jolted him upright.
“Yes?” His voice was rougher than he intended.
Nishinoya Yuu stepped in, headset slung around his neck, the glow of his laptop bleeding across his fingers. He rarely left mission control mid-shift.
“Sorry, Noya-san, I still need time to decide—”
“Good,” Nishinoya cut him off, a rare interruption that snapped Kageyama’s full attention. “Something came up. You’ll want to see this.”
Kageyama pushed away from his desk, the swivel chair screeching faintly on the tile as Nishinoya flipped the laptop around. The screen cast a cold blue sheen over both their faces.
“One of our recon teams just flagged this. Shidou’s moving. Twenty hours from now, he’s arranging a handoff with a foreign buyer. Intel says Shidou himself will be there.”
Kageyama’s pulse stuttered, then surged. The fatigue fogging his brain began to burn away, replaced by the sharp-edged clarity of new pursuit. Nishinoya didn’t make rookie mistakes—if he was bringing this, it was solid.
“So…” The words caught in Kageyama’s throat. “Oikawa-senpai didn’t finish him?”
“Or Shidou miraculously survived two shots to the chest and a fall into Yokohama Bay,” Nishinoya subtly stood up for Oikawa. They’re not exactly friends, but they respect each other’s field of specialization. “You’ve read the complete report. The only weak link from Oikawa’s report is that Shidou’s body was never found. And the weak link from yours is that Shidou was never seen in person, only through security cameras, fingerprint scans, and other biometric data.”
“I know,” Kageyama said under his breath, low and bitter. “I know that already. What I don’t know is—”
“Which one of you is right,” Nishinoya finished. “Exactly why I’m here. It’s a bit of a stretch, and we have less than a day to build a mission profile, but it might be the only opportunity we have. I ran this through Kuroo; he is still thinking it through, but heavily leaning to take the shot. I’ll give you some time to consider—”
“I’ll take it,” Kageyama said, cutting him off with the same urgency that had driven him out of his chair. His blood was already humming with the promise of action. “I’ll take whatever snowball’s chance in hell we’ve got.”
12 hours before the incident – downtown Tokyo
Iwaizumi couldn’t look at Daichi the same way anymore. Not literally—because he kept catching himself stealing glances, enough that Daichi shifted in his seat—but because Oikawa’s words had cast the man in a different light. Under the soft glow of the dashboard, Daichi’s face was the same as always: calm, solid, and unassuming. Yet now, every measured movement carried a weight Iwaizumi hadn’t noticed before.
He tried to imagine Daichi in another life, not behind the wheel of a government car but in the field—Koanchosa’s shadows at his back, secrets wound tight around his spine. It was unsettling how easily Daichi wore the ordinary.
Under any other circumstance, he would never have pegged Daichi as a former field agent. Then again, wasn’t that the whole point of being one? He wouldn’t have guessed Oikawa’s line of work either, not without being told.
“For the last time, Iwaizumi-san,” Daichi sighed, a thread of humor in his voice as his fingers drummed once against the steering wheel, “stop staring at me.”
“Sorry,” Iwaizumi muttered, wrenching his gaze to the window where the city streaked past in fractured ribbons. “Something’s on my mind.”
“Yes—keep it on your mind, not on my face,” Daichi replied, easing the car forward as the light turned green.
The silence between them settled, taut but not hostile, broken only by the low purr of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal. Iwaizumi could feel Daichi watching him now and then through the rearview mirror—not prying, just aware.
“About the dinner tonight,” Daichi said finally, his tone gentling, “it’s at the Kantei residence. No need to arrive early for security.”
Iwaizumi hummed, absent-minded and distracted.
“Is it really fine to do a ten-hour shift before an event like that?” Daichi asked, trying to draw him out.
“That’s the usual medical workload. We’ve talked about this,” Iwaizumi replied, his reflection faint in the dark glass.
“I meant before a formal dinner,” Daichi said, sparing him a brief glance. “You won’t get any rest until tomorrow.”
“I can’t ask for shift changes because of something like that,” Iwaizumi said, his voice tightening. He’d had enough of people assuming he got a free pass because of his father. “Besides, it’s just a diplomatic dinner. Smile and wave. I know the drill.”
“If you say so.” Daichi’s sigh was quiet but not judgmental, the kind that accepted an answer without agreeing to it.
They turned onto the last stretch before the hospital, streetlights flashing across the car in rhythmic intervals.
“Sugawara’s going to be there, isn’t he?” Iwaizumi asked suddenly.
“Yeah,” Daichi said, his tone even, though his fingers flexed once on the wheel. “Didn’t know you two were acquainted.”
“He’s interested in my work,” Iwaizumi said. “Surprisingly.”
Daichi hummed, a sound that didn’t ask for more. For a moment, the car was filled only with the rhythm of tires on asphalt and the faint hiss of the air vents. Daichi’s eyes lingered on Iwaizumi’s reflection in the mirror—thoughtful, unreadable—before returning to the road ahead.
“Speaking of Sugawara,” Iwaizumi turned his face toward the passing cityscape. “I saw you arrive at Kantei with him. Third time this month. What gives?”
Daichi’s mouth curved in an easy smile. “A lot of people work at Kantei, Iwaizumi-san. Plenty of us arrive at the same time.”
“What’s that saying again?” Iwaizumi tilted his head, feigning thought. “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action—something like that.”
Daichi chuckled, a low, warm sound. “You do not want Sugawara Koushi as an enemy. Trust me on that one.”
“I don’t want any of you lot as enemies,” Iwaizumi murmured, more to himself than to Daichi. He let the words hang in the air, the silence filled only by the steady hum of the car as they rolled through a crowded intersection. “You two live close by?”
“Something like that,” Daichi replied, deliberately vague. Iwaizumi frowned but didn’t push, not yet. Before he could press further, Daichi’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, and his tone lightened. “How was your date yesterday?”
Iwaizumi flinched, his head jerking toward the window as if the answer might be out there.
It wasn’t a date, he wanted to say, but the words caught uselessly in his throat.
Daichi didn’t press. His smirk was knowing, but there was no malice behind it—just curiosity, and something gentler. He was different from all of Iwaizumi’s former security: no intrusive questions, no bureaucratic reporting, no constant shadow breathing down Iwaizumi’s neck. Daichi only needed to know when Iwaizumi was expected back; the rest, he left well enough alone. And Iwaizumi appreciated that. For the first time in many years, he felt like he could breathe. Like he was being guarded without being observed.
“It went well,” Iwaizumi said at last, the words measured, almost like he was in disbelief himself. “Surprisingly well.”
Daichi’s smile softened, less teasing now and more genuine.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, and it wasn’t idle small talk. He meant it.
For a moment, only the quiet hum of the car filled the space between them. Iwaizumi’s gaze lingered on Daichi’s reflection in the rearview mirror—steady, unguarded, not prying—and his thoughts strayed elsewhere. He couldn’t shake what Oikawa had let slip: that Daichi had walked away from everything once, that Sugawara might have been the reason, and that even then, the past had a way of catching up.
The more Iwaizumi tried to piece together Oikawa’s world, the more adrift he felt. Oikawa’s reluctance to let him all the way in no longer seemed unfounded; maybe it was Iwaizumi who’d been too naïve, assuming understanding was just a matter of time.
The car rolled into the hospital’s parking lot, easing to a stop. Daichi glanced at him in the mirror as Iwaizumi gathered his things, his face carefully blank.
“I’ll be back after your shift. Don’t leave the hospital grounds without me.”
Iwaizumi answered with a weary hum and pushed the door open, the solid thunk of metal cutting off whatever Daichi might have seen in his expression. He stood for a moment by the car, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag, his reflection briefly caught in the tinted window. A breath later, he turned away and walked toward the hospital, each step deliberate, as if willing his thoughts to fall silent.
5 hours before the incident – Koanchosa headquarters, mission control center
The air in Koanchosa headquarters was thick enough to taste, humming with the low thrum of servers and the muted click of keyboards. At the dawn of a last-minute mission, the first of its kind, the control centre had fallen into that brittle silence where every breath felt like it might shatter focus.
Nishinoya hunched over his station, eyes darting between the wall of monitors. His fingers flew across the keyboard in practiced bursts, verifying and re-verifying, each keystroke a silent wager against failure. Beside him, Agent Kageyama Tobio stood with his arms folded, replaying the mission map in his head, lips moving in a whisper only he could hear.
Commander Kuroo Tetsurou lingered further back, hands clasped behind his back in an uncharacteristic stillness. He rarely attended mission launches; his presence alone underscored how precarious this operation was. Sugawara Koushi, the Kantei liaison officer, stood at his side, his diplomatic smile doing little to mask the tension gathering at the corners of his mouth.
“We’re ready,” Nishinoya announced, sliding his headset aside.
Kageyama gave a curt nod and approached Kuroo and Sugawara.
“Oikawa-san is in the armoury. I will meet him there and then take our leave.”
Kuroo exhaled slowly, the sound more like a release of pressure than relief.
“Very well. Godspeed, Kageyama. Apologies that Sugawara and I cannot stay on standby. We have other arrangements in Kantei, but we’ll track the feed from there.”
The three left the control room, the closing door sealing off the electric quiet behind them. The corridor stretched ahead in harsh white light, their footsteps echoing with a hollow ring. Sugawara walked a few paces ahead, while Kuroo fell into step beside Kageyama.
Kageyama sensed the commander’s unspoken thoughts, a weight carried in his posture. He tried to cut through it.
“Bokuto-san is on standby. The infirmary has two stations on standby, and they have all hands on deck. I’ve planned fallback options for every scenario.”
“I know,” Kuroo said quietly. “I trust your preparation.” His gaze remained forward, his expression unreadable. “Listen—whatever you and Oikawa find out there, remember this isn’t a standard op. Whoever’s behind Shidou… the threat stands with or without him. In other circumstances, I wouldn’t let a junior agent lead this.”
“That’s true,” Sugawara added over his shoulder. “Kuroo-san caught plenty of backlash when the board heard.”
Kuroo’s tone hardened. “Stay focused on the primary objective: identify the threat. Without that, we’re blind.”
“Yes, Commander.”
They reached the elevator. Sugawara stepped aside, letting Kuroo and Kageyama enter first. As the doors slid shut, Kageyama finally gave voice to the unease that had been prickling at the back of his mind.
“What’s your take on the case, Kuroo-san?”
For the first time that morning, Kuroo hesitated. His reflection in the brushed steel doors was drawn and distant.
“I have the feeling someone’s using you to get to Oikawa,” he said at last, his voice low. His gaze locked on Kageyama’s.
“I sincerely hope it’s only a feeling.”
Kageyama blinked, a flicker of recognition passing through him—he’d heard whispers of this before, unproven and brushed aside by the analysts. Hearing Kuroo say it out loud made the unease settle deeper in his gut.
3 hours before the incident – downtown Tokyo
An ideal recon mission begins silently, drifts on without interruption, and ends as if it never happened—boring by design, its only mark a new file of intel for the agency.
At first, tonight seemed to promise just that.
The exclusive Shinjuku casino thrummed with muted jazz and the low murmur of wealthy patrons gambling fortunes into the early hours. Oikawa, disguised as a bartender, polished a glass that didn’t need polishing, his smile perfectly shallow as his eyes scanned the mirrored room. Kageyama wove through the tables with a tray of empty cocktails, his waiter’s uniform allowing him to ghost from table to table unnoticed.
In his ear, Nishinoya’s calm voice crackled, “Target buyer confirmed. All eyes up. Perimeter’s clear for now.”
Kageyama’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the tray. The smell of expensive whiskey mixed with cigarette haze clung to the back of his throat, but his focus stayed on the ebb and flow of the crowd.
“I have a reading,” Nishinoya said, suddenly clipped. “Someone’s approaching.”
“Shidou?” Kageyama asked.
“Unconfirmed. Stand by,” Nishinoya said.
Oikawa’s voice followed, smooth but tense. “Buyer is in place. No anomalies yet.”
Kageyama drifted toward the exit, setting down used glasses, each step a calculated act of nonchalance. He scanned the incoming guests, his pulse ticking higher with every second of waiting.
Then Nishinoya’s voice spiked in his ear. “It’s Shidou! Biometrics match—just came up the secure elevator, heading straight for you!”
Kageyama and Oikawa locked eyes across the casino. Even at this distance, he caught the flicker of wary acknowledgment.
“Biometrics aren’t enough,” Kageyama muttered, jaw tight. This has always been their problem. Only traces of Shidou and not the man himself.
“Orders, mission lead?” Oikawa prompted, still in character.
“Stay on the trade. We need to know what they’re after. I’ll confirm Shidou.”
“Understood,” Oikawa affirmed.
With practiced ease, Kageyama shed his tray, slipped into a suit jacket left slung over a chair, and looped a silk scarf around his neck—another faceless patron. He strode out toward the reception hall, every step carrying the thrumming weight of the unknown.
“Directions, Noya-san.”
“Right hall. He’s off the elevator—last seen entering the men’s room. Caution, Kageyama. Something’s off.”
Kageyama’s gut tightened. Public spaces were supposed to feel safe, but the hallway felt too narrow, the lights too bright. He reached the restroom door, fingertips grazing the cool metal handle.
“I’ve got visual—target went inside.”
“I don’t like this,” Nishinoya admitted, voice low.
Kageyama muttered a curse and unhooked the snap on his holster. “Senpai, standby. I’m going in.”
Oikawa’s voice crackled back, a single beat late. “Be careful, Kageyama. He’s dangerous.”
Kageyama nudged the door open with his shoulder and slipped inside.
Instantly, the sound dampened—the music, the crowd, all cut off by tiled walls. The air smelled of bleach and stale cologne. He pressed himself behind the door, watching through the mirrors: empty urinals, closed windows, empty stalls.
Too empty.
Heart hammering, Kageyama swept each stall. No one. A prickling itch crawled down his spine.
He raised a hand to key his comm. “Noya-san, he’s—”
A shadow filled the doorway.
Kageyama froze. The man blocking his exit had Shidou’s height, his posture, and his face—almost. Wrong in ways that prickled at the edge of recognition.
“Abort—” mission.
Before Kageyama could finish, a piercing shriek exploded in his earpiece, stabbing through his skull. Kageyama cursed at the sudden pain. He staggered, jaw clenched against the instinct to rip the comm out.
It’s a signal jammer, one that interferes with their communication line and hurts the user at the same time.
They were now blind and deaf.
The impostor grinned and lunged, knife flashing.
Kageyama pivoted hard, the blade slicing air inches from his ribs. Adrenaline hit like a live wire. He drove an elbow back into the attacker’s sternum, felt the satisfying crunch of impact, and drew his weapon in the same motion.
Breathe.
Aim.
Fire.
Three shots thundered the tiled room, deafening and absolute. The man jerked, staggered, then collapsed.
Kageyama held his stance, lungs burning, until the figure stilled. Blood pooled darkly against the white tiles, the sharp metallic tang filling the air.
“We’re compromised. Ambush confirmed—” Static drowned the rest.
There is no time.
Kageyama backed out. He snatched a Closed for Cleaning sign from behind the door and jammed it into place. His fingers tingled with leftover tremors as he bolted for the casino. He gestured to several surveillance cameras, hoping that at least Nishinoya still has vision.
The reception looked unchanged. All polished marble and murmuring patrons, but his instincts screamed otherwise. Kageyama sprinted through the double doors—just as they crashed open from the other side.
Oikawa burst out, eyes sharp with laser focus.
“Red!”
Kageyama didn’t hesitate. Oikawa jabbed two fingers toward a staff corridor, and they ran. Two men in pursuit crashed through behind them—the “buyers”, now stripped of all pretense.
Kageyama dropped low, sliding hard across the marble to take out one with a brutal tackle, then vaulted up and tore after Oikawa. Gunfire cracked—Oikawa turned mid-stride and dropped the second with a shot to the thigh.
Together, they slammed through a service door, jammed a standing lamp through the handles, and vanished into the cold neon night—hearts hammering, breaths ragged, the echo of the trap still clinging to their skin.
2 hours before the incident – downtown Tokyo
“We’ve exited the building,” Kageyama reported into his comm, his voice tight with controlled tension. “I repeat, Shidou is not present. They used a decoy with his biometrics. The trade is a ruse. They are after something else. I repeat, they are after something else. Find their target.”
Instead of the usual crisp confirmation from headquarters, only static hissed back at him—a white noise that seemed to mock their isolation. Kageyama’s jaw clenched as he cursed under his breath. The signal jammers should have lost their effect by now. His only lifeline to the outside world had been severed, leaving him with nothing but the desperate hope that his reports were somehow breaking through the electronic void, even as he remained deaf to mission control’s guidance.
“How far are we from the escape vehicle?” Kageyama’s question came out sharper than intended, adrenaline bleeding through his professional composure.
“Just by this alley,” Oikawa gasped between ragged breaths that misted in the cold night air. They’d been running since the mission crumbled beneath their feet—first fighting through anyone who dared block their exit, then finding themselves caged within the building as their carefully planned escape routes turned into dead ends. Only Kageyama’s desperate scaling of the outer wall had saved them, but the taste of that narrow escape sat bitter on his tongue. Too many coincidences. Too many sealed exits. Someone had orchestrated this trap with unnerving precision.
“My comm is still dark. Yours?" Oikawa’s voice carried the weight of growing dread.
“Nothing but static,” Kageyama replied, his fingers unconsciously tightening around his weapon.
They burst from the alley’s mouth, lungs burning, hearts hammering against their ribs. Oikawa’s eyes swept the street with practiced efficiency while Kageyama lifted his comm again, the device feeling suddenly heavy in his trembling hand. “Approaching exit vehicle—"
“Kageyama, get DOWN!”
The world exploded into motion. Oikawa’s iron grip seized his arm, yanking him down with brutal force just as the space where his head had been erupted in a shower of concrete dust. Kageyama’s skull cracked against the unforgiving pavement, stars bursting behind his eyelids as darkness threatened to claim him. His vision swam, the world tilting on its axis as Oikawa’s powerful arms dragged him back toward the alley’s protective shadow. Kageyama’s legs moved on instinct, pushing against the ground even as blood trickled warm down his temple.
Then came the whisper-soft reports of suppressed gunfire—barely audible but unmistakable to their trained ears. Each muffled shot was a promise of death, precisely placed, methodically fired.
“Mission control, we are being ambushed!” Oikawa’s voice remained steady despite the chaos, a lighthouse in the storm. “I repeat, we are being ambushed. Request immediate assistance!”
Whether his desperate plea penetrated their electronic prison remained a terrifying unknown. Oikawa pressed them both against the alley’s grimy brick wall, the cold seeping through their clothes as they sought whatever meager cover the shadows could provide. His weapon materialized in his hand with fluid grace.
“Can you get up?” The concern in Oikawa’s voice was carefully controlled, professional.
“Give me a second.” Kageyama’s palm came away from his head slick with blood, the metallic scent sharp in his nostrils. “Shit, where did that come from?”
“Long range, but not a sniper.” Oikawa’s eyes never stopped moving, cataloging threats, calculating angles. “And our escape vehicle is gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?” Kageyama struggled to his feet, the world spinning dangerously before settling into sharp focus. He pressed his back against the wall, using it to anchor himself against the vertigo.
“I mean, whoever orchestrated this nightmare anticipated our every move.” Despite the gravity of his words, Oikawa’s voice remained an island of calm in the churning sea of their predicament.
Kageyama’s weapon found its way into his hands, the familiar weight both comforting and insufficient. His mind raced through the evening’s events—the perfect decoy, the sophisticated jammers, the thoroughly blocked exits. Each piece fit together with terrifying precision, forming a picture he didn’t want to see.
“I think it’s safe to assume our new friends wanted us exactly where we are,” Kageyama said, his voice hollow with realization.
“Unfortunately, I think so too.” Oikawa’s agreement carried the weight of bitter experience. “We move through the back alleys on foot, avoiding civilian areas. Either we rely on backup, or we disappear into the crowd at the station. Your call.”
For someone who claimed to prefer working alone, Oikawa displayed remarkable tactical awareness. The irony wasn't lost on Kageyama, even in their desperate circumstances.
“I’ll take the crowd,” Kageyama said, steel entering his voice. “Lead the way, Senpai. I’ll watch our six.”
They melted back into the alley’s depths, their footsteps eerily quiet against the wet pavement. The city’s distant hum felt impossibly far away, as if they’d fallen into a pocket of urban purgatory where only predators and prey existed.
“How are you holding up?”
"I'll manage," Kageyama replied, though his head still throbbed with each heartbeat.
“Is our friend with the rifle following?” Oikawa’s question was barely above a whisper, his focus laser-sharp on the path ahead.
"No visual on the shooter."
The words had barely left his lips when death materialized from the shadows. A figure in black, face obscured by a pulled-up turtleneck, emerged like a nightmare given form. The knife in their hand gleamed with deadly intent as they rushed forward with predatory grace.
“Senpai!” The warning tore from Kageyama’s throat.
Oikawa spun and dove sideways, his body moving with the fluid precision of countless hours of training. Kageyama’s leg snapped up in a vicious arc, his boot connecting with their attacker’s wrist and sending the blade spinning into the darkness. The impact jarred up through his leg, but adrenaline masked the pain.
Oikawa flowed back into the fight like water becoming ice. The butt of his pistol cracked against their attacker’s ribs with trained precision, followed immediately by a knee that buried itself deep in the man’s solar plexus. The attacker doubled over, gasping, just as Kageyama tackled him to the grimy ground. His boot connected with the fallen knife, sending it skittering into a storm drain.
Oikawa’s fists fell like hammers—one, two—precise strikes to the temple that dropped their attacker into unconsciousness.
“Move!” Oikawa was already pulling Kageyama to his feet, urgency crackling between them. “They’re gaining on us.”
As they ran deeper into Shinjuku’s concrete maze, Kageyama’s tactical mind turned over a disturbing detail. The attacker had approached from Oikawa’s blind spot with perfection—exactly where Kageyama would have been most vulnerable if he’d been alone. The timing, the angle, everything had been calculated for maximum lethality against him specifically.
"Senpai, switch positions," Kageyama ordered, his voice cutting through their shared exhaustion.
Without question, Oikawa flowed into the rear guard position while Kageyama took point.
“You’re the close-quarters specialist,” Kageyama explained, his eyes sweeping the labyrinthine alleys ahead. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more knives before this is over.”
They navigated the urban canyon, concrete walls rising like prison walls around them. From his new position, Oikawa could see the tension coiled in Kageyama’s shoulders, the way his on-site partner’s mind worked frantically to solve the puzzle of their predicament while his body maintained perfect tactical awareness.
“Kage—" Whatever Oikawa intended to say died as his peripheral vision caught movement. His hand shot out, seizing Kageyama and yanking him back just as the night erupted in muzzle flashes.
“What the hell?!” Kageyama snarled as he dove behind a dumpster, the metal ringing like a bell as bullets sparked off its surface.
Oikawa pressed himself against the makeshift cover, his breathing controlled despite the chaos. He risked a glance around the dumpster’s edge, his weapon tracking movement in the darkness. The alley’s shadows seemed to writhe with malevolent purpose, but his trained eyes picked out their hunter—wounded but mobile, methodical but increasingly desperate.
One breath. Hold. Squeeze.
His shot rang out, immediately answered by wild automatic fire that chewed chunks from the brick walls around them. No precision now, just raw aggression designed to keep them pinned.
“Damn it! Are they trying to execute us?” Oikawa’s frustration leaked through his professional mask as he checked his ammunition.
That’s when the pattern crystallized in Kageyama’s mind like ice forming on glass. The blind-spot attacks, the wild suppressive fire whenever he took point, the way their enemies seemed to know exactly where he would be most vulnerable. Kuroo’s warning echoed in his memory like a death knell.
I think someone is using you to get to Oikawa.
“Senpai, we’ve been reading this all wrong,” Kageyama’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper, heavy with terrible understanding. “They’re not trying to kill us. They’re trying to kill me.”
Oikawa’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. The logic seemed insane—Kageyama barely knew Shidou’s organization, had no value as a target.
But Kageyama met his gaze with absolute certainty, the pieces finally forming a picture that made his blood run cold.
“They’re not hunting us down,” he said, each word falling like a stone into still water. “They’re hunting you. I’m just in their way—or better yet, I’m the bait.”
The terrible simplicity of it hung between them in the darkness, more suffocating than any smoke, more binding than any chains. They weren’t trying to escape a trap—they were walking deeper into one, and Kageyama had been the key that opened every door.
1 hour before the incident – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital
“Iwaizumi-san!” Daichi’s voice cracked through the phone before Iwaizumi could even greet him, sharp and urgent. “There’s an issue at the Kantei residence. I can’t make it to the hospital. Please stay put until the situation is cleared.”
Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear as he shrugged into his coat.
A ‘situation’ at Kantei. Nothing new. Schedules got derailed all the time, and nine times out of ten it was nothing more than a security drill or some overeager protester.
Iwaizumi shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, eyes flicking to the wall clock. “Alright. I’ll stay in the cafeteria and get some paperwork done.”
“Yes, please—do that.” Daichi sounded hurried, distracted. The sound of muffled chatter and hurried movement was bleeding faintly through the call. “And do not leave the hospital grounds. You hear me?”
Iwaizumi’s brows knit. Daichi is rarely this insistent.
“Got it,” he replied, more out of habit than worry.
He leaned against the cool wall by the staff exit, letting the fluorescent lights cast pale shadows over his hands. Extra security around the hospital wasn’t unusual, and he’d long ago stopped arguing about it. If the perimeter checks meant he could move around without trackers dogging his every step, that was fine by him. Even better, he might be able to skip the diplomatic dinner now.
“And if anything happens, report to me immediately,” Daichi pressed, each word deliberate. “Immediately. Understand? I’m supposed to be with you right now, but the Kantei is on emergency lockdown, and I’m needed here.”
Lockdowns came and went, schedules were reshuffled, and life carried on. Iwaizumi gave his affirmative, and the line clicked dead, leaving only the hospital’s distant hum around him. He exhaled slowly, lowering the phone and staring at its blank screen.
Situations happened all the time, yet Daichi’s voice, taut and careful beneath the rush, lingered like a thread pulled too tight. He pushed the unease aside and started toward the cafeteria. If he kept moving, maybe it wouldn’t catch up to him.
Chapter Text
Present time – Koanchosa headquarters
Kageyama stumbled through the reinforced doors of Koanchosa headquarters alone, his silhouette stark against the sterile fluorescent glare. He moved like a man haunted—not just by what he’d seen, but by what he’d left behind. Every step forward felt like a betrayal of the partner he couldn’t save. After hours of radio silence and mounting dread, his appearance should have been a relief—at least one agent had made it back alive. Instead, his blood-soaked, hollow-eyed form only confirmed their worst fears.
The moment the security scanners confirmed his identity, the controlled tension that had gripped headquarters for hours exploded into urgent action.
Emergency lights bathed the normally pristine corridors in hellish red as personnel swarmed toward him. Kageyama’s legs threatened to give out with each step, adrenaline finally abandoning him to the crushing reality of what had gone wrong. Dark blood seeped through his tactical gear from a vicious puncture wound at the base of his neck, each pulse sending fresh crimson down his collarbone.
“Immediate medical!” someone shouted over the cacophony of alarms and rushing footsteps.
“Where’s Oikawa?” another voice demanded.
Kageyama tried to push past the medics converging on him, desperation bleeding through his professional mask. “I need to get to mission control—now. They have to know—”
“Sir, you’re losing blood. We need to get you to the infirmary immediately.” A paramedic’s firm grip on his uninjured arm brooked no argument.
Before Kageyama could protest further, he found himself swept into the medical bay’s harsh white light, the antiseptic bite of sterilization filling his nostrils. The familiar comfort of headquarters felt alien now, tainted by the knowledge of how thoroughly they’d been outmaneuvered.
“What the hell happened out there?!” Nishinoya’s voice cut through the medical chaos like a blade, raw with frustrated fury. The communications specialist burst through the crowd, his usually immaculate appearance dishevelled from hours of futile attempts to reestablish contact. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! Long fucking hours of complete blackout!”
His face was flushed with the kind of rage that came from professional helplessness—watching his systems fail, his protocols crumble, everything he’d built to keep agents safe proving utterly useless against an enemy they’d underestimated.
A paramedic shouldered past him without ceremony, knocking Nishinoya off balance as she pressed sterile gauze against Kageyama’s neck wound. The contact sent lightning bolts of agony through his nervous system, and Kageyama’s vision greyed at the edges.
“Jesus,” he gasped, teeth clenched as the medic began cleaning debris from the gash. Her movements were efficient but brutal—emergency protocols demanded speed over comfort, and the wailing alarms reminded everyone that this was far from over.
“What happened out there?” Nishinoya fought his way through the press of medical personnel, his voice tight with barely controlled panic. Behind his technical expertise and professional competence lay the terrible knowledge that his systems had been completely compromised, leaving his agents blind and defenseless in the field.
“They knew—” Kageyama’s words came out in ragged bursts between waves of pain as another medic yanked his arm to examine a deep laceration. “They knew we were coming.”
“That’s impossible!” Nishinoya’s denial was immediate, visceral. His fingers flew to his tablet, pulling up security logs with shaking hands. Every encryption protocol, every firewall, every safeguard he'd built—all of it meaningless if they'd been compromised from the inside. The thought made his stomach turn. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair, disturbing the carefully maintained spikes.
“This was classified at the highest levels. Black-site operation. Only a handful of people in the entire organization knew the mission parameters. Our security protocols should have been impenetrable—”
“Yo, yo, yo! The cavalry has arrived!” Bokuto’s voice boomed across the medical bay, his characteristic enthusiasm jarringly out of place against the backdrop of crisis. But those who knew him well could see the razor-sharp intelligence behind his playful demeanor, the way his golden eyes were already cataloging details and calculating possibilities.
He surveyed the scene with predatory focus—Kageyama’s injuries, Nishinoya’s barely contained hysteria, the blood trail leading from the entrance. “Brief me, how badly did our pretty boy mess up this time?”
“This mission was bulletproof!” Nishinoya whirled on him, his usual deference to senior agents evaporating under stress. “There’s no way anyone outside our inner circle should have known about this operation! Someone got past everything we built—”
“Will you both shut up and listen?!” Kageyama’s bellow cut through their argument like a gunshot, his frustration finally boiling over. His words transformed into a strangled cry as the medic snapped his dislocated shoulder back into place without warning, white-hot agony exploding through his nervous system.
For a moment, the only sounds were his harsh breathing and the steady beep of monitoring equipment hastily attached to his vitals.
“I said they knew we were coming,” Kageyama continued, his voice hoarse but determined. “Not that they found out. They knew it would be Oikawa-senpai and me. They knew our approach routes, our contingencies, our extraction points. Everything.”
The blood drained from Nishinoya’s face as the implications hit him. Bokuto’s jovial mask finally cracked, revealing the seasoned operative beneath.
“Well, shit,” Bokuto breathed, his usual arsenal of creative profanity failing him completely. For a man who’d made a career of expecting the unexpected, this level of calculated manipulation left him genuinely shaken. His golden eyes went cold, predatory instincts finally kicking in.
Kageyama struggled to sit up straighter despite the paramedics’ protests, driven by the need to make them understand the scope of what they were facing. “Every move we made, they were three steps ahead. Every escape route we’d mapped, they had covered. Every backup plan we initiated, they’d already countered.”
His voice grew stronger as righteous anger burned away the fog of exhaustion and pain. “We didn’t stumble into bad intelligence or encounter unexpected resistance. We walked straight into a fucking spider’s web, and they let us get just deep enough before they started pulling the strings.”
The medical bay had gone eerily quiet. Even the paramedics had slowed their work, caught up in the horror of what Kageyama was describing.
“They used Shidou’s body double—perfect biometrics, flawless behavioral mimicry. They’d been planning this for months, maybe longer.” Kageyama’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white with barely suppressed fury. “The whole extraction was a theater. They wanted us there.”
“But why?” Nishinoya’s question came out as barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might summon whatever monsters were lurking in the shadows of their organization.
Kageyama met his gaze with haunted certainty. “During the chase, I noticed something. They knew Oikawa-senpai’s fighting style better than they knew mine. They could predict his movements, counter his tactics, even anticipate his improvisations. That level of familiarity doesn’t come from surveillance footage—it comes from study. Deep, obsessive study.”
His voice dropped to a harsh whisper that somehow carried more weight than shouting. “And when it came to direct confrontation, they held back with him. Calculated restraint. But with me?” He gestured to his battered form. “No hesitation. No mercy. They would have killed me without a second thought.”
The words tasted like ash in his mouth. He’d been disposable—a tool to get to Oikawa, nothing more. The realization should have stung his pride, but instead it only amplified his guilt. He’d been the bait that led his senior into a trap.
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the alarms seemed muted, as if the building itself was holding its breath.
“You don’t mean...” Nishinoya started, then stopped, unwilling to voice the conclusion his mind was already reaching.
“Those bastards are after Oikawa specifically,” Bokuto finished, his usual energetic demeanor replaced by grim professionalism. His voice carried the weight of years spent in the intelligence community, where paranoia was a survival skill and worst-case scenarios had a habit of proving optimistic.
He studied Kageyama's face—the way guilt and self-recrimination warred with exhaustion in those dark eyes, the tension in his shoulders that spoke of a man replaying every decision and finding himself wanting.
“And our rookie here is beating himself because he didn’t piece it together fast enough.”
Kageyama’s jaw tightened, his silence serving as confirmation. The muscle in his cheek twitched as he ground his teeth, fighting against the crushing weight of failure that threatened to drown him.
Bokuto stepped closer, his golden eyes sharp with focus. When he placed a firm hand on Kageyama’s uninjured shoulder, the contact was brief but grounding.
“They played us all, rookie. This level of planning doesn’t happen overnight.” His voice was matter-of-fact, cutting through Kageyama’s spiral of self-blame with surgical precision. “You figured out their game and made it back alive. That’s what matters right now.”
He squeezed Kageyama’s shoulder once—not comfort, but acknowledgment—then stepped back, his expression shifting to pure business.
With that, Bokuto straightened, his expression shifting back to business as he headed toward the door. But there was something different in his posture now—a predatory alertness that suggested the hunters were about to become the hunted.
“We need to brief command immediately,” he said, already moving toward the door. “And start working with what we know. They wanted Oikawa alive—that means he’s valuable to them. Question is: valuable for what?”
As his footsteps faded down the corridor, the medical bay fell into tense silence. The alarms continued their relentless wailing, but now they carried a different weight—not warnings of immediate danger, but the steady pulse of an organization realizing how thoroughly they’d been outmaneuvered.
Present time – Kantei, crisis center
The secure briefing room felt a size too small, the steady thrum of Kantei’s lockdown systems running through the walls like a pulse. Overhead fluorescents buzzed, faltering with the occasional flicker—enough to remind them that beyond the reinforced doors, the compound was sealed tight. No one in, no one out until the all-clear.
Sugawara broke the silence first, his voice pitched just above the ambient hum.
“How is Iwaizumi-san?”
Daichi leaned back, the leather of his chair protesting with a creak. He exhaled slowly, gaze fixed on the polished tabletop as if Oikawa’s coordinates might rise from its glassy surface.
“Still in the hospital, waiting for pickup,” he said at last. “No news is good news.”
Across from him, Kuroo sat forward, arms folded, his stare flat and assessing.
“I appreciate your helping hand, Sawamura,” he said. “But he should be your priority.”
Daichi met the look without flinching, his reply clipped and certain.
“He is. Iwaizumi’s in the safest place he could be, second only to Kantei itself. If anybody without authorization breached the hospital, we’d know,” Daichi said without hesitation, the answer clipped and certain. “And even if I wanted to leave, there’s no walking out of here. Not with the lockdown. He’s fine, we have bigger problems.”
Sugawara let out a quiet breath, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You know, I hated being dragged into that perimeter upgrade last year. Now I’m glad we did it. One less thing to lose sleep over.”
Kuroo gave a distracted hum, attention already back on his phone, comms patched directly to Koanchosa’s command center. The steady murmur of encrypted voices bled faintly from his earpiece. Daichi shot him a glance, then shared a brief look with Sugawara.
“Still nothing?” Daichi asked.
Kuroo shook his head, jaw tight.
“Kageyama confirmed Shidou’s eliminated. Which is good, except now we’ve lost our only lead. He made it back to headquarters, but Oikawa is still missing. Kageyama said they were split up by force.”
Sugawara held his breath upon hearing the news.
“As morbid as it is for me to say,” he said carefully, “I think it is now appropriate to assume they are after something that Oikawa-san has worked on or has access to.”
Kuroo took a deep breath. “Unsettling, but yes, we should assume that.”
Sugawara pushed his chair back, already standing. “If I can use this to lift the lockdown, I’ll try. You should be in headquarters, Kuroo, not boxed in here.” He slipped out, the door’s airtight seal hissing closed behind him.
Kuroo didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the dead console, the pale blue glow washing over his features. His fingers drummed once against the metal edge before curling into a fist.
“Damn it, Tooru,” he muttered, the curse barely audible over the static of open channels.
Daichi moved behind him, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder—one firm pat, nothing more. No hollow reassurances. We’ll find him was the easy thing to say, but in this line of work, easy words held no weight. Some missions pressed heavier than others; some agents left marks that never faded.
In the low, humming quiet, both men found themselves remembering their early days—when Oikawa had been all polish and arrogance, infuriatingly skilled, the kind of rookie who made you want to outwork him just to wipe the grin off his face. Back then, the worst thing that could happen was failing a training exercise or getting chewed out by an instructor. They never imagined that years later, they'd be sitting in a locked room, watching red lights pulse in the darkness, hoping the universe would give their friend back in one piece. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the knowledge that some waits ended badly, and there was nothing their rank or training could do to change that.
Present time – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital, basement level morgue
At first, Iwaizumi thought exhaustion was playing tricks on his mind—a phantom flutter beneath Oikawa’s eyelids, the barest twitch of fingertips against sterile cotton. He’d been watching for hours, memorizing every shallow rise and fall of that chest, every irregular beep of the monitors he'd jury-rigged in this makeshift medical bay.
But this time, when he looked again, his breath caught like a fish hook in his throat.
Oikawa’s lashes trembled against his cheekbones, dark crescents shifting as his eyes cracked open—unfocused, glassy, but unmistakably alive. The harsh fluorescent lights stabbed down at him mercilessly; cold steel pressed against his spine where the autopsy table's surface had become his unlikely salvation. Against all that clinical brutality, the warmth ghosting across his wrist—Iwaizumi's fingertips checking his pulse—felt like a lifeline thrown into drowning darkness.
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi breathed. The name breaking out of him like a prayer, rough with disbelief and desperate hope. He lurched from his chair and closed the distance in two strides.
His hands moved with practiced efficiency even as his heart hammered against his ribs. Fingers found the pulse point at Oikawa's wrist—thready but steady, gloriously persistent. His other hand checked pupil response, then flew to verify the blood transfusion line hadn't shifted. Every reading held steady, every improvised connection still flowing life back into the man who'd collapsed bleeding in his arms.
But something was wrong.
Oikawa’s gaze wasn’t filled with relief or recognition—it was wild, haunted, pupils blown wide with primal terror. His eyes darted frantically, like a cornered animal scanning for threats in every shadow. When Iwaizumi moved to place his stethoscope against his chest, Oikawa's entire body went rigid, muscles coiling like springs under siege.
“Oikawa, hey…” Iwaizumi coaxed, keeping his voice low, steady. “Everything is going to be alright.”
The words hadn’t even finished leaving his lips when Oikawa’s world exploded into motion
Before Iwaizumi could react, a hand shot up with viper-quick precision, fingers locking iron-tight around his throat. Oikawa’s body surged upward with terrifying speed and strength for someone barely awake. Instinct, not recognition, drove the motion.
His body moved before his mind caught up, driven by a gut-deep terror and carved by countless life-or-death encounters. All he felt was resistance beneath his palm—hot skin, muscle straining against him, and the maddening urge to fight his way out.
“Tooru!” Iwaizumi rasped, his own fingers prying at the unyielding hold around his windpipe.
Oikawa’s grip was shaking but crushing, fueled by phantom dangers that only existed in the fractured landscape of his hazy mind. His gaze was feral, seeing enemies in every corner, danger in every shadow. In that terrifying instant, Iwaizumi glimpsed the world Oikawa lived in—where death wore familiar faces and safety was always temporary. This was more than just panic; it was muscle memory carved by too many close calls, too many betrayals. The antiseptic-scented air of the morgue became a battlefield in his fractured perception.
“—Oikawa!” Iwaizumi choked out, his vision starting to tunnel at the edges. “Stop—please! It’s me!”
The world narrowed to the crushing pressure against Iwaizumi’s windpipe and the wild, unfocused terror in Oikawa’s eyes. Iwaizumi wrapped his hands around Oikawa's wrist—not to hurt, never to hurt, but to anchor them both to reality through touch.
“You’re safe,” he gasped, each word a monumental effort. “It’s me, Hajime, you’re with me—you’re safe—”
Something in his voice—not just the words, but the way Iwaizumi’s breath hitched on his name, the desperate familiarity of someone who’d whispered it in darker moments—pierced through Oikawa’s panic like sunlight through storm clouds. His grip faltered. Oikawa’s pupils began to contract, awareness fighting through the fog of trauma and blood loss. He blinked hard, breath shuddering, confusion giving way to shaky recognition.
Reality crashed back in fragments. Warmth. A familiar scent—clean antiseptic mixed with something stubbornly human. Not danger. Not an enemy. The tension bled out of him, leaving only leaden exhaustion.
“Haji…me?”
The name emerged as barely a whisper, broken and uncertain.
“Yeah.” Iwaizumi’s voice was sandpaper-rough, but infinitely gentle. His fingers worked to pry Oikawa’s grip loose, one finger at a time, with the patience of a man dismantling a bomb. “Yeah, it’s me. You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure slackened. Recognition flickered in Oikawa’s eyes, the terror dissolving into confusion and bone-deep exhaustion. His fingers lost all strength, sliding limply from Iwaizumi’s throat, leaving behind faint crescents where nails had dug in, as though his strength had been stolen.
Oikawa’s body swayed, boneless, and Iwaizumi lunged to catch him. One arm wrapped around his back, the other steadying his head before it could hit the cold steel of the table. The same hands that had just fought for breath now cradled Oikawa with infinite gentleness as if the violence of moments before had been a fever dream. Iwaizumi’s throat burned, but his touch remained steady.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Iwaizumi whispered, his voice rough, words spilling in a steady stream of reassurance. “You’re safe now, Tooru. You’re safe with me.”
Oikawa’s breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, his forehead pressing into the curve of Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Each breath trembled against Iwaizumi’s collarbone, hot and damp, as if his body was only just realizing the fight was over. Each shuddering inhale drew in the rhythm of Iwaizumi’s breath, slow and steady, an anchor in the fog. Iwaizumi’s hand moved automatically, smoothing damp strands of hair back from Oikawa’s face, cupping his nape in a firm, grounding hold.
Slowly, infinitesimally, the trembling eased. Iwaizumi lowered him back onto the table with the reverence of handling something infinitely precious, never breaking contact—his palm still cradling the side of Oikawa’s head, thumb tracing unconscious circles against his temple.
This time, when Iwaizumi pressed the stethoscope to his chest, Oikawa didn’t flinch. The steady lub-dub beneath the metal disc was the most beautiful sound Iwaizumi had ever heard. He wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Oikawa’s arm with hands that only trembled slightly, forcing himself back into the familiar ritual of assessment and care.
Pulse: steady. Blood pressure: stabilizing beautifully. Pupils: reactive and clear.
Only then—only when every vital sign confirmed what his heart desperately needed to believe—did Iwaizumi allow himself to truly breathe.
“Oh, thank goodness.”
The words escaped him like a sob, all his carefully maintained composure finally cracking.
Iwaizumi’s knees buckled, sending him collapsing onto the edge of the autopsy table. His head bowed until his forehead nearly touched Oikawa's shoulder, and the tremor that had been building in his hands for hours finally claimed them completely. During the crisis, they'd been surgeon-steady, but now that the immediate danger had passed, the full weight of what he'd almost lost came crashing down like an avalanche.
Oikawa turned his face toward him with monumental effort, his gaze soft and concerned despite his own exhaustion.
“I thought I lost you,” Iwaizumi says in a whisper, the confession torn from somewhere deep in his chest. Oikawa didn’t quite hear him, but could read Iwaizumi’s lips. He could feel the weight settling between them.
“I thought—” Iwaizumi’s words fractured completely. He couldn’t even voice the possibility, couldn’t give shape to the nightmare that had haunted every second of the past few hours. The idea of Oikawa dying under his hands, of losing him to something Iwaizumi couldn’t fight or fix, was more terrifying than any darkness he’d ever faced.
Oikawa felt his body heavier than ever, as if gravity were doubling its effort on him. Despite the numbness spreading through his body, he felt Iwaizumi’s cold fingertips brushing strands of hair away from covering his eyes. There’s tenderness in the way Iwaizumi’s fingers move—brushing hair back, tracing the line of his jaw, cupping his cheek like Oikawa might shatter.
Then, suddenly, Oikawa felt Iwaizumi’s lips against his own.
It was a desperate act, one that was driven by turmoil and terror. Oikawa could taste the desperation in it, could feel how Iwaizumi immediately pulled back with widening eyes, shocked by his own crumbling composure, horrified by his loss of professional control.
Iwaizumi’s hands retreated to grip the table’s railing, his knuckles white with tension. His gaze fled sideways, unable to meet Oikawa’s eyes, and his breathing came in short, sharp bursts that spoke of a man barely holding himself together. His fingers trembled as he fought to rebuild his walls, to become the doctor again instead of the shattered man whose world had almost ended on this steel table.
Oikawa may have been physically battered, but it was Iwaizumi who bore the deeper wounds now—the emotional toll of holding someone’s life in his hands and feeling it slip away, then surge back, then slip away again in an endless, torturous cycle.
Oikawa wanted desperately to reach for him, to offer comfort and reassurance, to feel the solid reality of Iwaizumi’s presence anchoring him to the world of the living. But his arms felt like lead weights, and even the smallest movement sent fire racing along his nerve endings.
Iwaizumi dragged a hand down his face as if trying to physically scrub away the panic still clinging to him like smoke, his shoulders rigid with the effort of holding himself together.
Summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, Oikawa made his best effort to move closer. Every inch was agony, pulling at fresh stitches and bruised ribs until he couldn’t suppress the sharp hiss of pain that escaped him. The sound immediately drew Iwaizumi's attention—this damned doctor—and Oikawa used that moment to lean forward and press their foreheads together.
The contact caught Iwaizumi completely off guard. Here was Oikawa, barely conscious and wracked with pain, reaching out to ground him before he could spiral into self-recrimination and panic. The tips of their noses brushed, and Iwaizumi felt the slow, precious warmth of each exhale against his skin—proof of life, of survival, of hope.
Oikawa’s fingers found his with trembling determination, threading their digits together while his thumb traced gentle patterns across Iwaizumi’s knuckles. In response, Iwaizumi buried his free hand in the soft hair at Oikawa’s nape, fingers raking through light brown strands in a gesture that was equal parts comfort and reassurance—for both of them.
Neither was used to seeing the other so vulnerable. Iwaizumi had never witnessed Oikawa broken down like this, stripped of his usual confidence and bravado. Oikawa had never seen the careful mask of professional competence slip from Iwaizumi's face, revealing the depth of feeling he usually kept locked away.
But in this moment, surrounded by the clinical coldness of steel and antiseptic, none of that mattered. They were simply two people who had found something precious in each other, clinging to that connection in the aftermath of almost having it torn away.
Gradually, Iwaizumi’s trembling subsided. His hands grew warmer where they touched Oikawa’s skin, steadier where they held him.
“Don’t scare me like that, idiot,” Iwaizumi murmured, his usual gruffness softened by something deeper, more vulnerable than he usually allowed himself to show.
Oikawa blinked slowly—it was all the energy he could muster—but his gaze found Iwaizumi’s and held it steadily. The weight of everything they couldn't say hung between them like a bridge neither dared to cross. Instead, he mouthed a single word, silent but perfectly clear: Sorry.
Iwaizumi huffed out something that might have been annoyance, relief, and overwhelming gratitude all tangled together. Without another word, he shifted closer, gathering Oikawa carefully into his embrace. His whispered reassurances were so soft they were almost lost in the hum of fluorescent lights, but Oikawa caught every word—and more importantly, caught the love bleeding through each syllable, even if neither of them was brave enough to name it yet.
They held each other in the aftermath of a battle that had felt endless, surrounded by the tools of death but choosing instead to celebrate life. Despite the enemies still hunting them, despite the protocols shattered and the dangers waiting beyond these walls, within the circle of Iwaizumi’s arms, Oikawa found the one thing that had eluded him in all his years of running and fighting: sanctuary.
And for the first time in hours, both of them felt truly, completely safe.
Notes:
Sorry that this one is shorter than usual. I have a storyline draft with all the chapters and their contents planned, but when I was writing this chapter, the word count just... exploded, so I had to split it. Hope you guys don't mind, enjoy the rest of the story ♥️
Chapter Text
1 hour after mission fallout – Koanchosa headquarters, mission command center
The mission command center hummed with controlled urgency, banks of monitors casting blue light across the faces of analysts bent over their workstations. The usual chatter had been replaced by terse, professional exchanges—everyone aware that somewhere in the city, one of their own was running out of time. Coffee cups sat forgotten beside keyboards as personnel worked through what had become the longest hour in Koanchosa’s recent history.
“I’ve compiled all files matching our target’s operational profile,” Bokuto’s voice cut through the ambient noise of clicking keys and muted conversations. His fingers moved across multiple screens with practiced efficiency, cross-referencing databases that most agents never even knew existed. “Running pattern analysis against our criminal database now, looking for any information vectors they might be targeting.”
Nishinoya’s acknowledgment was barely audible—a distracted hum as his attention split between coordinating search teams and monitoring communication channels that remained stubbornly silent.
“Agent Oikawa’s communication device is completely untraceable,” he reported, his voice tight with the weight of delivering bad news. “Whatever they used to jam the signal, it’s still active or the device has been destroyed.”
Nishinoya’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Understood. Keep monitoring.”
The admission hung in the air like smoke. They all knew what untraceable meant in their line of work—either Oikawa had gone completely dark by choice, or his enemies had ensured he couldn’t call for help. Neither possibility offered comfort.
The elaborate trap was now crystal clear in hindsight: Shidou’s perfect biometric double, the precisely timed diplomatic dinner that pulled their commander away from headquarters, the sophisticated signal jamming that had left two agents blind and isolated. Every detail had been orchestrated to funnel Oikawa and Kageyama into a maze while Koanchosa scrambled to understand what was happening.
The question that gnawed at everyone in the room was no longer how their enemies had managed such a feat, but why. What information could be worth this level of risk and planning?
“Kageyama reported they were ambushed in the Shinjuku district,” Nishinoya directed another analyst, his fingers never pausing in their dance across his keyboard. “Pull all available CCTV footage from the area. Traffic cameras, security feeds, anything with a timestamp from the last four hours.”
Even as he gave the order, skepticism colored his tone. An enemy sophisticated enough to orchestrate tonight’s deception wouldn’t be careless enough to leave themselves exposed on surveillance footage. But in a situation this desperate, even long shots were worth taking.
“Oikawa-san’s emergency tracker remains inactive,” came another report from across the room.
Bokuto’s muttered curse was lost in the ambient noise, but Nishinoya caught the flash of genuine concern that crossed the agent’s features. Behind his jovial facade, Bokuto had worked enough cases to know that inactive trackers rarely meant good things.
The steady rhythm of crisis management was interrupted by the pneumatic hiss of the command center’s doors. Kageyama strode through the entrance with barely contained energy, a paramedic trailing behind him like a determined shadow. Fresh gauze covered the wound at the base of his neck, and his left wrist was secured in a brace, but he moved like a man driven by something stronger than adrenaline. Guilt was a powerful motivator—and leaving Oikawa behind had carved it deep.
“We need to get to Oikawa-san before they do,” he announced without preamble, pushing through the cluster of personnel with single-minded determination.
The command center’s ambient noise didn't pause, but Nishinoya felt the subtle shift in attention as nearby analysts glanced up from their screens. Kageyama’s arrival carried the weight of firsthand knowledge—he was their only direct link to whatever hell Oikawa was currently navigating.
“All available resources have been diverted to that objective,” Nishinoya replied, his tone measured and professional. Years of crisis management had taught him the value of projecting calm competence, even when circumstances spiraled beyond control. “Bokuto-san, status on potential motivations?”
“Working through a shortlist,” Bokuto responded, his attention split between multiple data streams. “Cross-referencing cases specifically tied to Oikawa—information only he would have access to, or skills only he possesses.”
Kageyama moved closer to the central command station, his good hand unconsciously clenching and unclenching—a nervous habit that betrayed the frustration simmering beneath his professional exterior. “Finding him has to be our priority. Whatever they want, they need Oikawa-san alive to get it.”
“Locating Oikawa is our priority,” Nishinoya said, finally turning to face the younger agent directly. The fluorescent lighting cast harsh shadows under his eyes, emphasizing the fatigue that came from coordinating a search operation with no solid leads. “His tracker is down, communications are severed. I have analysts combing through every surveillance feed we can access and field teams sweeping perimeters.”
He gestured toward the wall of monitors displaying search grid patterns, communication logs, and real-time feeds from street cameras across Tokyo. “I can’t manufacture leads that don’t exist, Kageyama. All we can do is work systematically and wait for something to break our way.”
The words carried the weight of experience—too many operations where waiting was the hardest part, where all the technology and manpower in the world couldn’t compensate for a cold trail.
Kageyama’s frustration was visible in the tension of his shoulders, the way his jaw worked as he processed the reality of their limitations. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less urgent.
“I believe he’s injured.”
The simple statement cut through the command center’s background noise like a blade. Conversations didn’t stop, keyboards didn’t pause, but there was a subtle shift in the room’s energy as the implications settled over everyone within earshot. This wasn’t guilt talking or worst-case speculation—this was intelligence from their only surviving field operative.
The brief silence stretched long enough for the gravity of those words to sink in. Somewhere in Tokyo’s urban maze, one of their most experienced agents was hurt, alone, and being hunted by enemies who had demonstrated a terrifying level of operational sophistication.
Bokuto’s voice cut through the tension with characteristic dark humor.
“Well, they want our pretty boy alive and breathing as much as we do. Probably just clipped his wings a little—you know how he gets when he can run full speed.” The casual tone didn’t quite mask the worry in his golden eyes.
“Alive and breathing doesn’t exclude torture, though,” Nishinoya added grimly, his fingers never pausing in their work. The macabre observation hung in the air—a reminder of the harsh realities they all lived with, spoken with the casual detachment that came from years of dealing with worst-case scenarios.
“He shouldn’t be far from our established perimeter,” Kageyama continued, pushing through the momentary quiet his revelation had created. “Whatever injuries he sustained, they’ll limit his mobility. He’s probably looking for medical attention or a secure location to treat himself.”
He paused, his tactical mind working through their enemies’ likely strategy. “But they know that too. If their objective is to capture him alive, they’d want to wound him just enough to limit his options without compromising his value. They’re probably using his injuries to funnel him toward a specific location—somewhere they can control the encounter.”
Nishinoya nodded, his fingers already moving to update search parameters. “Noted. I’ll relay that assessment to ground teams immediately.”
Bokuto straightened from his workstation, rolling tension from his shoulders before stepping forward. His hand found Kageyama's shoulder in a brief, grounding contact—not comfort, but acknowledgment of shared purpose.
“Meanwhile, we need to work the intelligence angle,” he said, his usual playful demeanor replaced by focused professionalism. “Figure out what these bastards are actually after.”
Nishinoya’s expression darkened as he considered the scope of that task.
“Oikawa’s case files span years of operations. It could take days to identify potential targets, even with our full analytical team working around the clock.”
Kageyama stepped closer to the command station, something shifting in his posture—confidence replacing frustration as he found a way to contribute meaningfully to their efforts.
“Or maybe just a few hours.”
The skepticism in Nishinoya’s glance was barely concealed. In crisis situations, optimistic timelines were usually the product of inexperience rather than realistic assessment.
“I was Oikawa-senpai’s primary trainee for eight months,” Kageyama said, his voice gaining strength as he outlined his reasoning. “I’ve been briefed on his operational methodologies, his case approaches, even his risk assessment protocols. If anyone outside of Oikawa himself understands his work patterns and target selection, it’s me.”
He moved closer to the central displays, his uninjured hand gesturing toward the data streams flowing across multiple screens. “We need to understand what they’re after, and our only viable approach is retrospective analysis of Oikawa-san’s mission history. I’m not just our best shot at that—I’m probably our only shot at completing the analysis in time to matter.”
Bokuto’s index finger shot up, pointing at Kageyama with something approaching approval. “I like this kid better than pretty boy already. Equally sharp, but without the attitude.”
Despite the gravity of their situation, the comment drew a few suppressed chuckles from nearby analysts. Even in crisis, Bokuto’s irreverent observations had a way of cutting through tension.
Nishinoya sighed, running a hand through his hair as he weighed their options. The sound was barely audible over the command center’s ambient noise, but it carried the weight of a man accepting a plan he wasn't entirely comfortable with.
“Oikawa’s going to be monumentally pissed when he discovers we’ve been combing through his operations,” he muttered, already reaching for his secure communication device. “I’ll request emergency clearance from Kuroo and forward access credentials as soon as they’re approved.”
His fingers moved across the interface with practiced efficiency, sending priority requests up the chain of command. “Kageyama, start with whatever files you can access immediately. Bokuto-san, coordinate with field teams—your tactical experience might help identify search areas we’ve overlooked.”
The assignment of tasks carried the familiar rhythm of operational planning, transforming desperate improvisation into structured action. Around them, the command center continued its controlled urgency, but now there was direction beneath the chaos.
Kageyama nodded, his earlier frustration replaced by focused determination. Having a concrete mission—something he could actively contribute to rather than simply endure—seemed to steady him in a way that reassurance never could. Around the command center, the atmosphere had shifted subtly. They were no longer just waiting for bad news—they were hunting for answers. And in a room full of people who'd made careers of finding needles in haystacks, that felt like progress.
2 hours after mission fallout – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital, morgue basement level
The last few hours existed in fragments. Disjointed memories that surfaced like debris from a shipwreck. Each time he tried to piece them together, they slipped away like water through his fingers, leaving only impressions—pain, desperation, the metallic taste of his own blood. Oikawa was conscious enough to know he had escaped the field, but the details remained frustratingly elusive, sliding away whenever he tried to grasp them fully.
What Oikawa could remember came in flashes: the final encounter with Shidou’s organization, more brutal than any mission in his many years within this field. Their enemies had cornered him and Kageyama with predatory precision. Each escape route was systematically sealed until they were trapped like animals in a cage. The memory of their attackers’ merciless efficiency sent phantom pain racing along his nerve endings—these weren’t desperate criminals or disorganized terrorists. They moved with the calculated brutality of professionals who knew exactly what they wanted.
Oikawa remembered the crushing weight of physical limitation as he watched Kageyama’s strength flagging, saw the younger agent’s movements growing sluggish with exhaustion. The decision had been instinctive. He shoved Kageyama toward the maintenance shaft that led to Tokyo’s underground flood prevention system, buying precious seconds with his own body as a shield. They want me, he had thought. They won’t kill me. But Oikawa miscalculated the extent of their willingness to wound, to break him just enough to eliminate his advantages without destroying their prize.
He hadn’t expected the blade to go that deep. Hadn’t anticipated the pain sharp enough to rip a scream from his throat.
The journey to Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital remained a blur of agony and desperate calculation. It was not the closest medical facility—a decision that defied every tactical protocol he’d ever learned. But Oikawa knew he needed to break the pattern, to make choices that would confuse enemies who seemed to know his every move. He needed established security, medical supplies, and a place where his presence might go unnoticed among the constant flow of emergency cases. What better place than the hospital where the Prime Minister's son worked? The irony wasn’t lost on him—seeking sanctuary in the one place that could destroy them both if anyone connected the dots.
It was supposed to be a simple detour: sneak in, use their supplies, disappear before anyone noticed.
Instead, here he was.
The basement morgue had become his unlikely recovery room, cold steel transformed into a makeshift medical bay. He lay on one of the autopsy tables with Iwaizumi’s scarf folded carefully beneath his head as a pillow. The forensic pathologist’s white coat draped over his body like an inadequate blanket. An IV line snuck from his left arm while a blood transfusion slowly replenished what he’d lost from his right. The harsh fluorescent lights above the table stabbed at his vision, making everything appear overexposed and dreamlike, while every small movement sent waves of nausea crashing through his system.
Through the haze of pain medication and blood loss, he could see Iwaizumi beside him, surgical mask covering half his face, gloved hands working with meticulous precision over his abdomen. The sight should have been comforting—professional medical care instead of his usual rough field treatment—but confusion clouded his thoughts. Iwaizumi should have been at Kantei by now, attending some diplomatic function. What was he doing here, in the depths of the hospital close to midnight, playing surgeon to a bleeding spy?
The urge to sit up, to assess his surroundings and plan his next move, proved stronger than his body’s protests. Oikawa pressed his elbows against the cold steel table, muscles trembling with the effort.
“Stay still.” Iwaizumi’s voice cut through the antiseptic-scented air like a scalpel, sharp with professional authority.
Oikawa obeyed—not from choice, but from necessity. His limbs felt leaden, disconnected from his will by whatever cocktail of medications was flowing through his bloodstream. Only then did he register the strange absence of pain from his abdomen, a numbness that should have been alarming but instead felt like mercy.
Iwaizumi reached for a small bottle from the cart beside them, the label reading ‘oxybuprocaine’ in clinical black letters. Topical anesthetic, Oikawa’s mind read automatically—the kind dentists used for minor procedures. Trust a forensic pathologist to improvise with whatever medical supplies were available.
“Almost finished,” Iwaizumi murmured, his voice muffled by the surgical mask but carrying an undertone of concentrated focus that Oikawa had never heard before.
The sensation was surreal in its detachment. Oikawa could see everything—Iwaizumi’s blue gloves stained crimson with blood and antiseptic, the needle piercing his torn flesh, thread drawing the ragged edges of his wound together with mathematical precision. But the familiar agony that should have accompanied such intimate violence was blissfully absent, muted by an anesthetic and whatever painkillers coursed through his system.
Usually, Oikawa tended his own wounds with gritted teeth and shaking hands, solitude his only companion in pain. Other times, he'd wake in Koanchosa’s sterile infirmary with wounds mysteriously healed, tended by medical staff while he remained unconscious and unaware. This was the first time he’d watched a medical professional work on him with conscious awareness, and the experience was oddly hypnotic. There was something unsettling about being so completely at someone's mercy, yet feeling safer than he had in years. The contradiction should have bothered him more than it did.
Iwaizumi’s hands moved with the fluid confidence of years of practice, but unlike Oikawa’s desperate field treatment, every stitch was perfectly placed, each suture aligned with artistic precision. If there was beauty to be found in the repair of human damage, it lived in the sure movement of those skilled fingers.
“At least there’s one thing I know I’m doing right,” Iwaizumi murmured as he tied off the final stitch. His hands were steady, but Oikawa caught the slight tremor in his voice—the sound of a man who’d been operating on pure instinct and was only now allowing himself to feel the weight of what could have gone wrong.
The comment revealed more than Iwaizumi probably intended. While he’d relied on instinct and adrenaline during the crisis of preventing Oikawa’s heart from failing, sutures and surgical precision were where his expertise truly resided. Autopsy was surgery for the dead—the same procedures, the same meticulous approach, just without the pressure of keeping the patient alive. Years of closing bodies after examination had given his hands a memory of their own, muscle memory that translated seamlessly to the living.
“Alright,” Iwaizumi announced, his voice carrying quiet satisfaction as he stripped off his bloodied gloves. He used his sleeve to wipe perspiration from his forehead, careful to avoid contaminating his face with Oikawa’s blood.
The familiar urge to assess, to move, to regain control of his situation drove Oikawa to attempt sitting up again. This time, Iwaizumi’s hands were gentle but firm as they pressed him back down.
“I thought I made myself clear. Don’t move.” The sternness in his voice was tempered by something softer—concern dressed as professional authority. “You’ve lost entirely too much blood.”
As if summoned by the words, dizziness crashed over Oikawa like a wave, his vision graying at the edges as his cardiovascular system protested the attempted movement. The absence of pain didn’t mean the absence of damage, and his body was still fighting to maintain the basic functions that would keep him alive.
“You have to lie down, Tooru.” The shift to his given name transformed Iwaizumi’s voice completely, professional distance melting into personal tenderness. The sound of it sent warmth spreading through Oikawa’s chest that had nothing to do with the IV medications.
He nodded weakly, surrendering to the drowsiness that pulled at the edges of his consciousness like an undertow.
“I need to get more blood packs and IV supplies,” Iwaizumi continued, already moving to clean up his improvised surgical setup. “It won’t fully compensate for what you’ve lost, but it’s better than nothing.”
The clinical truth hung unspoken between them—proper treatment for massive blood loss required facilities and expertise that a morgue couldn’t provide. Iwaizumi was buying time, not offering a cure.
“Do you need anything?” The question came as Iwaizumi disposed of used gloves and arranged bloodied instruments in a metal tray with methodical precision.
Oikawa tried to answer, but his throat felt like sandpaper, each swallow a reminder of how much his body had been through. The simple act of speaking seemed monumental.
“I’ll get you some water,” Iwaizumi said, reading the need in Oikawa’s expression with the perceptiveness that had always unsettled him. “We only have energy drinks in the mini fridge. Sorry about that.”
He worked with quiet efficiency, securing Oikawa’s wound with fresh gauze and pressure bandages, buttoning his blood-soaked shirt with careful fingers that avoided putting pressure on the injury site. The white coat became a makeshift blanket again, tucked around Oikawa’s shoulders with the tenderness of someone dressing a lover rather than treating a patient.
When Iwaizumi adjusted the scarf beneath his head, smoothing it into a more comfortable pillow, his palm lingered to check Oikawa’s forehead and neck for signs of fever or infection. But then his fingertips traced down the line of Oikawa’s face—a touch that had nothing to do with medical assessment and everything to do with reassurance. Not just that Oikawa was there, but that this was real.
In that moment, Oikawa caught the shift in Iwaizumi’s gaze, the way his eyes transformed from clinical precision to something deeper, more vulnerable. The professional mask slipped just enough to reveal the man beneath—the one who’d been terrified of losing someone he couldn’t afford to love.
Then Iwaizumi turned toward the door, leaving Oikawa alone with the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic drip of IV fluid.
*
When Iwaizumi returned, arms laden with medical supplies scavenged from various departments, he found Oikawa examining a small device between his fingers, his face turned away from the morgue entrance. Disappointment flickered through him—not surprise because he’d known better than to expect complete compliance, but genuine concern for someone who was pushing himself far too hard, far too soon. Knowing Oikawa’s background, Iwaizumi is just glad that Oikawa did not disappear while he was getting supplies.
“It was in my pocket. I didn’t get off the table,” Oikawa said hoarsely, immediately catching the disapproval in Iwaizumi’s expression. His voice was rough with dehydration and exhaustion, each word requiring visible effort. “Couldn’t get off even if I wanted to,” he added under his breath, an admission of weakness that spoke volumes about his condition.
Iwaizumi sighed, the sound carrying accumulated worry and frustration. He arranged the supplies on his desk with practiced movements, buying himself time to process the complex emotions warring in his chest—relief that Oikawa was alive and alert, fear for what his presence in the hospital meant, and a deeper terror about what would happen when he inevitably had to leave.
“Come here, let me help you sit up to drink.”
The process required careful choreography—Iwaizumi’s arm sliding beneath Oikawa’s neck to support his head, the other hand guiding a water bottle to lips that were cracked and pale. The simple act of drinking seemed to exhaust Oikawa completely, and after a few careful sips, nausea forced him back down to the makeshift pillow.
Silence settled over the morgue like a heavy blanket, broken only by the ambient hum of medical equipment and the distant sounds of the hospital’s night shift. Oikawa’s fingers worked over his emergency tracker with the automatic movements of someone who’d performed the same check countless times, while Iwaizumi busied himself with replacing IV bags and monitoring the blood transfusion’s progress.
When all the medical tasks were complete, Iwaizumi settled into the chair beside the table, his gaze drifting to the floor as exhaustion finally began to claim him. The adrenaline that had sustained him through the crisis was fading, leaving behind the crushing weight of what they’d both survived.
“You called for backup?”
The question emerged from their shared quiet, Iwaizumi’s voice carefully neutral.
“Yes, but I can’t tell if the signal is transmitting,” Oikawa replied, frustration bleeding through his fatigue as he returned the device to his pocket. Each breath seemed labored, his body still fighting to recover from the trauma it had endured. “The last encounter was… extensive. Electronics don’t always survive that level of abuse.”
Iwaizumi threw a side stare. “I don’t think the human body would normally survive, either.”
The dark observation hung between them. Oikawa managed something that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so breathless.
“Lucky for me,” he said, his voice softer now, “my doctor’s really good.”
The words were meant as gratitude—a simple acknowledgment of the hands that had pulled him back from the edge. But the moment they left his lips, Oikawa watched something flicker across Iwaizumi’s face. A tightness around his eyes, a brief crack in his composure before he looked away.
Shit. Too late, Oikawa realized what his offhand comment had dredged up—the memory of desperate improvisation, of turning a morgue into an operating room, of hours spent believing he might not be enough.
“Hajime—”
“It’s fine.” The response came too quickly. Iwaizumi’s attention suddenly focused on adjusting an IV line that didn’t need adjusting. His movements were precise, clinical, but his hands weren’t quite steady.
Oikawa’s fingers twitched toward him across the narrow space, but Iwaizumi had already turned away. The distance between them felt vast despite the cramped confines of their makeshift medical bay.
After a moment, Oikawa shifted with visible effort to face him more directly.
“You’re not going to ask what happened?”
Iwaizumi looked up, meeting those familiar brown eyes that now carried shadows he’d never seen before. “I would. But then you'd have to talk, and what you need most right now is rest.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I could. But it would be somewhat redundant since I already have a fairly comprehensive picture of what you went through.”
Oikawa’s hand drifted unconsciously to his bandaged abdomen, fingers tracing the edges of his injury through the gauze.
“Multiple stab wounds inflicted with a sharp-edged blade,” Iwaizumi began, his voice taking on the clinical cadence of a forensic report. “I can determine that from the clean entry points and lack of significant bruising around the wound margins. The concerning factor is that sharp weapons tend to fracture upon deep penetration, leaving fragments behind.”
He leaned forward, his professional assessment gaining momentum as he cataloged the evidence his examination had revealed. “More troubling is the excessive hemorrhaging you experienced. In most cases, that indicates either major arterial damage or retained foreign material—probably blade fragments that continued to cause internal bleeding.”
Iwaizumi’s expression softened slightly as he reached for Oikawa’s hand, their fingers intertwining with familiar ease. “I assume you attempted field treatment to stop the bleeding, even though the wound was already showing signs of infection. Given what I know about your work, I understand why you made that choice.”
The contact grounded them both, a physical connection that spoke of intimacy beyond their complicated relationship’s usual boundaries.
“You were on a mission that went catastrophically wrong,” Iwaizumi continued, his thumb tracing gentle patterns across Oikawa’s knuckles. “Either you were actively hunted or you needed to escape a compromised situation immediately. The logic of seeking quick medical attention makes sense—stop the bleeding, buy yourself time to reach proper facilities, or return to your headquarters.”
His analytical mind worked through the sequence of events with the same methodical approach he brought to investigations. Iwaizumi’s voice took on the clinical cadence of a forensic report—safer territory than acknowledging how his hands had shaken while trying to stop that bleeding, how he'd whispered prayers to gods he didn't believe in.
“But your initial treatment failed, which is why I found you hemorrhaging and barely conscious instead of discovering evidence that you’d been here and gone. That leaves two possibilities: either you’re suffering from an extremely rare coagulation disorder that I somehow missed in our previous... encounters, or the weapon used against you incorporated some kind of sophisticated design that interfered with normal healing processes.”
“Impressive,” Oikawa murmured, genuine admiration coloring his exhausted voice.
“I didn’t get this job based on my dashing looks,” Iwaizumi replied with dry humor, though his eyes remained serious as they studied Oikawa’s face for signs of deterioration.
“I’d hire you for any position because of those alone,” Oikawa whispered, a fond smile ghosting across his lips despite his condition.
The unexpected warmth in the comment drew a chuckle from Iwaizumi—the first genuine laughter either of them had shared since this nightmare began. “Idiot. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“I’m rather beaten up at the moment, Iwa-chan. I’d prefer to avoid reflective surfaces,” Oikawa said with a defeated laugh that held echoes of his usual playfulness.
Iwaizumi chuckled. The words hung in the air between them, laden with implications neither had dared voice before. It was a confession disguised as reassurance, truth spoken in the shadow of almost losing everything that mattered.
Exhaustion finally claimed Iwaizumi as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the edge of the autopsy table. The position should have been uncomfortable, but after hours of crisis management and improvised surgery, any rest felt like luxury.
He felt Oikawa’s fingers threading through his hair—a touch so gentle it was barely there, but present enough to anchor him to the moment. The sensation sent warmth spreading through his chest, a counterpoint to the cold fear that had gripped him since finding Oikawa bleeding on his floor.
“You should rest, Hajime. This has been hard on you, too.”
The concern in Oikawa’s voice was genuine, untainted by manipulation or strategy. It was the voice of someone who cared deeply, speaking to someone whose well-being mattered more than tactical advantage.
Iwaizumi lifted his head enough to meet Oikawa’s gaze, noting with relief that color had returned to his face—still pale, but no longer the frightening gray of severe blood loss.
“Right, and give you an opportunity to disappear the moment I fall asleep? Not a chance.”
An embarrassed smile spread across Oikawa’s features, confirmation that Iwaizumi had read his intentions perfectly. Even injured and exhausted, a field agent’s instincts demanded action, movement, escape from vulnerability. Oikawa had activated his emergency tracker, despite being uncertain of its functionality. He had to believe that headquarters would reach out to him. If not, then he’ll have to move on before their enemies catch up. And Oikawa wouldn’t risk Shidou’s organization tracing him back to the hospital, especially not when Iwaizumi is present.
“You read minds now, too?” Oikawa asked, trying to lighten the mood despite the gravity of their situation.
Iwaizumi shook his head, but his expression remained thoughtful. “Our relationship—or whatever we’re calling this thing we’ve been doing—would be considerably easier if I could.”
The words carried weight beyond their casual delivery, acknowledging the complexity and danger of their connection without demanding immediate resolution. But something in Oikawa’s expression shifted, vulnerability replacing his usual calculated charm.
They moved toward each other simultaneously, drawn by a magnetic force that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with need. Their foreheads pressed together, sharing breath and warmth in the coldness of the morgue. Oikawa’s fingers continued their gentle exploration of Iwaizumi’s hair while their free hands found each other, fingers intertwining like puzzle pieces that had finally found their match.
The moment stretched between them, intimate and fragile, two people discovering how perfectly they fit together when all pretense was stripped away. Oikawa’s exhausted body found rest in Iwaizumi’s strength, while Iwaizumi absorbed the comfort of tangible proof that Oikawa was alive, breathing, present.
“Iwa—Hajime,” Oikawa’s voice was barely above a whisper, his throat still raw from dehydration and trauma.
“Mm?” Iwaizumi pulled back slightly to study his face, recognizing the weight of unspoken words in Oikawa’s expression. He continued the gentle caress of his thumb across Oikawa’s knuckles, offering encouragement and patience in equal measure.
“I think,” Oikawa paused, uncertainty flickering across features that usually radiated confidence, “I think we should talk about... whatever this thing we’re doing is.”
The question carried implications that extended far beyond their physical relationship, touching on territories neither had dared explore despite months of careful navigation around deeper feelings.
“And why is that?” Iwaizumi asked gently.
Oikawa’s fingers twitched toward him across the narrow space, but the distance felt vast—not just the physical gap, but the chasm of everything they’d never said, all the careful boundaries they’d maintained even as bullets flew and blood spilled around them.
“Because I—” Oikawa swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort of forcing words past years of ingrained caution. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
The confession hit Iwaizumi like a physical force, stealing his breath and stopping his hands mid-caress. He searched Oikawa's face for any sign of delirium or medication-induced confusion, but found only nervous sincerity and the kind of raw vulnerability that couldn't be faked.
This was the admission he’d dreamed of hearing, the words he’d wanted to speak himself but never dared hope for reciprocation. Given the kind of life they live, love was a luxury neither could afford. But nearly losing Oikawa had reordered his priorities with brutal clarity.
After the initial shock faded, Iwaizumi’s grip on Oikawa’s hand tightened, conveying reassurance and shared feeling through touch alone. A smile spread across his face—genuine and unguarded in a way that his usual careful composure never allowed.
The expression seemed to calm Oikawa’s visible anxiety, providing an anchor in the emotional storm that his confession had unleashed.
“Are you thinking out loud,” Iwaizumi asked softly, lifting their joined hands to press a kiss to Oikawa’s knuckles, “or reading my mind?”
The gentle kiss and the warmth in his voice spoke volumes, but Oikawa’s eyes drifted closed as relief washed over him. A light flush spread across his pale cheeks—the first real color he’d shown since awakening, and perhaps the most beautiful sight Iwaizumi had ever witnessed.
“I feel the same way, Tooru.” The words emerged with quiet certainty, carrying the weight of months of suppressed emotion finally given voice.
“That’s good,” Oikawa whispered, his head settling back against the makeshift pillow as exhaustion and emotional release combined to drag him toward sleep.
“Yeah,” Iwaizumi agreed, his own voice soft with wonder at the simple miracle of mutual feeling acknowledged. “After we get through this, when you’re safe, we’ll figure out what it means. So you’d better hang in there.”
The promise hung between them—not just to survive the immediate danger, but to explore what lay beyond their careful boundaries once safety allowed for such luxuries.
Iwaizumi touched his forehead again. “Not at Kantei, definitely not at a hospital. When this is over, let’s meet up and talk about this thing we have.”
Oikawa’s nod was barely perceptible, but his smile was radiant despite his exhaustion. Some part of him whispered that nothing was ever that simple in their world, but for now, in this stolen moment between crisis and whatever came next, he let himself believe in when instead of if.
“It’s a date then.”
Notes:
They finally confessed!!
I'm having so much fun with this AU that I started re-writing Daichi and Suga's backstory ^^ Check out Caught in the Crossfire, which is Hellbound's unofficial prequel. Mainly focusing on Daichi and Suga's backstory, but it has lots of elements mentioned in Hellbound like Kuroo before he is commander, Daichi still in Koanchosa, Sugawara before he became Kantei's liaison officer, you name it. Have funnn :D
Chapter Text
Present time, the contact – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital, basement level
Kageyama ran.
Every muscle burned, lungs rasping against the cold air as he flew up the stairwell two, three steps at a time. His comm buzzed incessantly—Bokuto reporting positions, Nishinoya calling surveillance updates, command feeding him intel—but it all dissolved into static against the pounding in his ears. All that mattered was the signal, the thin, stuttering beep in his earpiece, dragging him forward.
The tracker screamed as he hit the last corner.
“Thermal reading—two, right ahead!” Nishinoya’s voice cut through the haze.
Kageyama’s gun was already up, his stance textbook-perfect.
“Stop right there!”
The corridor froze.
At the far end, a man—unknown, untagged—halted mid-stride. In his arms, a body Kageyama knew even before the tracker confirmed: Oikawa Tooru, ghost-pale and slicked with blood, head lolling against the stranger’s chest.
Kageyama advanced, each step coiled with the tension of a spring ready to snap. Intel was clear: the enemy wanted whatever Oikawa knew, and anyone could be the hand to take him.
“I’m unarmed—”
“Stay where you are!” Kageyama’s voice cracked like a whip, gun cocking with a mechanical click that echoed off the walls. The man stopped but pivoted just enough to shield Oikawa, turning his own body between Kageyama and the agent in his arms. Blood had seeped through the white coat, streaking his sleeves, tacky where it clung.
“He’s gravely injured,” the man said, voice taut with urgency. “He needs a trauma surgeon—now.”
Kageyama didn’t lower his aim. He squeezed the trigger once—a warning shot. The suppressed round punched into the wall behind the man, leaving only a sharp thud and the lingering stench of burned propellant.
“—Move another inch and the next one won’t miss.”
The man froze, breath hitching, but his grip on Oikawa only tightened.
“Put him down and step away!” Kageyama barked, already thumbing his comm. “I have eyes on the target. Extraction underway.”
“No.” The single word cut through like a blade, unexpected and vehement. “You’re not taking him—not like this. He’s dying. Unless we get him upstairs, he won’t make it.”
Kageyama adjusted his aim by a hair, reading the minute tremors in the man’s stance: the locked jaw, the tremble in the arm supporting Oikawa’s weight, the subtle shift of his feet like he was ready to run or, if pushed, shield the wounded man with his own body.
“I said step away!”
“Not until you tell me who the hell you are!”
Neither moved. Oikawa stirred weakly, a broken sound escaping his lips. His blood-slicked fingers twitched against the man’s coat before going slack again, his breath hitching into a shallow, wet gasp. Both men flinched, their standoff momentarily cracking under the reality of how little time was left.
Oikawa is visibly slipping in and out of consciousness. Kageyama can see his senior is wrapped in a medical white coat, although it does very little to hide the blood stains that soaked through. Even without a medical background, Kageyama knows that that amount of bleeding is lethal.
Kageyama’s mind calculated angles, trajectories, probabilities—but the man’s reaction to the shot still gnawed at him. The flinch wasn’t tactical; it was visceral, untrained. Not an enemy, then. Maybe.
“Listen,” the man said, voice trembling but pitched with unyielding resolve. “I’m a doctor. I found him in the morgue. I’ve done what I can, but it’s not enough. I don’t care if you’re Koanchosa or their enemy—”
Kageyama’s trigger finger tensed. He knows.
“—If you want him to survive this, you let me take him upstairs. Now.”
The beeping of the tracker spiked again, frantic as a heartbeat.
Kageyama’s aim never wavered. “Put him down, or I’ll shoot.”
30 minutes before contact – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital, the morgue
The morgue’s fluorescent lights cast everything in stark white, making the stainless steel surfaces gleam like surgical instruments. The familiar scent of formaldehyde couldn’t quite mask the metallic tang of fresh blood that had been seeping steadily from Oikawa’s makeshift bandages for the past hours.
Iwaizumi looked up from his notes—vitals that should have stabilized by now but kept declining despite everything he’d done—and found Oikawa’s eyes closed again. His head was listing to one side, chin dropping toward his chest as consciousness slipped away like water through his fingers.
“Oikawa.”
No response.
Iwaizumi’s pulse quickened as he approached the metal examination table he’d converted into a surgical bed. The IV line he’d rigged was still flowing, but Oikawa’s skin had taken on a grayish pallor that made something cold settle in Iwaizumi’s chest.
“Tooru!” He grasped Oikawa’s shoulder—clammy skin, too cool—and shook him gently.
Oikawa jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath, his body immediately tensing as the movement sent fire through his wounds. A hiss escaped through clenched teeth, his hand instinctively moving to press against his bandaged side.
“Don’t drift away now,” Iwaizumi said, trying to keep the growing panic out of his voice. His fingers found Oikawa’s pulse point—thready, irregular, getting worse. “I don’t think I can revive you if you lose consciousness again.”
The honesty of the admission hung heavy in the air. Iwaizumi had done everything he could with the resources available, but this was beyond his expertise. Beyond what a morgue could provide.
Oikawa groaned, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep and exhausted. “I’m trying.”
“Don’t try. Do.” The words came out sharper than Iwaizumi intended, but desperation was making his voice tight. They were both running on fumes, and he was watching Oikawa slip away despite everything. “Is there anyone I can call, or—”
“No.” Oikawa’s interruption was immediate, reflexive. He struggled to push himself upright on the metal table, his movements shaky and uncoordinated. The effort made the stitches under his bandages twinge, but he persisted with the stubborn determination that Iwaizumi knew so well and usually admired.
Right now, it was going to get him killed.
“No. This is a very sensitive case, and it’s falling apart.” Oikawa’s breathing was labored, each word requiring visible effort. “I can’t involve anyone else in this mess. I’m conflicted enough that you’re here, so please… let’s just wait for the Koanchosa response team. They should be looking for me anyway.”
Iwaizumi cursed under his breath, not bothering to hide his frustration. The sound echoed off the tile walls, harsh and immediate.
“You need proper medical attention.” He gestured at the improvised medical setup around them—borrowed equipment, insufficient supplies, everything held together with hope and gauze. “I only patched you up. You shouldn’t even be conscious right now, let alone trying to make tactical decisions.”
“What I need is to get back to headquarters,” Oikawa insisted, but his voice cracked on the words. He tried to swing his legs over the side of the table, and the movement sent a visible wave of pain through him that left him gasping.
“So you can bleed to death there?” Iwaizumi caught Oikawa’s arm, steadying him before he could fall. “Such flawless logic you have.”
“I can’t involve you any more than you are now!” The words came out raw, desperate. Oikawa’s eyes—usually so controlled, so calculating—were wide with something that looked like terror. Not of dying, Iwaizumi realized, but of something worse. “If they find you here, if they trace this back to you—”
“I’m already involved, Oikawa, whether you like it or not!” Iwaizumi’s training warred with his heart, and for once, his heart was winning. “Now you can have me as dead weight, or you can let me help—”
“Stop making this harder than it already is.”
The plea came out as barely more than a whisper, Oikawa’s voice broken and wheezing. His eyes glared with fury—or maybe that was just the fever starting to set in—but there were tears threatening at the corners. He folded forward slightly, one hand clutching at his wounds, the other gripping the edge of the metal table until his knuckles went white.
“I’m not involving another non-Koanchosa personnel in this, Hajime! That is not a discussion!”
The use of his given name hit different now—not intimate like it had been before when they'd finally confessed their feelings, but desperate. A plea wrapped in an order.
Normally, the slightest sign of Oikawa’s pain would be enough to make Iwaizumi back down. He’d learned to read the subtle tells, the way Oikawa’s jaw tightened when he was pushing through discomfort, the careful way he moved when something hurt. But now his medical training was screaming louder than his personal feelings, and every instinct he’d honed through years of emergency medicine was telling him that Oikawa’s condition was worsening.
The blood loss was too significant. The deterioration is too rapid. Something was wrong beyond what he could see.
“No more non-Koanchosa personnel, huh?” Iwaizumi murmured to himself, the words barely audible over the hum of the morgue’s ventilation system.
He reached for his phone while Oikawa was doubled over, too consumed by pain to notice the movement. His hands were steadier than he felt as he scrolled through contacts, stopping at a name he’d hoped never to need for something like this.
For the first time in his life, Iwaizumi was genuinely thankful that his father was the prime minister.
20 minutes before contact – Kantei, crisis center
The corridors of Kantei’s official residence hummed with controlled tension. Security personnel moved with purposeful urgency, their footsteps echoing off polished floors that usually hosted diplomatic ceremonies. Tonight, those same halls buzzed with encrypted radio chatter and the soft beeping of monitoring equipment hastily installed at strategic checkpoints.
Daichi paused outside the Prime Minister’s private office, adjusting his earpiece as another status update crackled through. Three hours since the lockdown began. Three hours since Koanchosa had identified a potential security breach that could compromise archived intelligence dating back decades. The diplomatic dinner downstairs sat frozen in time—abandoned wine glasses and half-finished courses on tables draped in formal linens, while international guests waited in secured rooms for the all-clear.
“Alright, keep me posted,” Kuroo’s voice carried across the hallway, strained with the particular exhaustion that came from coordinating a crisis remotely. He stood near a temporary command station they’d set up in the residence’s secure communications room, surrounded by laptops displaying real-time intelligence feeds.
Kuroo ran a hand through his hair as he walked down the hallway, only stopping by Daichi’s side.
“I need to get back to headquarters, coordinate the search properly. Can’t run this from a government residence.”
“Sugawara’s making progress with the threat assessment,” Daichi offered, nodding toward where the liaison officer was engaged in intense discussion with security heads near the main entrance. “Should have clearance to lift the lockdown soon.”
“Looking forward to it,” Kuroo said as he stretched his back.
Daichi moved between the command station and the Prime Minister’s family quarters, a familiar dance he’d perfected over a year of protective service.
His phone buzzed against his chest.
Daichi almost ignored it. During active security situations, personal communications took a backseat to operational necessities. The comm units were for official business; everything else could wait.
But this wasn’t his personal phone. This was the secure device he carried exclusively for Iwaizumi—their lifeline during the hours when physical protection wasn’t possible, their compromise between safety and independence.
Daichi pulled the phone from his jacket, expecting a routine check-in. Or Iwaizumi asking about pickup timing.
Instead, the message that appeared made his blood run cold.
He is in my hospital.
Daichi does not know why nor how, but in the context of a Kantei lockdown and an ongoing security breach, there was only one person Iwaizumi could refer to.
Then, seconds later:
Medical emergency. Not mine. Please hurry.
Daichi’s eyes found Kuroo across the command station, still focused on search coordinates and radio frequencies. Still looking for an agent who, according to Iwaizumi, wasn’t missing at all.
He was dying in a hospital morgue.
“Kuroo,” Daichi’s voice cut through the ambient chatter with an authority he hadn’t used in years. “I found him.”
15 minutes before contact – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital, the morgue
Iwaizumi nervously glanced at his phone. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes since he’d sent that text to Daichi, and still nothing. The screen remained stubbornly dark, no reassuring response, no indication that help was coming.
His thumb hovered over the power button, checking for the hundredth time that the volume was up, that the signal was strong. Everything was fine with the phone. The problem was that every second of silence felt like another step closer to losing Oikawa entirely.
The morgue’s ventilation system hummed overhead, the only sound in the sterile space besides Oikawa’s increasingly labored breathing. Iwaizumi had no idea what kind of world Oikawa really operated in—maybe it wasn’t an exaggeration when he insisted that no one could be involved. Maybe Iwaizumi had just signed someone else’s death warrant by reaching out.
But as a doctor, sworn to do no harm, it was agony to stand idle while the man he loved bled out on a metal table.
“This is taking too long,” he muttered, setting the phone down with more force than necessary. The sound echoed off the tile walls.
He’d had enough of waiting. His hand moved toward his pager—the hospital’s emergency system that would bring a trauma team running within minutes. Protocol could go to hell. Oikawa’s life was worth more than—
“I-Iwa—”
The voice was so weak, so broken, that Iwaizumi almost missed it. He spun around, abandoning all thoughts of the pager.
Oikawa was struggling to lift his head, one hand pressed against his wound, the other shielding his eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights. His skin had gone from gray to an alarming waxy pallor, and there was fresh blood seeping between his fingers.
“Iwa—I,” Oikawa’s voice fractured around the syllables. “I’m—bleeding again and... it hurts—”
The last word came out as barely more than a whisper, and Iwaizumi was moving before his mind fully processed what he was seeing. He dropped to Oikawa’s side, his hands immediately going to assess the situation.
“This isn’t right,” he breathed, pulling back the white coat he’d wrapped around Oikawa’s torso. The fabric was soaked through, warm and sticky against his fingers.
With practiced efficiency, he lifted Oikawa’s shirt. The bandages he’d applied so carefully—professional work, emergency field medicine at its finest—were completely saturated. Dark red had seeped through every layer, and the bleeding was active, pulsing with each heartbeat.
“I did everything—the whole emergency procedure.” His voice cracked with frustration and growing panic. “This should not be happening.”
It defied every principle of emergency medicine he knew. The wounds hadn’t been that deep. He’d controlled the bleeding, sutured the worst of the damage, and applied pressure dressings that should have held. But somehow, impossibly, Oikawa was bleeding as if the wounds were fresh.
“Everything is... so hazy,” Oikawa murmured, his voice a threadbare echo of its usual confident timber.
The contrast was stark—Iwaizumi’s mounting panic versus Oikawa’s drifting consciousness. Where Iwaizumi’s movements were becoming sharp and urgent, Oikawa seemed to be sinking deeper into himself, his responses slower with each passing moment.
“It’s going to be alright, Tooru.” The given name slipped out naturally, carrying all the weight of their recent confession. Iwaizumi’s hands were already reaching for his medical kit, muscle memory taking over. “I must have missed something. Let go of your grip and let me see—”
But Oikawa’s hand was already falling away from his side, not in compliance but in defeat. His breathing grew more paced, shallow, each exhale a visible effort. The strength he’d been clinging to was simply... leaving.
“Stay with me, Tooru. I need you to stay with me.” It wasn’t a request—it was an order, delivered with all the authority Iwaizumi could muster. But his hands hesitated over the blood-soaked bandages.
The wound needed pressure. The bandages provided that. But if he was still bleeding through them, what was the point? What was he missing?
“What the fuck,” he cursed under his breath, his mind racing through every possible medical scenario. Arterial damage he’d missed. Coagulation disorders. Internal bleeding from organs he couldn’t see.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Oikawa’s question came between increasingly labored breaths, each word requiring visible effort.
“Don’t talk. I need to concentrate.” Iwaizumi’s response came out harsher than he intended, fear making his voice sharp. “Tell me exactly what happened. Every detail.”
Oikawa’s attempt at a shrug sent a visible wave of pain through him, followed by a low groan. “I was... chased through half of Shibuya. Shot at—missed me by inches. Almost got run down by a van near the station.” His breathing was getting more ragged. “Then the knife attack in the alley. Three guys, maybe four. Professional work.”
Professional. That word stuck with Iwaizumi as he continued his examination, probing gently around the wound edges. The cuts were clean, precise. Not the jagged tears of a street fight, but something more deliberate.
“The knives,” Iwaizumi said suddenly. “Tell me about the knives. What did they look like? How did they feel?”
Oikawa’s brow furrowed in concentration, the effort of remembering clearly taxing. “Cold. Colder than... than normal metal should be. And there was something... something about the way they cut.”
Iwaizumi’s hands stilled over the bandages as a horrible thought began to form. What if this wasn’t a failure of his medical skills? What if the weapons themselves were the problem?
“Do you have any pre-existing conditions?” he asked urgently, even as he knew the answer. “Anemia? Blood-thinning medications? Anything that could cause excessive bleeding?”
But when he looked up for Oikawa’s response, his question died in his throat.
Oikawa’s eyes had closed, his head falling back against the metal table with a soft sound that seemed to echo in the quiet morgue. His chest still moved with shallow, irregular breaths, but the fight had gone out of him entirely.
“No.” The word came out as a whisper, then louder. “No, you don’t get to do this.”
Iwaizumi’s hands moved to Oikawa’s throat, finding a pulse that was too fast, too weak. His skin was cold and clammy, the unmistakable signs of shock setting in.
Iwaizumi looked at his phone one more time—still nothing from Daichi. Then at the pager on his belt. Then, at the man he’d just found the courage to love, who was dying in front of him despite everything he’d done to save him.
The decision made itself.
He scooped Oikawa into his arms, surprised at how light he felt, how fragile. The white coat fell away, leaving trails of blood on the metal table, but Iwaizumi didn’t care about cleanup anymore.
All that mattered was getting Tooru upstairs to the trauma bay before it was too late.
Before he lost him entirely.
10 minutes before contact – Koanchosa headquarters
The feed was short, a single drop in an endless ocean—but the ripples tore through the Koanchosa command center like an electric shock.
I have him, trace the signal.
Kuroo’s voice carried the weight of finality. No one asked questions. They didn’t have the time, and the stakes were already seared into their nerves.
Kageyama bolted from his station, comm crackling in his ear, his sidearm already drawn. Clear the path. Secure the asset. His footsteps pounded against the concrete, the sharp tang of adrenaline biting the back of his throat.
Bokuto was a breath behind him, the guttural roar of the escape vehicle echoing through the underground garage. Special ops flanked him, rifles ready, their movements a blur of precision and muscle memory.
Back at headquarters, Nishinoya commanded the flow of chaos, every nerve in his body wired into the console. His fingers flew across the interface, the bluish glow of screens painting his face in sharp relief. Lines of data streamed faster than he could blink—enemy tracking, satellite feedback, and real-time surveillance snapping into place.
“Routes locked. Surveillance online. Extraction corridor green,” Nishinoya barked, pulse hammering in his ears. The command center buzzed with the constant hum of machines and the clipped staccato of orders flying across channels.
Ping.
The sharp tone cut through the din like a gunshot. A confirmation blinked in the corner of his screen: TARGET LOCATED.
Nishinoya snatched his mic, voice steady despite the rush of heat flooding his veins.
“I have Oikawa’s location,” he announced, each syllable clipped with urgency. “Broadcasting to all units. Stand by for live feed.”
Present time, the contact – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital, basement level
Never once in his life had Iwaizumi thought that he’d have a gun aimed towards him, not even after his father’s exponential career growth. His father believes differently, which is why the prime minister had extra security measures installed around the hospital perimeter. However, the circumstances they face now are not ones either of them ever imagined.
The barrel of the gun trembled in Kageyama’s grip, the faint click of the safety echoing off the concrete walls. Sweat prickled down Iwaizumi’s spine, but he couldn’t tell if the tremor he saw belonged to the weapon or the edges of his own vision, tunnelling under exhaustion and adrenaline crash.
“You think I’m bluffing?” Kageyama’s voice cracked through the charged air.
Iwaizumi’s throat felt scraped raw. He met Kageyama’s gaze, blood pounding in his ears, his body running on nothing but desperation and the acrid taste of fear.
“No. But you don’t get it.”
He probably shouldn’t have argued with the man holding a gun towards him at point-blank range, but he did, regardless. Because nothing else mattered except the wounded man in his arms.
“You need Oikawa Tooru alive, regardless of which side you’re on. And unless he gets proper medical attention, it’s only wishful thinking.”
Hesitation flickered in the young agent’s eyes. He saw Oikawa being carried in Iwaizumi’s arms, one arm beneath the bend of his knees and the other firmly around his back. Oikawa’s body curled instinctively into the doctor’s chest, head resting against his chin as Iwaizumi held him close. The position did nothing to hide the blood stain pooling around Oikawa’s abdomen and staining across his chest. His limbs hung softly, swaying with every fumble of Iwaizumi’s effort to hold him up.
He's dying. And the doctor is trying to save him.
But before Kageyama could respond, Iwaizumi’s body betrayed him first. His arms buckled, muscles screaming from holding Oikawa’s deadweight for too long, but it was his heart that gave out first—the crushing weight of watching Oikawa slip away in real-time, of promises made in desperate whispers that were already turning to ash. His grip slipped, and Oikawa’s weight shifted suddenly in his arms.
“No—!” Iwaizumi’s voice cracked, panicked, as he twisted his body, dragging Oikawa tighter against his chest. He staggered backward, spine slamming the wall, then slid down it in a desperate, graceless collapse. They landed hard, the impact jolting through them both.
Oikawa’s breath grew shallower, rattling in his chest like something breaking apart from the inside. The faint pulse at his neck fluttered erratically, each beat slipping closer to silence. Time was bleeding out with him, and Iwaizumi could feel every second like a knife.
Oikawa lay sprawled across Iwaizumi’s lap, his body jostled by the fall. His breath hitched sharply, a guttural whimper breaking free as fresh agony rippled through his injured body. His head lolled against Iwaizumi’s shoulder, but nothing more. Iwaizumi held him tighter, arms trembling violently but unyielding, his own heartbeat crashing in his ears.
“I’ve got you, Tooru. I’ve got you—” Iwaizumi clung to him like a lifeline, his voice shaking with the kind of terror that came from watching your world collapse in real-time. Every tremor of Oikawa’s pain clawed deeper into him, the crushing fear that even a moment’s weakness might cost him everything.
“Hang in there, alright? Just… hold on.”
Iwaizumi forced his breathing to steady—old med school training warring with panic—locking one arm around Oikawa’s back to keep him from slipping. He shifted his grip, freeing one hand to check the bleeding. It was still there, hadn’t stopped when it should have, and nothing he’d learned about wound care explained why. Fear spiked sharp and cold in his gut, the kind of terror that came from being out of his depth. He kept his face close, forehead nearly brushing Oikawa’s temple, watching every flicker of pain across his face, every stuttering breath.
“Stay with me now,” Iwaizumi said, summoning the clinical calm that had carried him through residency, but the desperation bleeding through his voice told a different story entirely.
He tightened the makeshift bandage with trembling fingers, hoping muscle memory could compensate for the panic threatening to overwhelm him.
“We’re going to get help, alright? Hold on to me, I’ll get you out of here.”
Through the corner of his eye, Iwaizumi caught Kageyama still aiming his gun at him, and something inside him snapped completely.
“What part of medical emergency do you not get?!” Iwaizumi screamed. The words tore from his throat, raw and ragged.
“Who are you?” Kageyama demanded, voice tight with suspicion. “How do you know who he is?”
Iwaizumi could only see red—furious at the absurdity, the helplessness, the way bureaucracy and protocol were stealing precious seconds while Oikawa bled out in his arms.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor, each one reverberating in Iwaizumi's skull like thunder.
“Iwaizumi-san!”
Daichi’s voice cut through the haze. Iwaizumi’s head jerked toward the sound, ignoring the weapon still aimed at him. For a split second, relief flickered in his chest—then reality surged back, ice-cold: Oikawa was slipping further away with each labored breath.
Daichi rounded the corner, gun drawn, and his eyes widened—not in surprise, but in grim recognition. His gaze softened as he took in the scene—the way Iwaizumi held Oikawa, the desperation in his eyes. A flicker of understanding passed between them, silent but unmistakable. Daichi recognized what he was seeing because he’d lived it himself.
This wasn’t just a doctor trying to save a life. This was a man holding someone he couldn’t bear to lose.
Kageyama’s gaze darted between them, shock etching sharp lines into his face.
Iwaizumi? As in Prime Minister Iwaizumi?
“I found them, Kuroo,” Daichi reported to his comm. “Now, tell your boy here to stand down.”
“Kageyama. Stand down. They’re with us,” Kuroo’s voice snapped over communications.
The agent hesitated. He does not trust the man holding his barely conscious senior, but he heard the commander. Kageyama lowered his weapon, following Daichi’s lead as he rushed to Oikawa’s side. He froze under Iwaizumi’s searing glare.
“You wasted time, asshole,” Iwaizumi rasped, his voice shaking with exhaustion and fury. “Precious time. It’s like you wanted him to die.”
Kageyama’s jaw clenched. He bit back the retort clawing at his throat, unable to look away from Oikawa’s pallid face and the dark bloom of blood soaking his clothes.
The doctor is right. They had wasted time—whether they planned to get help or evacuate, with an injury to this extent, every second is crucial.
Daichi crouched beside them, the metallic tang of blood filling his nostrils, sharper and more abundant than any normal wound should produce.
“Good lord,” he breathed, understanding immediately why Iwaizumi looked like he was watching the world end.
“We need to get him into surgery,” Iwaizumi barked, slipping back into medical authority because it was the only thing keeping him functional. “Right now.”
Daichi’s mind raced—protocol versus instinct, logic wrestling with terror he recognized in Iwaizumi’s eyes. Every second lost to debate was a second Oikawa might not survive. But moving him now felt like gambling with a loaded gun.
“No,” Daichi said, voice even but softened by the weight of hard-earned wisdom. “Agent Kageyama. Extraction plan?”
Kageyama swallowed hard. “Infirmary’s prepped and on standby. Bokuto is one minute out with the escape vehicle. We move now.”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Iwaizumi’s voice tore down the corridor, raw and desperate. “He’s circling the drain, and you want to drag him to hell knows where?! His vitals can’t take that! You might as well pull the trigger now and put him out of his misery!”
Iwaizumi clung tighter, knuckles white against Oikawa’s back, breath rasping like sandpaper. His chin rested firm on Oikawa’s temple, keeping him close, keeping him warm. Keeping him here.
“You annoying shits have no idea how life-threatening his situation is! You all keep whining about needing him alive, but apparently, I’m the only one trying to keep him that way!”
Kageyama hesitated, orders warring with the plea in Iwaizumi’s cracked voice. Daichi, steady as bedrock, laid a firm hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his voice gentler than Iwaizumi had ever heard it. It was the tone of someone who understood loving against impossible odds.
“Hajime,” Daichi said, deliberately using his first name, quiet enough to cut through the noise and reach the man behind the panic. “I can see that this is important to you. But a civilian hospital will expose him. And if things haven’t changed, there are people out there—dangerous people—still hunting him. This may sound illogical to you, but getting Oikawa back to headquarters is our safest bet. Please. Trust us.”
Iwaizumi’s breath came in uneven gasps, his gaze unfocused, lost somewhere between medical training and personal terror. The world had collapsed to the shaky rise and fall of Oikawa’s chest against his own, the only proof that they hadn’t lost everything yet.
Daichi’s hand tightened, grounding him with shared understanding. “Please, Hajime. Bringing Oikawa to a civilian facility will put him in danger.”
And it’s going to put you in danger too, Daichi would have added—but he knew Iwaizumi was not interested in his own safety. The way he held Oikawa, the desperation in his touch, told Daichi everything he needed to know about where priorities lay. From body language alone, Daichi could see this was more than a professional obligation—this was the kind of connection that made men do impossible things.
Daichi glanced at Oikawa's ashen face before returning his attention to Iwaizumi, who refused to look away from the man in his arms.
“I have a feeling you’d want to keep him safe above all else.”
Iwaizumi’s rapid breathing slowed slightly, but his grip on Oikawa never loosened, as if letting go would mean losing him forever.
And maybe it did.
“Please let us handle this,” Daichi said earnestly.
In the next second, another figure appeared at the far end of the basement corridor. Iwaizumi barely registered the interruption, his entire world narrowed down to monitoring Oikawa’s pulse, his breathing, the barely perceptible signs that he was still fighting.
“Wait, Bokuto-san,” Iwaizumi heard Kageyama say in the background. The rescue team was here, which meant decision time, and Iwaizumi unconsciously held Oikawa tighter against the inevitability.
Something fractured behind Iwaizumi’s eyes—the last wall between professional composure and personal terror finally crumbling under the pressure of what he was about to lose. He bowed his head until his forehead pressed against Oikawa's, eyes squeezed shut against the fluorescent glare and the impossible choice bearing down on him.
“I can do more,” Iwaizumi whispered, voice breaking on the words. “I want to do more. For him. I’ll do anything.”
“I know you would,” Daichi said quietly, recognition heavy in his voice. “And you’ve done everything you could. Now let us carry him the rest of the way.”
Silence thickened around them, broken only by Oikawa’s rasping breaths and the distant crackle of comm dispatches coordinating their extraction.
Then, Iwaizumi cursed in defeat—a broken sound that held years of careful control finally giving way. He bit his lower lip, almost in disbelief that he was about to let go, eyes slowly turning glassy with the kind of tears that came from watching your heart walk away.
“It’s not a normal stab wound,” Iwaizumi told Kageyama and Bokuto without sparing them a glance, his voice taking on the clinical precision that was his only anchor. “I did emergency procedures, but it started bleeding again. Something’s wrong with the weapon.” His hands moved with practiced efficiency, readying the makeshift pressure bandages for transport. “Look for foreign substances, delayed-action toxins, anything that would prevent normal clotting.”
“Understood,” Kageyama and Bokuto said in unison.
Iwaizumi went through Oikawa’s vitals one last time, muscle memory carrying him through the assessment. He reached for Oikawa’s face, checking his pulse at the carotid artery—weak and thready, but still there. Under his touch, Oikawa felt cold, nothing like the warmth Iwaizumi remembered from stolen nights in anonymous hotel rooms, when they’d been tangled together and hidden from a world that would never understand.
The contrast hit him like a physical blow—how alive Oikawa had felt just days ago when they’d held each other in the dark, and how fragile he seemed now, slipping away despite everything Iwaizumi had tried to do.
His chest constricted around the uneven rise and fall of Oikawa’s breathing, terror clawing up his throat with fresh intensity. His arms shook from more than exhaustion now; they trembled with the unbearable fear of letting go, of trusting someone else with the only thing that mattered.
“Hold on... please,” he rasped, shifting one arm from Oikawa’s back. His calloused palm cradled Oikawa’s jaw, thumb brushing the clammy skin in a desperate caress. The rest of the corridor dissolved into white noise. Time stretched, unbearably thin.
Iwaizumi lowered his forehead to Oikawa’s for a heartbeat, fighting the tremor in his breath, gathering the courage for what he knew would be goodbye. Then he tilted his head and pressed his lips to Oikawa’s.
The kiss tasted of copper and fear, of promises they’d never get to keep, of conversations that would now remain forever unfinished. Oikawa’s lips were cold, too cold, but still soft under his. Iwaizumi could taste his own tears—salt mixing with the metallic tang of blood, desperation flavored with the bitter certainty that this might be the last time.
It was unsteady, torn between tenderness and terror, a silent plea and a breaking confession all at once. For a moment that lasted forever, the world beyond them ceased to exist—no agents, no protocols, no consequences. Just Iwaizumi pouring everything he couldn’t say into the space between their lips, a desperate vow made on the edge of losing everything.
He lingered, unwilling to part, memorizing the feel of Oikawa’s breath against his lips, then drew back just enough to whisper against his mouth, thumb tracing one last, shaky path along his cheek.
“We were going to talk about this, remember?” The words came out broken, barely audible. “We were going to figure it out.”
Iwaizumi understood the consequences—the risks that came from having their relationship exposed to Koanchosa agents, the political implications, the way this single gesture would change everything. Yet here, in the cold concrete corridor with witnesses watching, he’d laid bare everything with that one trembling press of lips. It was a silent vow made on the edge of losing everything, a desperate promise made in the face of chaos, a reckless surrender to love when love was all he had left to give.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The Koanchosa agents froze, stunned into silence by the intimacy of the gesture. Kageyama’s breath caught audibly, his tactical training warring with the dawning understanding of what he was witnessing—not just medical care, but something far more personal and dangerous. Bokuto’s confusion shifted to recognition, pieces clicking into place. Even Daichi, who’d remained grounded throughout the crisis, felt the weight of the moment settle like a stone in his chest, remembering his own impossible choices between love and duty.
He pressed his forehead against Oikawa’s one more time, voice breaking as he whispered words meant only for him, “You’re going to be alright. You hear me? You’re going to be alright.”
Iwaizumi didn’t care about their reactions. Because in that moment, losing Oikawa was a terror too great to face alone.
“Alright,” Iwaizumi announced, his voice scraped raw but resolute as he threw stern glances toward Bokuto and Kageyama. “Take him. Before I change my mind.”
The agents shook off their stunned silence, shifting focus back to the extraction with professional efficiency.
Bokuto crouched beside them, turning his back to face Iwaizumi. “Ready.”
With shuddering breath, Iwaizumi began the hardest thing he’d ever done—letting go. He shifted Oikawa forward with infinite care, every movement deliberate and gentle. Kageyama slid in, guiding Oikawa’s upper body while Bokuto hoisted him onto his back with practiced precision. Oikawa groaned faintly as his abdomen pressed against Bokuto’s back, a ghost of pain flickering across his unconscious features.
“Hold his arms steady!” Bokuto barked, and Kageyama clasped Oikawa’s wrists tightly against Bokuto’s chest, creating a secure carry position.
Iwaizumi’s hands hovered for a heartbeat, unwilling to break contact, until Bokuto met his gaze with steady certainty. “We got this, Iwaizumi-san.”
Then Bokuto surged upright and sprinted down the corridor, Oikawa’s weight bouncing against his back as Kageyama ran close behind, one hand pressed against the wound to maintain pressure during transport.
Iwaizumi was left kneeling on cold concrete, arms empty and still shaped around someone who was no longer there. His hands shook with the muscle memory of Oikawa’s weight, his lips still warm from that final kiss, his body refusing to believe what his mind knew—that he’d just watched them carry away a dying man. The blood loss, the location of the wound, the way Oikawa’s breathing had grown shallow and thready in his arms—every clinical detail screamed the same verdict his professional training couldn’t ignore.
They were racing toward an operating room with a ghost.
The corridor felt cavernous now, too quiet, filled only with the distant echo of running footsteps carrying away someone who might already be gone. And Iwaizumi could only kneel there in the aftermath, staring at his blood-stained hands, knowing that even if some miracle defied every medical certainty he possessed, even if Oikawa somehow survived what should kill him—the conversation they’d promised each other would never come. The machinery of duty would see to that, assuming there was anything left to protect.
Notes:
FYI: The hallway kiss scene here, the "we shouldn't be seen together but fuck this imma kiss you anyways" scene, is the sole reason why I wrote this espionage AU. Alright, that's all, see you guys next week ♥️
Chapter Text
10 minutes after contact – downtown Tokyo
The escape van rumbled over the broken terrain, sirens fading behind them as the city swallowed the chaos.
The medical scanner pulsed in quiet intervals, a mechanical heartbeat that filled the cramped interior of the vehicle. Oikawa lay strapped to the stretcher between them, his face bloodless, lashes clumped with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest almost too slight to trust. Each bump in the road sent a tremor through his body.
The vehicle jolted over a pothole. Kageyama’s grip on the seat tightened—reflex, not fear, though the tension lingered in his knuckles. He hadn’t spoken since they’d cleared the hospital perimeter—just curt confirmations over comms and the clipped command to the driver to move.
Bokuto watched him from the opposite bench, arms folded but body angled forward, like a man braced for an aftershock.
“You holding up, Kageyama?” he asked, voice pitched low, almost lost under the rumble of the engine.
The younger agent hesitated. His thumb rolled the edge of his glove as if making sure it still fit.
“That doctor… Iwaizumi was his name, right?”
“Yeah,” Bokuto replied, leaning back against the rattling bulkhead, arms folded. His tone was neutral, but his gaze flicked briefly to Oikawa, a shadow of something unreadable passing across his features.
“Iwaizumi… as in Prime Minister Iwaizumi?” Kageyama asked, as if making sure that it wasn’t just a naming coincidence.
A dry chuckle escaped Bokuto—humorless and heavy with the knowledge of exactly how tangled this situation had become
“The one and only,” he confirmed, eyes looking down. “That was his son, Iwaizumi Hajime.”
Kageyama sat back a little, but his brows stayed furrowed, eyes distant and troubled. For a moment, all Kageyama could do was stare at Oikawa’s unconscious face. The van hit another pothole, and Oikawa’s head lolled slightly to one side. Bokuto reached out automatically to steady him, checking the pulse point at his throat—still there, still fighting.
“Oikawa-senpai is not careless,” Kageyama said finally, his voice tight with confusion. “He’s strategic. Everything he does is calculated. I’ve seen him slip through tighter nets than this.” His words faltered, caught somewhere between the agent he’d been trained to be and the human being he couldn’t stop himself from becoming. “So why would he do something so... reckless?”
It wasn’t really a question about tactics or mission protocol. They both knew that. Kageyama was asking about the moment when Iwaizumi had held Oikawa like the world was ending, when he’d kissed him goodbye in front of strangers and enemies alike, when emotions had trumped every rule they’d been taught about operational security.
Bokuto looked at Oikawa then—really looked at him. The man who had always seemed untouchable, who could read a room in seconds and disappear like smoke when he needed to, now reduced to pale skin and shallow breathing. There was something heartbreaking about seeing someone so capable laid this low, but also something almost beautiful about knowing that he hadn’t faced it alone.
“You ever been in love, kid?”
Kageyama didn’t answer right away. His silence lingered long enough to count three more scanner beeps.
“No.”
The admission came quietly, almost lost under the engine noise and the distant sound of the driver talking rapid-fire into his radio.
“Then take it from me—no amount of training covers it. No briefing. There is no protocol for things like this. No clearance level high enough to keep it clean,” Bokuto shifted, a weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s one of the few things that remind us that we are humans. No matter how much training and conditioning. We are humans.”
He gave a small, self-mocking laugh. “Stupid, irrational humans.”
Kageyama’s frown held, but he did not argue.
“He was ready to fight us over Oikawa-senpai,” Kageyama said, the memory playing behind his eyes. “If Sawamura-san hadn’t been there, we would have had to force him off. And even then…”
Even then, Iwaizumi had held on until the last possible second. Kageyama’s gaze dropped to Oikawa’s pale face, the faint sheen of sweat along his hairline. The handprints of dried blood along his cheeks were where Iwaizumi touched him. Kageyama shook his head slowly, voice quieter now, more reflective.
“He held him like nothing else mattered.”
“Maybe nothing else did,” Bokuto said, shrugging lightly. “Things like this… it just happens. It doesn’t wait for the right time or check for the right people. It doesn’t care if you’ve got enemies on every side, or the government breathing down your neck.”
He tapped a knuckle against his knee, the hollow sound almost in rhythm with the engine.
“I’ve seen it wreck people,” Bokuto added softly, thinking of Daichi’s resignation letter, of the choice between duty and love that had torn apart one of the best agents he’d ever worked with. “And I’ve seen it save them, too.”
Kageyama swallowed, his voice quieter now.
“Doesn’t it get in the way? Make the job… harder?”
“Sometimes,” Bokuto admitted. “But sometimes it’s the only thing that pulls you back when you’re too far gone. When the work starts eating you alive from the inside out.” He met Kageyama’s eyes directly. “You think Oikawa would have survived this long in the field if he didn’t have something—someone—worth coming home to?”
The question hit deeper than Kageyama had expected. He’d always seen Oikawa as self-contained, driven by professional pride and natural talent. The idea that vulnerability might actually be a source of strength, that love might make someone more dangerous rather than less, was turning his understanding upside down.
“But he must have known the risk,” Kageyama pressed, still trying to fit this revelation into the framework of logic and strategy he’d been taught to rely on. “Who Iwaizumi is, what it could mean if anyone found out. The political implications alone...”
“They both knew,” Bokuto answered without hesitation, his tone carrying the weight of someone who’d watched good people make hard choices. “They both knew exactly what they were risking.”
“Then why?” The question came out raw, genuinely confused. “Why take that chance?”
Bokuto was quiet for a long moment, listening to the scanner’s steady rhythm, watching the way Kageyama’s hands had gone still as he waited for an answer that might make sense of what he’d witnessed.
“Sometimes being alone is the most dangerous thing of all,” Bokuto said finally. He met Kageyama’s gaze, his tone carrying an edge. “And you national security hotshots don’t usually get that until it’s too late. You’re trained to keep it all locked away where it can’t hurt you. But that just means when you finally break—and everyone breaks eventually—there’s no one there to catch you.”
He leaned back, exhaling slowly.
“Sure, it’d be easier if it were anyone else. Iwaizumi being who he is… that makes everything a hell of a lot more complicated. I’m sure glad it’s Kuroo and Sugawara who’ll have to untangle that mess, not me.”
Kageyama stared at Oikawa’s restrained chest, the faintest rise and fall almost too slow to see.
“I’ve never seen anyone hold someone like that,” Kageyama murmured at last. “Right there in front of all of us. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look around to see who was watching. Like...” He struggled for words that could capture the raw honesty of what he’d witnessed. “Like he’d rather die than pretend it didn’t matter.”
“He was terrified,” Bokuto said simply. “Iwaizumi’s a civilian, no matter who his father is or how steady he was during a crisis. Civilians don’t compartmentalize. Not like we do. Not even the hardened ones. When push comes to shove, they just… react.”
Kageyama’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at the scanner a moment, words slipping out almost unconsciously.
“Kind of makes you wonder if those songs got it right after all.”
The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it did Bokuto—a confession of changing worldview that he hadn’t meant to voice. All those love songs he’d dismissed as sentimental nonsense, all the stories about people doing impossible things for love, throwing away everything that mattered for someone else’s heartbeat.
Bokuto’s chuckle was warm and knowing, tinged with something that might have been nostalgia. “You’re still green, Kageyama. But you’re learning the right things.”
The scanner continued its steady rhythm. Kageyama’s posture eased by a fraction, and his expression had changed—less like an operative trying to log what he’d witnessed, more like a young agent slowly learning what it truly means to be in this field.
They rode the rest of the way in silence, the hum of the engine underscored by that faint, mechanical heartbeat—the kind of silence that left something inside you quietly changed.
2 hours after contact – Koanchosa headquarters, medical bay
“Hell of a mission, huh?”
Kageyama’s shoulders tensed at the voice, but he didn’t turn from where he sat hunched forward in the plastic chair, elbows braced against his knees. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in that particular shade of institutional green that made even healthy people look corpse-pale. His hands wrapped around a plastic cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago, but he kept drinking it anyway—needing something to do with his mouth, something normal after a night that had redefined the word crisis.
The shadow materialized in the empty seat beside him with practiced quiet.
“Sawamura-senpai, was it?”
Daichi settled back, rolling his shoulders to work out the knots that came from hours of crisis management. His jacket still carried the antiseptic smell of the hospital morgue, mixed with something metallic that might have been blood.
“Please, it’s Daichi,” he said, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “And I’m not your senpai, rook. I quit the agency years ago.”
“By that logic, I’m not your rookie, either.” Kageyama finally looked up, and Daichi caught the telltale signs of someone trying to process too much, too fast—the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes seemed to focus on nothing and everything at once. “And I know you quit not long before I was recruited, so it hasn’t been that long. Bokuto-san still takes it personally.”
A genuine laugh escaped Daichi’s chest—rusty but real. He took a sip from his own cup and immediately grimaced. “God, these are still awful.” The coffee tasted like burnt plastic and false comfort, but it was warm and caffeinated, which made it perfect for nights like this.
He handed Kageyama the spare cup he’d carried from the machine at the medical bay break room. “Sorry, this is all I can offer you. At least it’s warm.”
Kageyama stared at the offering for a moment, as if trying to remember what normal human interactions looked like. Then he accepted it with a mumbled thanks that came out more slurred than grateful. The kid was running on fumes and adrenaline—Daichi recognized the signs from his own rookie years, from nights when the job stripped away every assumption you’d held about what you could handle.
They drank in silence, the only sounds the steady hum of the medical wing’s filtration system and the distant murmur of voices behind reinforced doors. Somewhere in those sterile rooms, surgeons worked to save a life that mattered to more people than protocol would ever allow them to acknowledge.
The soft green light above the medical bay door stayed steady. No emergency codes, no alerts. Just waiting.
“Can I ask you something, Daichi-san?” Kageyama’s voice cut through the quiet like he’d been building up to the question for the past hour.
Daichi made a noncommittal sound, watching the way Kageyama’s grip tightened on his cup.
“About the report.” The words came out uncertain, like Kageyama was afraid of what the answer might be. “How do I include… that part?”
There it was—the question Daichi had been expecting since he’d walked into this waiting room. A warm, knowing smile tugged at his lips. This was exactly why he’d sought out the kid, even bone-deep tired and running on three hours of sleep. Fresh agents always struggled with their first real glimpse behind the curtain, the moment when they realized that the people they worked with were achingly, devastatingly human.
“You don’t.”
Kageyama’s head snapped up, surprise written across his features in bold strokes.
“You report the injury, the extraction, and the medical assistance provided by a licensed professional on site,” Daichi continued, his tone matter-of-fact. Professional.
“That’s it?” The disbelief in Kageyama’s voice made him sound even younger than his years.
“That’s enough.” Daichi met his eyes directly, letting him see the certainty there. “You don’t report the things that make people human.”
Kageyama’s teeth bit at his lower lip—a nervous habit that probably dated back to childhood. “Is that not lying in a report?”
“Of course not. You’re reporting the truth, just… not all of it.” Daichi leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice to the tone he’d once used for teaching rookies how to survive their first year. “None of us knows the intimate details of what they are to each other. Putting speculation in a written report will do both of them more harm than good. These are the things you discuss off the record with your commanding officer.” He paused, thinking of Kuroo’s sharp eyes and sharper questions. “But let me handle Kuroo on this one. You just write your report. Focus on what happened, what you did. I’ll take care of the rest.”
The tension in Kageyama’s shoulders eased fractionally. “Thank you, Daichi-san.”
Daichi nodded.
Kageyama then let the silence stretch for a moment before asking, “How is the doctor doing?”
“Shaken, to say the least.” The words came with a heavy sigh. “But holding together better than most civilians I’ve had to handle. I guess that’s a given if you’re an Iwaizumi.”
Kageyama’s next words came slowly, like he was pulling them up from somewhere deep and uncomfortable.
“I can’t get the sight out of my mind. The way he looked at Oikawa-senpai, how he held him.” His hands tightened around the plastic cup until the sides buckled slightly. “Like his world was ending and only Oikawa-senpai could stop it. The ache he felt—I could feel it from across the room.”
Daichi’s voice went quiet, thoughtful. “You don’t choose who you love.”
He stared past the waiting room’s generic artwork, past the motivational posters about safety protocols, seeing instead a morgue transformed into an operating theater and two people finally admitting what everyone around them had already figured out. “Of course, I don’t know the details of their relationship… if love even is in the equation…”
But that was a lie. Daichi had been Iwaizumi’s security detail for almost a year now. At first, Iwaizumi had been just a name on an assignment sheet—the Prime Minister’s son, a forensic pathologist with a stubborn streak and an unfortunate habit of trying to ditch his protection detail. But weeks of shared coffee runs and carefully professional conversations had evolved into something resembling friendship. Daichi had noticed the patterns: the way Iwaizumi’s phone would buzz at odd hours and he’d step away to answer with a smile in his voice, the careful gaps in his schedule that never appeared on any official calendar, the particular brand of restlessness that came from wanting to be somewhere else, with someone else.
Daichi had pieced it together months ago, but he’d never said anything. In their line of work, some secrets were kept not out of malice but out of care—care for the people who needed protecting, care for the things worth preserving in a world that demanded too much sacrifice.
Nobody went to the lengths Iwaizumi had gone to tonight if love wasn’t the driving force. And nobody held someone the way Iwaizumi had held Oikawa unless their heart was completely, irrevocably given.
But some deductions were better kept private.
“My point still stands,” Daichi concluded, his tone suggesting the matter was settled. “Don’t worry too much about it. You’ll understand someday.”
Kageyama nodded slowly, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. Then, quietly, almost afraid to voice the question, “What happens if he doesn’t make it?”
Daichi’s eyes flicked toward the medical bay doors, solid and unyielding, revealing nothing of the battle being fought beyond them. He didn’t answer immediately—couldn’t, really, because the question touched on territory that made even experienced agents uncomfortable.
“He looked like he’d already lost him,” Kageyama continued, his voice barely above a whisper.
The words hit harder than they should have. Daichi exhaled slowly, letting his weight settle back into the uncomfortable chair. “Then we deal with that too. When it comes to it.”
Kageyama glanced at him, seeking reassurance that probably didn’t exist.
“This job asks too much of us sometimes. And if you’re not careful, it takes more than you’re willing to give.” Daichi’s voice carried the weight of personal experience, of choices made and prices paid. “But sometimes… the people we meet along the way give some of it back.”
The green light above the door flickered once—just a momentary electrical hiccup that made both men’s attention snap toward it like a lifeline. But it was only a nurse stepping out quietly, clipboard in hand, walking past without acknowledgment or news.
Still nothing.
“I was in Oikawa’s place once,” Daichi said, the admission coming easier than he’d expected. “Not the same stakes, but I know how hard it is to hold someone dear when your life isn’t built to allow it.”
He looked back toward the ward, seeing past the institutional walls to memories of his own desperate choices. “You learn to live with the decisions you make. Not always the consequences, but the decisions themselves.”
Kageyama sat quietly beside him, steadier now, the coffee cooling between his palms like a small anchor to normalcy. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a new understanding. “Thank you, Daichi-san… I think I understand a little better now.”
“We look out for our own, Kageyama. You’re growing into the kind of agent we actually need—one who remembers that the people we protect are human. Don’t lose that.”
They fell into comfortable silence, side by side in the fluorescent-lit waiting room, watching through reinforced glass as medical professionals worked to save a life that mattered more than any report would ever capture. Tethered by empathy, experience, and something a little more human than duty.
3 days after mission fallout – Koanchosa headquarters, Debriefing Room A
Please state your name and date of birth for the record, the voice from the speakers said.
Iwaizumi gritted his teeth, tired of the nonsense. Three days of bureaucratic theatre and this is the welcome he gets.
“Hajime, Iwaizumi,” he answered without moving from his seat, chair tilted back with his legs crossed and arms folded in front of his chest. His voice came out rougher than intended, scraped raw from sleepless nights and unanswered questions. “Born June 10th. There. Can we skip the rest of the performance?”
Iwaizumi wasn’t usually this confrontational, but being stonewalled after what happened at the hospital, patience felt like a luxury he couldn't afford. Every hour of silence felt like confirmation of his worst fears. The clinical part of his mind, the part that had catalogued Oikawa’s injuries with devastating precision, whispered that three days was already too long to hope.
Iwaizumi was alone in the room, for now, but he knew for certain he was being watched through the one-way window in front of him. The dim, sterile lighting washed everything in sickly yellow. It didn’t feel like protocol. It felt like captivity—or worse, like the waiting room outside a morgue.
Then the door swings open. A tall man with spiky, deep black hair and sharp eyes entered the room.
“Good afternoon, Iwaizumi-san,” he greeted. His polished shoes barely made a sound, but the air shifted as he entered and closed the door behind him. “Thank you for agreeing to today’s meeting.”
The man takes the seat across from him. His every move radiates confidence.
“My name is Kuroo Tetsurou, I’m the current commander of Koanchosa,” the man introduces himself.
Iwaizumi’s hands tightened into fists against his arms.
“Three days.” His voice cracked slightly on the words. “Three days of sitting here while you people won’t tell me if he’s even—” He cut himself off, throat closing around words he couldn’t quite voice. “I came here voluntarily. I answered your calls, I cooperated, and you’ve given me nothing.”
His voice broke entirely. He looked away, hating how desperate he sounded, hating that this stranger was seeing him fall apart. But he was so tired of pretending he wasn’t terrified, so tired of clinical detachment when the only person who mattered might already be gone.
Kuroo’s expression didn’t change. He simply pulled out the chair across from Iwaizumi with deliberate calm, his movements unhurried. “I understand your frustration, Iwaizumi-san. That’s why I’m here.”
The words weren’t the crushing blow Iwaizumi had expected, but they weren’t the reassurance he desperately needed either. He sat up straighter, trying to pull himself together, trying to find the composure that had carried him through medical school and residency and every crisis except this one.
“I feel like I’ve met you before,” Iwaizumi said, his voice steadier now. He sits up straight and observes Kuroo closely.
Kuroo’s eyebrows lift slightly. “I regularly report back to Kantei. Given that you live there, it’s probable that we’ve crossed paths before.”
But Iwaizumi disagreed in silence, his mind reaching back through years of half-remembered faces. Then it clicked—not a governmental meeting, but something more elegant, more deceptive in its civility.
The memory surfaced like a photograph developing in chemicals: several years ago at a black-tie gala in Kantei’s grand ballroom, where crystal chandeliers cast warm light over political dynasties and their carefully orchestrated mingling. Government officials and their families, intelligence operatives disguised as cultural attachés, everyone playing their roles in democracy’s theater.
Iwaizumi remembered it so clearly because that was the first time he’d laid eyes on Oikawa—brilliant and untouchable in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, holding court near the champagne fountain like he owned the room’s gravity. And there had been another man beside him, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, the two of them moving through the crowd with practiced ease, sharing private observations that made Oikawa throw his head back in genuine laughter.
Iwaizumi had waited that night. Waited with his untouched wine growing warm in his palm, watching Oikawa’s mouth curve around words meant for someone else. Twenty-three minutes of watching them orbit each other like binary stars, close enough to share gravity, while Iwaizumi memorized the way lamplight caught in Oikawa’s hair.
When the black-haired man finally stepped away to charm some European diplomat, Iwaizumi had practically crossed the ballroom in six strides.
That conversation had started everything. One exchange that became two, then coffee breaks, then stolen hours between Oikawa’s mysterious work trips that he never quite explained. And now, sitting across from the man who’d unknowingly delayed the most important moment of his life by twenty-three minutes, Iwaizumi felt the cruel poetry of it all.
After years, he finally has a name for that face. Kuroo Tetsurou. Oikawa’s colleague, now commanding officer. His friend. The person who now held both their fates in his hands.
“Probably,” Iwaizumi shrugged, leaning back in his seat.
Kuroo activated the recording device in the center of the table with a soft click, then leaned forward, chin resting on interlaced fingers. “This is a mandatory debriefing since you were involuntarily involved in one of our recent operations. I can assure you there’s nothing to worry about. It’s standard protocol—”
“If it’s standard protocol, why are you handling this yourself, Commander?” Iwaizumi interrupted, noting how Kuroo’s shoulders had tensed almost imperceptibly.
A ghost of a smile touched Kuroo’s lips—appreciation for the observation. “It’s only appropriate for the Prime Minister’s son.”
Iwaizumi had no patience for protocol masquerading as courtesy. The fluorescent bulb overhead buzzed like an insect trapped in amber.
“You are a civilian, Iwaizumi-san, despite your familial ties, and we have strict procedures when civilians become involved in national security incidents.”
But Iwaizumi wasn’t convinced that was the whole truth. Kuroo’s fingers drummed once against the table—a tell so subtle it was almost invisible.
Kuroo launched into his carefully rehearsed briefing: mission parameters, confidentiality agreements, and protection protocols to ensure Iwaizumi couldn’t be traced back to the incident. Iwaizumi nodded mechanically, offering lazy “uh-huhs” and “ah-okays” while his mind remained fixed on one burning question Kuroo hadn’t answered.
“And that concludes our official business,” Kuroo said finally, reaching across to switch off the recording device. The small red light died. He looked up, something shifting in his expression—authority giving way to something more human. “You may now ask your questions.”
Iwaizumi's eyes flicked to the one-way mirror, uncertainty creeping across his features.
“There’s no one on the other side of that wall. The conversation, as of now, will never leave this room,” Kuroo assures, understanding the body language.
“Is that not against protocol?” Iwaizumi asked, one eyebrow arching.
“Let’s just say, I don’t feel like explaining to the Prime Minister how his son and one of my agents became… personally acquainted,” Kuroo said with a shrug that somehow managed to be both casual and weighted with implication.
Personally acquainted was laughably inadequate—Iwaizumi was certain that Daichi, Kageyama, and Bokuto had reported everything.
“However,” Kuroo continued, meeting Iwaizumi's gaze directly, “your father was informed about your involvement in the hospital incident.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Iwaizumi grumbled, eyes rolling. “He always gets too involved in my business.”
“You misunderstand, Iwaizumi-san. The Prime Minister is always briefed on matters of national security. Given how the previous operation unfolded, he was the first to receive the report.” Kuroo’s voice carried the weight of institutional inevitability. “Even if you were just another resident doctor at that hospital, the Prime Minister would know your name.”
“But I’m not just another resident doctor.” The words came out quieter than intended.
“Far from it,” Kuroo agreed, something shifting in the air between them. “You saved a Koanchosa agent’s life.”
The implication hit like a delayed echo, washing over him in waves of desperate hope. Iwaizumi’s breath caught in his throat.
“Oikawa survived?” The question barely made it past his lips, cracked and vulnerable in a way that stripped away every pretense.
“It was a very close call, but yes, he did,” Kuroo confirmed, his eyes turned dark, remembering how close it was.
Iwaizumi exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, air rushing from his lungs like he'd been underwater for three days. His hands trembled slightly where they rested on his thighs.
“The bleeding—you stopped it in time?” The question came out shakier than he intended, medical precision barely masking personal desperation.
“Yes,” Kuroo confirmed. Relief colored Iwaizumi’s expression like a sunrise. “His condition remains critical, but we have our best physicians monitoring his recovery. It’s... difficult to predict at this stage.”
“That’s normal. Give him time,” Iwaizumi said, slipping into the clinical detachment that had carried him through years of med school. “With an injury to that extent, we’re lucky he survived the ordeal.”
“It’s not luck, Iwaizumi-san. It was you.” Kuroo’s voice carried absolute conviction, his hands clenching into fists on the table. “Oikawa held on as long as he did because of your emergency intervention. You gave our medical team a fighting chance to stabilize him.” His gaze turned piercing, earnest. “As Koanchosa’s commanding officer, on behalf of this country, I thank you for your aid during a critical moment.”
Kuroo paused, something more personal flickering in his expression. “I want to thank you personally, as well. Oikawa and I joined the agency together. He’d rather endure hell than admit it, but we’re good friends. Losing him during a mission would devastate me. So thank you, Iwaizumi-san, for everything you did that night. You have my sincere gratitude.”
The raw honesty in Kuroo’s voice caught Iwaizumi off guard, tightening something in his chest.
“I’m a doctor,” Iwaizumi said quietly. “I took an oath.”
“You didn’t save him just because of your oath, did you?” Kuroo asked.
There’s no judgment in his tone—just understanding, maybe even sympathy that came from experience.
Something in Iwaizumi’s chest clenched. He looked away, too quickly, the gesture itself an admission.
“What do you want to hear from me, Commander?” Iwaizumi asked, defeat creeping into his voice like water through cracks. “I know you know. Your agents told you.”
“I know what happened,” Kuroo acknowledged. “But I have no idea how deeply you’re involved with each other. And I do plan to investigate that.”
“Let me guess—it’s dangerous, I’m the Prime Minister’s son, and he’s a national asset. All that political theater, so it’s best if Oikawa and I never see each other again.” The bitterness in his voice could have etched glass.
“You’d be surprised, I don’t have the authority to make that decision,” Kuroo revealed, and something in his tone suggested this frustrated him. “National security agents are, contrary to popular belief, rarely bound by rigid personal restrictions. Their field often requires split-second judgment calls. I’m not interested in what Oikawa Tooru does or does not do in his private life; I only care whether he completes his missions successfully. Whether he maintains distance from you afterward is his choice alone.”
Kuroo took a measured breath, choosing his words with surgical precision. “However, national security agents, especially ones as highly ranked as Oikawa, possess information that people would kill for. Everyone in this field carries at least fragments of intelligence that could get them—and everyone around them—eliminated. The previous operation, for instance, occurred because Oikawa worked on a strictly classified assignment, and our enemies decided extraction would be simpler than breaching Kantei’s archives. Had they discovered your personal connection to him, they would have exploited it without hesitation.”
Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched, the taste of copper filling his mouth as hope curdled into understanding.
“The Prime Minister’s son with romantic ties to a high-value Koanchosa target,” Kuroo continued slowly, each word landing like a nail in a coffin. “The more I voice it aloud, the more grateful I am that the previous mission concluded as it did.”
Much as Iwaizumi despised the conversation and resented the institutional secrecy, he couldn’t deny Kuroo’s logic. They'd been balanced on the edge of a far greater catastrophe—Oikawa’s near-death would have been merely the opening act. He hated admitting it, but his father’s paranoid security measures suddenly seemed less unreasonable.
“Which is why most national security agents prefer to work in isolation,” Kuroo explained, his voice gentling slightly. “They limit their social connections, often dedicating themselves entirely to the work. I’ve known Oikawa for years—worked operations with him, understand his methods better than most in this agency. And knowing him, seeing how this mission unfolded...” Kuroo paused, seeming to weigh his words. “I believe he’ll choose to prioritize your safety over his own wants and needs.”
“He’s always been good at that,” Iwaizumi gave a defeated chuckle that held no humor.
“Prioritizing safety?” Kuroo asked.
“Sacrificing his own wants and needs,” Iwaizumi disagrees, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kuroo didn’t respond immediately. He studied Iwaizumi for a long moment—really observed him. The deflection, the bone-deep exhaustion, the way Iwaizumi’s fingers had gone white where they gripped his thighs.
The commander’s professional facade cracked slightly. His eyes widened as understanding dawned, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more human.
“You love him.”
The words hung in the air like a verdict. Not a question, but a statement delivered with quiet certainty that surprised even Kuroo himself. He’d assumed it was convenience, perhaps attraction, an indulgence between two people in impossible circumstances. But after hearing from his agents—the way Iwaizumi had argued despite being held at gunpoint, the desperate kiss, the way he’d held Oikawa like the world was ending—and seeing Iwaizumi now, stripped of all pretence, Kuroo was certain.
Iwaizumi went completely still. His shoulders tensed, a muscle jumping in his jaw as if he’d been struck. For a moment, his hands pressed flat against his thighs, fingers splaying wide like he was bracing for impact.
“I—” His voice cracked. He stopped, swallowed hard, and looked away toward the one-way mirror as if seeking escape routes that didn’t exist. When he looked back, something in his expression had crumbled.
His mouth opened, closed. No denial came. No deflection. Just the slow, painful recognition of someone who’d been completely seen through, every defence stripped away.
Silence stretches between them, heavy as gravity. Finally, Iwaizumi exhales a bitter laugh.
“What difference does it make?”
Kuroo didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back slightly, offering Iwaizumi space to breathe in the wreckage of his exposure.
Iwaizumi exhaled shakily, staring down at his hands as if they might still be stained with Oikawa’s blood. “He wasn’t supposed to matter this much.”
“It’s always someone who wasn’t supposed to matter,” Kuroo says with a defeated chuckle. He runs a hand across his face, thoughts running wild. His eyes went distant for a moment, and Iwaizumi caught something there—recognition, maybe regret. Someone who’d witnessed this particular tragedy play out in other lives, who understood exactly what it cost to want something you couldn’t protect. “And it always costs more than it should.”
Kuroo cannot help but think that this is Daichi and Sugawara’s case all over again. But at least Daichi wasn’t in national security, and Sugawara wasn’t the Prime Minister’s fucking son, much to Kuroo’s relief. He doesn’t get this luxury now.
“You know we don’t always get to choose who matters,” Kuroo said gently.
Iwaizumi looked away, letting the words settle like sediment in still water.
When Kuroo spoke again, his voice had lost its official edge, becoming softer but no less honest.
“Pushing down personal attachments is an occupational hazard, unfortunately. I cannot say for certain, but given how sophisticated the last attack was, I can easily see Oikawa severing all contact once he recovers.”
Iwaizumi held his breath, his chest acting like he’d been holding it for hours. He wasn’t ready to hear that spoken out loud.
“The enemy from the previous mission is one of the most sophisticated ones we’ve encountered in years. Their leader harbored a personal vendetta against Oikawa; it is probable that their successor still does. And if they ever discovered your connection—” Kuroo couldn’t finish his line of thought. The implication alone was too difficult to stomach. He took a steadying breath and met Iwaizumi’s eyes directly. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Iwaizumi lets out a long breath, some part of him sinking into the chair. His collar suddenly felt too tight around his throat. “Yes.”
“I’m very sorry it’s all came down to this,” Kuroo said, sincere now in a way that no longer sounds like protocol. “Please know that both your safety and Oikawa’s are my primary concerns. I don’t know you personally, Iwaizumi-san, but I know Oikawa. If your safety is important to him, then it is important to me too.”
Iwaizumi blinks. Hearing it said aloud, so plainly, tightens his throat.
He hadn’t come here expecting to be understood. He’d come for answers, for information, for some thread of hope to cling to. Instead, he found himself sitting across from a relative stranger who somehow made it hurt more by naming exactly what he’d tried so hard not to acknowledge.
For three days, Iwaizumi had been fighting the wrong war—raging against silence, against bureaucratic secrecy. But the real enemy had been this: someone finally articulating what he’d felt but couldn’t voice.
“You saved Oikawa because he mattered to you,” Kuroo continued quietly. “And Oikawa chose your hospital because he trusted you, not because it was convenient or strategically optimal. In my line of work, nothing is coincidental. Your feelings are real...” He paused, the weight of institutional reality settling between them like a stone. “But so are the dangers.”
Kuroo held Iwaizumi’s gaze steadily, waiting until their eyes locked completely.
“Oikawa understands this better than most of us in Koanchosa, even if it does not make sense to you right now.”
Iwaizumi hums ambiguously, uncertain how to respond to something like that.
“It’s for your own safety, Iwaizumi-san. The less you’re involved, the better,” Kuroo sounds friendlier now. “It’s deeply unfortunate that you have to cross paths with people like us.”
Iwaizumi lets out a faint snort, the sound hollow in the sterile room. “Unfortunate,” he repeated. The only truly unfortunate thing was falling for someone whose world made goodbyes not just inevitable, but merciful.
“Someone will walk you out shortly,” Kuroo said, rising to his feet. “Take care, Iwaizumi-san.”
As he reached the door, Kuroo looked back at Iwaizumi and said, “Oikawa’s in good hands.”
Iwaizumi didn’t answer. He stared down at his hands—the same hands that had pressed against Oikawa’s wound, that had held his face with desperate tenderness, that had trembled as they’d pulled him back from the edge of death. Now they sat empty in his lap, and he could swear they were still shaking.
The words should have comforted him—Oikawa was alive, stable, being cared for by the best medical team available. Instead, they landed like a locked door, final and irreversible. He could still feel the phantom sensation of Oikawa’s skin under his palms, the warmth that was already becoming nothing more than memory.
Love was never the danger, Iwaizumi realized with crystalline clarity. Wanting more of it was. The worst part wasn’t losing Oikawa—it was that Oikawa would choose to be lost, would disappear himself to keep Iwaizumi safe. Love as erasure. Protection as abandonment.
And Iwaizumi could only sit there in the humming fluorescent silence, staring at his empty hands, knowing they would never hold the one person who mattered most ever again.
10 minutes after debriefing – downtown Tokyo
The ride from Koanchosa headquarters was suffocating in its silence, city lights sliding across the windshield in fractured streaks that made Iwaizumi's eyes water. Or maybe that was something else entirely. He sat rigid in the passenger seat, elbow braced against the door, knuckles pressed so hard to his mouth he could taste copper where his teeth had bitten down.
Daichi’s hands were steady on the wheel, but Iwaizumi caught the way his jaw worked—chewing over words he wouldn't say. The kind of careful quiet that came from years of knowing when to push and when to let someone bleed in peace.
At the next intersection, instead of taking the familiar turn toward Kantei, Daichi guided them down a side street. The change in direction felt like a small mercy.
“We’re not going back?” Iwaizumi’s voice came out rougher than intended, scraped raw from Kuroo’s systematic dismantling of every foolish hope he’d harbored.
“You need air.” Daichi’s tone was matter-of-fact, but there was something gentler underneath—the same voice Iwaizumi had heard him use with Sugawara during their brief, stolen moments in Kantei hallways.
They ended up at a small riverside park, the wind rattling the branches above the water and gravel crunching under the tires as Daichi pulled into an empty space.
Neither man got out. The car felt like a confession booth—contained, separate from the world that had just finished explaining exactly why Iwaizumi's heart was a liability he couldn't afford.
“I’m sorry that you have to go through all of this.” When Daichi finally spoke, his words carried the weight of someone who’d walked this path before. His eyes remained fixed on the water, but Iwaizumi could feel the careful attention, the way Daichi was reading the spaces between his breaths. “It’s been hard on you.”
Iwaizumi’s stare remained locked on the river, tracking the lazy current that seemed to mock the chaos in his chest. Hard didn’t begin to cover it. Hard was his residency. Hard was managing expectations as the Prime Minister’s son.
This was something else entirely.
This was watching the one person who’d ever seen past his name and social standing disappear behind protocol, blood seeping through hastily applied bandages, while Iwaizumi was left holding nothing but the ghost of Oikawa’s confession and the bitter knowledge that it might have been delirium talking.
Daichi continued. “I can’t speak for Oikawa, but I know him personally. I know how he fiercely protects everything important to him. Even when… his methods don’t always make sense to the rest of us.” A pause, heavy with implication. “That’s just how things are in that field.”
Iwaizumi’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t make it any easier to hear.”
“No,” Daichi agreed without hesitation. “It doesn’t. But I’ve been in his place. You find someone you can’t stand to lose, and the quickest way to protect them is to cut yourself out. It’s not a decision you make lightly. It’s one you carry, whether it’s the right call or not.”
There was something in Daichi’s tone, a particular kind of exhaustion that spoke of firsthand knowledge.
Iwaizumi’s gaze stayed fixed on the river, his breath visible in short bursts.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone when your father runs the country?” His voice was low, almost lost under the wind. “When you’re not even out, in a society that’d tear you apart for it? When your sexuality alone could become a scandal that destroys careers?”
Daichi didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let the question hang.
“I finally find someone,” Iwaizumi continued, his voice gaining strength and bitterness in equal measures, “and of course, he turns out to be a high-ranking national security agent whose life hangs by a thread every time he walks out the door. Of course, it has to be someone whose world is specifically designed to chew up anyone foolish enough to love him.” A laugh escaped—short, sharp, and devoid of any humor. “What a fucking joke.”
The profanity felt good, a small rebellion against the careful political language that had surrounded him his entire life. Here, in this car with this man who’d loved someone in an impossible situation, Iwaizumi could finally say what he really thought without worrying about who might be listening.
Daichi’s grip on the steering wheel eased slightly. “You’re right, it’s not fair. Neither for you nor for Oikawa.”
Iwaizumi ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.
“You’re allowed to be angry about that,” Daichi said after a moment. “And you’re allowed to hurt over it. Doesn’t make you selfish or naïve.”
The words sat between them, not fixing anything, but anchoring the silence that followed. For the first time since leaving headquarters, Iwaizumi felt like he could breathe properly.
“Does it get better over time?” Iwaizumi asked.
Daichi lets out a defeated chuckle, reminiscent of painful times. “Honestly, it doesn’t. But you learn to live through it.”
The honesty was brutal and somehow comforting. No false promises, no political platitudes—just the truth from someone who’d earned the right to speak it.
Finally, Daichi cut the engine. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the water. “Let’s get you some fresh air.”
The cold hit them immediately as they stepped out, sharp and clean after the stale warmth of the car. They walked side by side along the riverbank, their breath misting in the cold air. No more was said, but Iwaizumi’s shoulders lowered a fraction, the rhythm of their steps matching as the current slid past.
Notes:
I'm going to be very busy the next couple weeks, so if I don't post the next chapter on time I apologize in advance 😭 Also, I'm pleasantly surprised at how Iwaizumi and Daichi's friendship grew in this version!
Chapter Text
4 months after mission fallout – Tokyo Tokugawa Hospital
The most difficult part of being involved in a national security mission falling apart, according to Iwaizumi Hajime, is not the mountain of paperwork that needs to be cleared. It was not the meticulous steps that needed to be considered to make sure that the enemies could not trace back to him. It was not the long debriefing sessions either.
For Iwaizumi Hajime, in his very specific case, the most difficult part is coming back to work when the silence between cases leaves his hands with nothing to hold and his mind nowhere to hide from the memory of blood that wasn’t his.
Iwaizumi found himself distracted more often than not. He’d get coffee when he didn’t need it, feeling the warmth through the mug for comfort. He’d leave messages unanswered until the last minute, and find himself second-guessing decisions he’d normally make automatically.
“Family stuff. Don’t worry about it.” Iwaizumi once told Matsukawa. But the other didn’t buy the practiced smile that never reached his eyes.
Slow days such as today are the heaviest. Time seems to stand still, leaving Iwaizumi tormented in his silence and the shadows of what-ifs with no distractions to escape his own mind. The harsh white light beamed through the morgue’s lighting, casting shadows that seemed to reach toward that corner table he refused to acknowledge.
The corner table he used as a makeshift infirmary.
The corner where heartfelt confessions were said, and unfulfilled promises were made.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Iwaizumi decided to wilfully ignore it. There hasn’t been an ongoing examination since last week. Nobody was supposed to come by. And if it were his colleagues, they could just enter.
But the knock was persistent in its soft thuds, constantly getting Iwaizumi’s attention. Each rap seemed to echo in the sterile space, mixing with the hum of refrigeration units.
Iwaizumi sighed, as if the visitor had interrupted important work, and he stood from his desk to reach the door. His movements felt heavier these days, like he was walking through water.
“What—”
Iwaizumi stopped his words. In front of him was Sugawara Koushi, suit pristine and smile professional as always.
“Good afternoon, Iwaizumi-san,” Sugawara greeted. “I hope you don’t mind the unannounced visit.”
Iwaizumi’s shoulders tensed automatically.
“If this is about the Shidou op debrief, I already submitted everything to—”
“It’s not about that,” Sugawara interrupted gently. “Can we talk?”
There was something in the way Suga asked. Not the polished tone he used in meetings, but something quieter and more personal. Iwaizumi sighed. It’s not like he had important things to do, but this is not an alternative he preferred. Iwaizumi scratched his non-itchy head, running a hand through his hair. Sugawara’s gaze looked directly into his; it was enough to signal that the liaison officer was not taking no for an answer.
“If you don’t mind, let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”
“Fine,” Iwaizumi gave in. He tugged his staff badge and closed the morgue door behind him. “The staff cafeteria should be empty at this hour.”
Sugawara nodded and followed Iwaizumi’s steps.
They walked in relative silence, their footsteps echoing in the hospital corridors. Iwaizumi kept his gaze fixed ahead, but he could feel Sugawara’s occasional glances, the way someone trained in reading people catalogued every tension line in his shoulders, every too-careful breath.
The cafeteria was indeed empty. They chose a table at the far side, and as they sat across from each other, Iwaizumi found himself studying Sugawara’s face—the practiced calm, the way he arranged his features into something approaching casual concern. They chose a table at the far side, and as they sat, Sugawara didn’t immediately launch into whatever he’d come to say. Instead, he waited, patient.
“How’s Daichi?”
Sugawara tilted his head, and a confused chuckle escaped him. “He drove you to the hospital earlier this morning.”
“I know,” Iwaizumi said vaguely. “I didn’t know what else to say. I’m bad at small talk.”
Iwaizumi rested his arms on the table, his hands instinctively curling into fists.
“But I feel that you’re not here for small talk,” he said.
Sugawara shakes his head.
“I work with politicians, Iwaizumi-san. I like everything about my job except the superficial small talk,” Sugawara said with a tired chuckle. He leaned back to his seat, eyes focused on Iwaizumi’s gaze. “I have a proposition that might interest you.”
“Koanchosa is expanding its forensics department. We have an opening for a forensic pathologist, and we would like you to consider joining our team.” Sugawara’s voice was steady, trained. This is not the first recruitment offer he has handed. With trained elegance, Sugawara took a clear file out of his bag and placed it on the table between them. The emblem of the Ministry of Justice and Kantei’s seal was all Iwaizumi needed to see.
The folder sat between them like a loaded weapon. Iwaizumi stared at it, his breathing becoming deliberately controlled.
“Why me?” Iwaizumi asked. “Forensic pathology is not that uncommon.”
Sugawara smiled, as if he’d expected the question.
“You’ve been on our recruitment list for months. Your academic record, your residency performance, the way you think beyond conventional parameters—even Tokugawa Hospital recognized your potential with their fellowship offer.”
A pause. Iwaizumi could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.
“But I think you belong in Koanchosa. We handle uncommon cases, perfect for professionals looking for a career change,” Sugawara said.
Iwaizumi went still, every muscle in his body locking into place. His hands, resting on the table, slowly curled into fists.
“I never thought of myself in that way,” he managed.
“Well, we do, Iwaizumi-san. Finding the right person for the job is one of the most important things that keeps this agency going,” Sugawara said. He leaned back in his seat, deliberately looking down at the table before meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes again. “I hate to bring this up, but the events during the Shidou op reinforced the Ministry’s interest in you.”
They prefer people who’ve already survived the crossfire. Iwaizumi’s jaw tightened, remembering Suga’s comment from back then. They were talking about his recruitment after being accidentally caught up in an op, and now Iwaizumi’s.
“You linked the abnormal bleeding to enhanced weaponry mid-crisis—and it was correct. You conducted an emergency procedure despite it not being your area of focus, and you made it through. Your work speaks for itself,” Sugawara elaborated. His voice was measured, professional, but also sincere.
And you kissed an agent in front of too many witnesses, Iwaizumi thought but didn’t say.
Sugawara waited a beat, observing Iwaizumi’s expression. “That is all the Ministry and Kantei know of your involvement.”
Iwaizumi let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, but it sounded more like a bitter laugh. His shoulders sagged slightly, some of the rigid tension bleeding out of them.
“I know you have… personal feelings about one of our agents,” Sugawara started carefully, his tone shifting into something gentler.
Every muscle in Iwaizumi’s body tensed again, but this time it was different—defensive, raw. He looked away, fixing his gaze on a point somewhere over Sugawara’s shoulder.
“Had,” Iwaizumi said, the word coming out sharp and brittle. “I haven’t seen or heard from him since. I can catch a hint.”
But it’s not like there is a switch that he can turn off.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and knowing. Iwaizumi could feel Sugawara’s eyes on him, reading every micro-expression, every tell. His fists clenched tighter on the table.
“This offer has nothing to do with him,” Suga said quietly. “We’re offering this position not because of what happened. It is in spite of it.”
After a while, Sugawara added, “In fact, if he had any say in hiring decisions, you’d never make it past the preliminary screening.”
The words were meant to be reassuring, but they landed like stones in Iwaizumi’s chest. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to steady his breathing.
“I see,” he said quietly, and hated how defeated he sounded.
“I will be direct with you, Iwaizumi-san. If you accept this offer, it needs to be for you and your career. Not for anyone else,” Sugawara said firmly. “You’re an exceptional medical professional, and Koanchosa would be honored to have you.”
Iwaizumi finally looked at him again, and there was something raw in his expression.
“And if I can’t separate personal from professional?”
The question came out quieter than he’d intended, almost vulnerable.
“That means you’re human,” Sugawara said softly. He took a soft exhale and said frankly, “But then you’d be doing yourself and us a disservice.”
Sugawara paused, a genuine smile across his face. “But I don’t think that’s who you are.”
“You seem very confident about knowing who I am,” Iwaizumi said, and there was a note of challenge in his voice, though it lacked real heat.
“I make it my business to understand the people I recruit,” Sugawara responded, and something in his tone suggested layers Iwaizumi hadn’t expected.
The silence stretched between them, but it felt different now—less like an interrogation and more like two people who understood the weight of impossible choices. Sugawara’s fingers drummed once against the table, a small crack in his professional composure.
“There’s something else I want you to know,” he said quietly, and Iwaizumi could hear the shift—from recruiter back to someone who’d walked this path before.
They shared a silent beat, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the distant sounds of the hospital carrying on around them. Iwaizumi found himself studying Sugawara’s face again—the careful neutrality, yes, but also something more personal underneath.
“He’s recovering well,” Sugawara said after a pause, tone softer, almost gentle.
Iwaizumi looks up sharply.
“What?”
The word came out strangled, barely a whisper.
Sugawara’s professional mask slipped slightly, revealing something achingly human underneath.
“I thought you should know. He’s been recently discharged from the hospital, but is still in rehabilitation.”
The room seemed to tilt around Iwaizumi. His hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.
“It’s going to be a long one,” Iwaizumi commented. The words carried the weight of his medical knowledge—all the things that could go wrong, all the ways a person could survive but never really recover.
Sugawara nodded, understanding passing between them. “Home care is quite challenging if you live alone. Thankfully, we have the resources to support him.”
Iwaizumi asked carefully, “Why are you telling me all of this?”
Sugawara exhaled slowly, and for the first time since he’d arrived, he looked less like a government liaison officer and more like someone who understood exactly what it felt like to have your heart walking around outside your body in a dangerous profession.
“Because I know how terrifying it is to love someone who is much of a storm.”
“Sugawara…” Iwaizumi sighed, feeling a familiar twinge in his chest.
“Someone who carries the weight of the world on their shoulders,” Sugawara said, a bittersweet smile on his lips, but his eyes wandered into emptiness. “Someone who’d undoubtedly march to hell and back for you, but also hide themselves from you in the name of protection.”
Iwaizumi felt a painful twist in his chest. His lips trembled as he fought the water in his eyes. Sugawara’s words pierced through every defense mechanism he thought he had.
“I was where you are once. Different agent, same impossible situation. Your storm is magnitudes more challenging than mine was, and I decided that you deserve this peace of mind after all you’ve done for us.”
Iwaizumi threw his face aside, asked quietly. “Is he… is he okay? Really okay?”
“As okay as anyone who went through what he went through could be,” Sugawara said rather apologetically.
But it was enough to lift the heavy weight crushing on Iwaizumi’s chest, suffocating him.
“He’s stubborn, difficult to work with, and driving his medical team insane,” Sugawara said with a gentle shrug. “So yeah, he’s fine.”
Despite everything, Iwaizumi’s lips formed a small, pained smile.
“That sounds like him,” Iwaizumi said with a defeated chuckle.
The moment hung between them, fragile and honest. Sugawara let it settle before his expression shifted back toward business—not abruptly, but like someone carefully closing a door that had been opened just enough.
“I wish I could tell you more,” Sugawara said, and there was genuine regret in his voice. “But you understand why I can’t.”
Iwaizumi nodded, still processing the gift of knowing even this much. The relief and pain were still warring in his chest when Sugawara continued, his tone becoming more careful, more official.
Sugawara nudged the clear file closer towards Iwaizumi, the movement gentle but purposeful.
“Take some time to think about it. Remember, this is about your future and not your past.”
Iwaizumi stared at the folder, seeing not just a job offer but a crossroads. Move forward into the organization that had torn his world apart, or stay where he was, surrounded by ghosts and empty examination tables.
“How long do I have?” Iwaizumi asked.
“A week. I’d like to have your answer by then,” Sugawara answered as he stood from his seat, straightening his suit with practiced efficiency.
As Sugawara walked past him toward the exit, Iwaizumi found himself asking the question that had been lurking in the back of his mind throughout their entire conversation.
“What would I be walking into? If I said yes?” Iwaizumi asked.
Sugawara paused, turning back with an expression that was both understanding and slightly rueful.
“A chance to do the work you’re meant to do,” he said simply. “And probably the most complicated professional situation of your life.”
The honesty was brutal and comforting at the same time.
“This position would put you in the same building as him, once he returns from medical leave. He is going to be reassigned to desk analysis during his recovery period until he is cleared for field duty. You’re in a different department, but you might still run into him at headquarters,” Sugawara continued. “You said you haven’t heard from him since… unfortunately, I cannot say how things will be once he returns, if you take the job.”
“He doesn’t know about the offer?” Iwaizumi asked.
Sugawara shook his head. “Like I said, this has nothing to do with him.”
“I see,” Iwaizumi said, his voice steadier now.
“I’m not telling you this to influence your decision,” Sugawara added quickly. “I’m telling you because you deserve to make an informed choice.”
Iwaizumi felt something settle in his chest—not peace, exactly, but a kind of clarity he hadn't experienced in weeks. The job offer sat between them, no longer just about proximity to his past but about the possibility of a future.
“Thank you, Sugawara-san. That’s very considerate of you.”
Iwaizumi stared at Sugawara for a moment, another question coming almost incredulously. “And my father… he approved this?”
The same man who stationed covert security guards outside lecture halls during med school is now okay with him working in intelligence? Iwaizumi finds it hard to believe.
Sugawara’s expression shifted, and he let out a rueful smile that seemed to carry the weight of several uncomfortable conversations.
“Yes, he did. Though I suspect his reasoning had more to do with keeping you in a controlled environment under government oversight than any sudden enthusiasm for your career advancement.”
“Of course it did,” Iwaizumi muttered, running a hand through his hair. There was that familiar knot of irritation in his chest—even his rebellion was somehow anticipated and managed.
“And I,” Sugawara continued, his tone growing more resigned, “am absolutely not looking forward to the follow-up meetings where he wants detailed reports on your case assignments, your colleagues, and probably your lunch schedule.” He straightened his jacket with the air of someone preparing for battle. “The man treats national security briefings like administrative tasks, but discussing your well-being? That's when he becomes... thorough.”
Despite everything, Iwaizumi found himself almost smiling. “He made you install motion sensors in the hospital parking garage, didn’t he?”
“Among other things.” Sugawara’s smile was wry. “Your father has very creative interpretations of ‘reasonable precautions.’”
Despite everything—the emotional weight of the conversation, the impossible decisions ahead—Iwaizumi found himself almost grateful for this mundane complication. His father’s overprotectiveness was exhausting, but it was also familiar and predictable. Something he could roll his eyes at instead of something that made his chest tight with grief.
“Welcome to my life,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “Though I suppose now it’s your problem too.”
“Indeed.” Sugawara paused at the cafeteria entrance, his expression mixing professional courtesy with genuine sympathy. “For what it’s worth, Iwaizumi-san, I think you’re making the right choice. Even if explaining it to your father will require several shots of heavy liquor.”
The shared understanding hung between them—two men who’d learned to navigate the impossible space between duty and personal autonomy, between protection and suffocation.
“Good luck with that conversation,” Iwaizumi said, and for the first time in months, he almost meant the lightness in his voice.
“Thanks, I’ll need it,” Sugawara replied with a grimace that suggested he was already mentally preparing his talking points.
4 months after mission fallout – Koanchosa headquarters
The office holds the kind of silence that precedes difficult conversations. Tokyo’s lights glitter through the reinforced glass behind Kuroo’s desk—a city oblivious to the weight of decisions made in rooms like this. The air conditioning hums with mechanical persistence, but it can’t quite dispel the tension that’s been building since Sugawara returned from his hospital visit two hours ago.
Kuroo stands motionless by the window, arms crossed, the line of his shoulders rigid enough to suggest he’s been holding this position far too long. His reflection in the bulletproof glass looks older than his years, brows drawn into the kind of permanent furrow that comes from weighing other people’s lives in your hands.
“You’re going to get a permanent crick in your neck if you keep frowning at the skyline like it owes you money,” Sugawara observes, settling into the chair across from Kuroo’s desk with the careful grace of someone who’s learned to read the room’s emotional temperature before speaking.
Kuroo doesn’t turn, doesn’t even acknowledge the gentle teasing. His voice comes out flat, stripped of its usual sardonic edge.
“You offered him the position.”
“I did.” Sugawara’s confirmation is steady, but there’s something defensive in the way his fingers drum once against the chair's armrest before stilling completely.
“I still don’t know how to feel about this.”
When Kuroo finally turns, the movement is deliberate, controlled—the kind of careful motion that speaks to years of suppressing immediate reactions in favor of calculated responses. His arms remain crossed, a physical barrier against whatever argument might come next.
Sugawara exhales slowly, the sound barely audible over the building’s ambient noise.
“We both know what this could do to Oikawa.”
The name sits heavily between them. In this room, within these walls, Oikawa isn’t just Koanchosa’s best field operative—he’s the agent who’s been haunting corridors since news of the deliberate hunting went through internal channels. He is the living reminder of what it means to be an intelligent officer and what it can cost, even to their most talented and capable.
“I know,” Sugawara said, and there’s something almost gentle in his voice now, the tone of someone delivering necessary but unwelcome medicine.
“But you also know that Iwaizumi has been on the Ministry’s recruitment list long before any of this came to light. If anything, his active involvement in keeping Oikawa alive gave them more compelling evidence of exactly the kind of character they look for.”
Kuroo’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts—a barely perceptible settling that suggests he’s heard this justification before, probably from his own internal debates. The agency’s recruitment patterns are as familiar to him as his own reflection: they want people who can walk through fire and come out the other side still thinking clearly. Combat skills can be taught, protocols drilled into muscle memory, but the ability to face chaos and not break—that’s either in someone’s core or it isn’t.
It’s why Sugawara sits across from him now, recruited after surviving his own crucible with an international arms trafficking network. It’s why half their non-combatant staff have résumés that read like survivor testimonies rather than traditional career paths.
And now, Iwaizumi. For all the Ministry knows, Iwaizumi was the civilian giving aid to an injured agent after a national security mission fell apart. And that is the kind of personality they look for.
“A forensic pathologist trained in a renowned hospital. A background that doesn’t require further checks. An unwavering show of civil courage—”
“Do they know?” Kuroo asked, interrupting Sugawara’s careful justifications. “The Ministry and Kantei, do they know about Iwaizumi’s involvement with Oikawa?”
“No.” The single word is delivered with absolute finality, but there’s something in Sugawara’s eyes—a flicker of the same moral complexity that’s been eating at Kuroo for weeks.
Kuroo’s eyebrows snap upward, his carefully maintained composure cracking just enough to let genuine alarm through.
“That’s a dangerous omission, Suga.”
“It does not concern them,” Sugawara said firmly. “And it is not relevant for the assessment. Iwaizumi was evaluated, cleared, and offered the position based on merit. What he shared with Oikawa, or didn’t, has no bearing on his ability to examine evidence and reconstruct medical scenarios.”
“You make it sound like a simple personnel decision.”
“It’s not,” Sugawara agreed. The admission comes without hesitation, and something in Sugawara’s posture shifts. His shoulders settle in a way that suggests old weight and familiar burden. His fingers find the edge of a folder on the desk, tracing its corner with the absent precision of someone who’s learned to keep his hands busy during difficult conversations.
“I’ve seen what happens when sensible details migrate from conversation to documentation. How quickly someone’s personal life becomes… a weapon.”
Sugawara pauses, his words hanging unfinished in the room.
The silence feels heavier now. Outside, Tokyo’s political district glitters with the lights of offices where careers are built and destroyed with the stroke of a pen, where information flows through channels designed more for efficiency than discretion.
“The current political climate isn’t exactly forgiving,” Sugawara continues, his voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone who’s learned to navigate these particular rapids. “And once something enters official channels, it is impossible to retract.”
The silence that follows feels dense with institutional memory. Sugawara’s voice softens but loses none of its steel when it continues.
“I’m not going to be the one who forces Iwaizumi out. Especially not like this. Not through paperwork. Not as a detail in a mission report. If he decides to tell his family, or face that weight—that’s his choice. Not mine. Not yours. And definitely not the government’s to dictate.”
Kuroo’s expression darkens, shadows deepening the lines around his eyes. He doesn’t argue—can’t argue—because he knows Sugawara is right on principle, even if the practical implications make Kuroo’s strategist brain scream warnings.
“You know that’s not the only issue.” Kuroo moves away from the window, perched on the edge of his desk with the restless energy of someone who’s been thinking in circles for too long. “You saw what that extraction did to him. To both of them.”
“I did see it,” Sugawara agrees, and there’s something in his voice that suggests he’s been carrying that image longer than comfortable. “And I watched Iwaizumi survive it. With clarity, control, and steady hands while working through hell that no civilian should ever have to face.”
He pauses, studying Kuroo’s face with the careful attention of someone who’s learned to read between institutional lines.
“That kind of resilience is not trained. It is character.”
Kuroo shifts his weight, the desk creaking slightly under him.
“Doesn’t mean he belongs here.”
Sugawara’s laugh is hollow, devoid of any real humor. “By that logic, none of us should be here.”
He takes a deeper breath, the sound carrying years of accumulated understanding about the nature of their world.
“Look, I’m not claiming certainty about how this will unfold. I’m as concerned as you are about the potential complications. But the job offer stands on skill and demonstrated capability, not emotional convenience and sentiment. We can’t base operational decisions on personal discomfort—that's not how institutional integrity works.”
The frustration that’s been simmering beneath Kuroo’s composed surface finally breaks through, manifesting in the way he shakes his head and pushes off from the desk.
“Let’s hope we didn’t just throw a grenade into Oikawa’s recovery. He’s my most effective field operative. I’d hate to have him benched longer than he already is. He’ll lash out during psych evals, minimum, and that is going to cost us weeks of inactive duty.”
Sugawara’s smirk appears slowly, like sunrise breaking through institutional clouds.
“Wow, Kuroo. With friends like you offering such heartfelt emotional support, who needs enemies?”
Kuroo rolled his eyes. But there’s something almost fond in his exasperation now, the kind of resigned affection that comes from years of navigating impossible situations together.
“This is a logistical nightmare,” he groaned.
“Kuroo,” Sugawara says, and his tone carries just enough dry amusement to cut through the room’s accumulated tension, “I’m in a relationship with his bodyguard. I think we passed ‘nightmare’ about two departmental complications ago.”
The observation hangs in the air between them—acknowledgment that their personal lives stopped being simple the moment they chose to care about people in a profession designed to make caring dangerous. But there’s something almost comfortable in that shared understanding, the recognition that they’re all just trying to protect the people who matter while serving something larger than themselves.
Outside the reinforced windows, Tokyo continues its restless glittering, indifferent to the weight of choices made in rooms like this, where good intentions and institutional necessity dance their eternal, complicated waltz.
6 months after mission fallout – Koanchosa headquarters, medical bay
The medical bay break room smelled like burnt coffee and disinfectant, but it was blessedly quiet. Iwaizumi pushed through the door with a case folder tucked under his arm, the familiar weight of paperwork oddly comforting after his first week of navigating unfamiliar protocols.
The space felt more human than the rest of the facility, blessedly removed from the corridors where his footsteps echoed with the constant, irrational fear that he might turn a corner and find himself face-to-face with someone he wasn't ready to see. Worn leather sofas arranged around a low coffee table, a television murmuring news updates to no one in particular, the kind of vending machines that hummed with the promise of sugar crashes and regret.
Only one other person occupied the room, slouched against the corner of the sofa with his white coat hanging loose from one shoulder. He scrolled through his phone with the practiced indifference of someone killing time between crises, the news ticker casting shifting blue light across his disinterested expression.
Iwaizumi made a deliberate path toward the coffee machine in the far corner, hoping to avoid conversation. The last thing he needed was another colleague trying to parse whether he belonged here or if this was some elaborate political theatre, hoping to avoid conversation. The last thing he needed was another colleague trying to parse whether he belonged here through merit or political theater, whether his presence was professional competence or his father’s influence manifesting in yet another carefully orchestrated safety net. His fingers found the familiar rhythm of routine—folder on the counter, reach for a mug, focus on the simple mechanics of caffeine acquisition.
“You’re the new guy in forensics,” the man said without looking up from his phone.
Iwaizumi paused, his hand halfway to the coffee pot. So much for avoiding attention.
“Yeah, Iwa—”
“Oh, I know who you are,” the man interrupted with a chuckle that held more amusement than malice. He finally set his phone aside, giving Iwaizumi his full attention for the first time.
Something in his tone made Iwaizumi’s shoulders tense—not hostile, but knowing in a way that suggested layers of information.
“Is gossiping some kind of office culture around here?” Iwaizumi muttered, resuming his coffee preparation with perhaps more focus than strictly necessary.
“Only when royalty decides to join the ranks,” the man said with a shrug that suggested this was merely an observation, not judgment.
Iwaizumi’s grip tightened on the coffee pot handle. Six months ago, that kind of comment would have made him want to disappear entirely. Now it just felt exhausting—another person who saw his father’s influence before they saw him, another conversation where he’d have to prove he belonged here. But there was something different in this man’s tone. Curiosity rather than calculation, observation rather than accusation.
The stranger stood from the sofa, stretching with the fluid movement of someone accustomed to long hours on his feet. His approach was unhurried, confident in the way of medical professionals who’d seen enough to be unimpressed by most things.
“Semi Eita,” he introduced himself, extending a hand. “Infirmary doctor.”
Iwaizumi looked him over—around his age, sharp eyes that missed nothing, the kind of steady competence that came with experience in high-stakes medicine. Someone who understood the weight of decisions made under pressure.
“You know,” Semi continued, claiming the space beside the coffee machine with easy familiarity, “most people take a week or two to find their rhythm here. You came in and immediately started cross-referencing bullet wound patterns with liver trauma cases.” His tone carried a note of professional respect. “Very specific expertise. Must come in handy during emergency situations.”
There was something in the way he said it—not quite a question, but an acknowledgment that hung in the air between them. Iwaizumi felt a flicker of unease, wondering exactly how much this stranger knew about his background, about emergency situations he’d rather forget.
“If I wanted small talk, I’d be upstairs with the command staff,” Iwaizumi replied, deflecting with practiced efficiency. “Or I could just stay home and eavesdrop on diplomats in my father’s waiting room.”
Semi’s mouth quirked upward. It was genuine amusement rather than polite courtesy, the first unguarded reaction Iwaizumi had gotten from anyone here all week.
“You’ll fit right in down here with us.”
Despite himself, Iwaizumi found his own expression softening slightly. He poured coffee into his mug, the liquid dark enough to seem almost viscous.
“Is this coffee or motor oil?”
“We calibrate it for maximum bitterness,” Semi explained, pouring his own cup with the resignation of long habit. “Keeps the junior agents from lingering too long when they’re supposed to be working.”
Iwaizumi took a tentative sip and immediately understood. The coffee was aggressively terrible—bitter enough to strip paint, with an aftertaste that suggested the machine hadn’t been properly cleaned in months. “Smart strategy.”
“Doesn’t deter the senior agents, though,” Semi added, his tone shifting slightly. “They discovered strong coffee helps with hand tremors after difficult missions.”
The casual mention made Iwaizumi pause, his mug halfway to his lips. Senior agents. Field operatives who came back changed, who might stand in this exact spot trying to steady their hands, trying to find something normal to hold onto. His throat constricted as an unbidden image flashed through his mind—familiar hands, possibly shaking now as they reached for this same terrible coffee. Hands he’d once memorized, now potentially trembling with trauma he couldn’t heal.
“Do they come down here often?” The question escaped before he could stop it, pitched carefully casual but betraying more interest than he'd intended.
Semi’s eyes flicked toward him briefly—not probing, just noting.
“More than they should. Less than they need to.” He took another sip of the terrible coffee, seeming to consider his words. “The coffee’s awful, but sometimes that’s not what they’re really here for.”
Iwaizumi nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady. Somewhere in this building, someone might be dealing with their own tremors, their own need for a quiet space away from the demands of recovery and duty. The thought made Iwaizumi’s chest tighten with an emotion that tangled longing with dread, hope with the crushing weight of knowing his presence here would be seen as another complication in a life that had already been broken apart once.
“Listen,” Semi continued, either oblivious to or tactfully ignoring Iwaizumi’s internal struggle, “if you need anything down here—protocols, case consultation, directions to decent coffee elsewhere—just ask. We look out for each other in the medical bay.”
The offer was straightforward, professional, but carried an undertone of genuine support. No prying questions about his background, no speculation about his motives for being here, no carefully neutral expressions that hid calculations about his father’s reach. Just practical assistance and the promise of collegiality.
For the first time since making the impossible decision to join Koanchosa, someone was offering him exactly what Iwaizumi needed: space to exist without explanation, work to lose himself in, and the possibility that maybe, despite everything, he could build something here that belonged to him alone.
“I appreciate that,” Iwaizumi said, meaning it more than he’d expected.
Semi nodded and returned to his spot on the sofa, reclaiming his phone with the easy dismissal of someone who’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. The news ticker continued its silent scroll across the television screen, and the coffee machine settled into its familiar electrical hum.
Iwaizumi remained by the counter for a moment longer, folder forgotten beside him, terrible coffee growing cold in his hands. The break room felt different now—less like foreign territory and more like a place he might actually belong. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse about the choice to come here, but it was something resembling progress.
Outside, the institutional machinery of Koanchosa continued its relentless operation. But here, in this quiet corner of the medical wing, two doctors had found a moment of understanding over aggressively bad coffee and the unspoken recognition that sometimes the most important conversations were the ones that never needed to happen.
Notes:
I'm still in the slow update phase guys, it's annual review season 😭 Anyways, in case you guys missed it, I published a standalone story (but really, it's Hellbound's prequel..) about the exact FWB meetup where Oikawa and Iwaizumi caught feelings for the first time. I decided to post it as its own story instead of making it a bonus chapter here. Enjoy Orders in the Dark while I whip up the rest of Hellbound ;D
Pages Navigation
(Previous comment deleted.)
errizabesu on Chapter 1 Sat 28 Jun 2025 06:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
mbott on Chapter 1 Sat 28 Jun 2025 03:47AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 1 Sat 28 Jun 2025 06:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
gAAmAtsU16 on Chapter 1 Sat 28 Jun 2025 03:10PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 1 Sat 28 Jun 2025 05:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
(Previous comment deleted.)
errizabesu on Chapter 1 Sun 10 Aug 2025 11:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
(Previous comment deleted.)
errizabesu on Chapter 1 Thu 14 Aug 2025 01:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
grungy emo fairy princess (frobean) on Chapter 1 Mon 18 Aug 2025 03:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 1 Tue 19 Aug 2025 09:04AM UTC
Comment Actions
(Previous comment deleted.)
errizabesu on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Sep 2025 09:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 2 Sat 12 Jul 2025 03:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 2 Mon 14 Jul 2025 10:21AM UTC
Comment Actions
jaegckerman on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Jul 2025 02:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 3 Mon 21 Jul 2025 08:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 3 Fri 01 Aug 2025 02:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 3 Fri 01 Aug 2025 10:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
jaegckerman on Chapter 4 Sat 26 Jul 2025 04:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 4 Sun 27 Jul 2025 02:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 4 Fri 01 Aug 2025 03:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 4 Fri 01 Aug 2025 10:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
jaegckerman on Chapter 5 Sun 03 Aug 2025 08:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 5 Sun 03 Aug 2025 01:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
(Previous comment deleted.)
errizabesu on Chapter 5 Sun 17 Aug 2025 06:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 5 Sat 16 Aug 2025 07:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 5 Sun 17 Aug 2025 08:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 5 Mon 18 Aug 2025 01:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 5 Tue 19 Aug 2025 09:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
jaegckerman on Chapter 6 Sat 09 Aug 2025 08:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 6 Sun 10 Aug 2025 02:20PM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 6 Sat 16 Aug 2025 07:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 6 Sun 17 Aug 2025 08:50PM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 6 Mon 18 Aug 2025 01:40AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 6 Tue 19 Aug 2025 09:15AM UTC
Comment Actions
Keara (Yahaba Shigeru's no.1 Fan) (Guest) on Chapter 6 Fri 05 Sep 2025 11:10AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 6 Fri 05 Sep 2025 08:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Keara (Yahaba Shigeru’s no.1 Fan) (Guest) on Chapter 6 Tue 09 Sep 2025 01:41AM UTC
Comment Actions
jaegckerman on Chapter 7 Fri 15 Aug 2025 09:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 7 Sun 17 Aug 2025 07:47PM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 7 Sat 16 Aug 2025 08:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 7 Sun 17 Aug 2025 08:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
Keara (Yahaba Shigeru’s no. 1 fan) (Guest) on Chapter 7 Fri 05 Sep 2025 10:39AM UTC
Comment Actions
errizabesu on Chapter 7 Fri 05 Sep 2025 08:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation