brief mention of knee injury, ankle injury. brief implications of underage sex. 653 words.
The first time that they hold hands, both of them are too young to really remember it. Their mothers bring them close, swathed in warm quilts and blankets, and they blindly reach out for someone and end up finding each other. Cautiously, slowly, perhaps even optimistically, they wrap their hands around each other’s and curl towards their newly found anchor, breaths synchronizing as they both fall back to sleep.
The first time that they hold hands when they can remember it, Iwaizumi’s rolling his eyes as Oikawa’s crying. Again. So it’s only natural to drag Oikawa back home to get patched up by his mother, this time by the hand. Neither of them thinks of it as holding hands; there’s no butterflies, no romantic petals falling to the ground as Iwaizumi stomps and Oikawa sniffles and stumbles. There’s only a sense of trust, of stability, and Oikawa’s sniffles die to mere hiccups by the time that his mom disinfects the scrape. He’s still clutching Iwaizumi’s hand, squeezing harshly when the cut stings from the antiseptic, and finally relaxing after his mom presses his lips against the bandage covering his knee.
(He makes Iwaizumi kiss it better too. Iwaizumi shrugs his shoulders and kisses his knee as well, as if it’s no big deal. Oikawa’s left pouting long after Iwaizumi leaves.)
The first time that they hold hands and it means something more, it starts out as something less. Oikawa’s back from the hospital, his ankle twisted and his lips a thin line, his doctor’s words echoing in his head. He’s trying too hard, he knows, but what else can someone like him do in the face of overwhelming talent? His mom takes his bag and he shrugs off his jacket at the front of his house, hanging it up and heading up to his room with a promise to come down for breakfast.
Iwaizumi’s in his room, a frown deeply etched into his face. It stays that way all throughout dinner, except when Iwaizumi thanks his mom for the meal, and continues long after Oikawa’s set out the spare futon and joined Iwaizumi down on the floor to sleep.
“Your face is going to stay that way if you keep going like this,” Oikawa says in a laughing manner, hobbling over to pull at Iwaizumi’s cheeks.
Irritably, Iwaizumi bats his hands away.
“I could say the same thing about your ankle,” he says with anger laced through his voice. Oikawa instantly sobers up.
They’re sleeping next to each other; the lights are turned off and all that filters through the room is natural lighting from outside. Oikawa opens his mouth to say something but closes it. Repeats this a few times. Feels all the words leave his mind. His voice disappears. He wants to apologize but knows that it’ll be empty.
Blindly, he reaches out for Iwaizumi’s futon, snaking his hand underneath the blanket. His fingers brush the fabric of Iwaizumi’s sleeve and they trail down, fingertips light against the skin of his forearm, touching the ridge of his wrist, brushing over his knuckles, and finally coming to rest against his fingertips.
It’s so slight yet so intimate, so unlike the touches that he and his previous string of significant others have done underneath the sheets. Carefully, Oikawa shifts over and presses more forcefully, his fingertips against Iwaizumi’s limp fingers, relishing in the small contact that provides him insurmountable comfort. The fingers are rough but warm, just like Iwaizumi himself, and Oikawa suspects that Iwaizumi’s palms are calloused with years of volleyball practice, years of spiking the tosses that Oikawa sends him.
Very slowly and without looking, Iwaizumi turns his hand around so Oikawa’s fingers rest against his palm. And, very slowly, Iwaizumi curls his hand against his fingers, keeping them there, rubbing his thumb feather light against Oikawa’s pinky.
“Goodnight, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers.
“Goodnight, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi whispers back. He doesn’t let go.
FILL: TEAM Miyuki Kazuya/Sawamura Eijun, T
653 words.
The first time that they hold hands, both of them are too young to really remember it. Their mothers bring them close, swathed in warm quilts and blankets, and they blindly reach out for someone and end up finding each other. Cautiously, slowly, perhaps even optimistically, they wrap their hands around each other’s and curl towards their newly found anchor, breaths synchronizing as they both fall back to sleep.
The first time that they hold hands when they can remember it, Iwaizumi’s rolling his eyes as Oikawa’s crying. Again. So it’s only natural to drag Oikawa back home to get patched up by his mother, this time by the hand. Neither of them thinks of it as holding hands; there’s no butterflies, no romantic petals falling to the ground as Iwaizumi stomps and Oikawa sniffles and stumbles. There’s only a sense of trust, of stability, and Oikawa’s sniffles die to mere hiccups by the time that his mom disinfects the scrape. He’s still clutching Iwaizumi’s hand, squeezing harshly when the cut stings from the antiseptic, and finally relaxing after his mom presses his lips against the bandage covering his knee.
(He makes Iwaizumi kiss it better too. Iwaizumi shrugs his shoulders and kisses his knee as well, as if it’s no big deal. Oikawa’s left pouting long after Iwaizumi leaves.)
The first time that they hold hands and it means something more, it starts out as something less. Oikawa’s back from the hospital, his ankle twisted and his lips a thin line, his doctor’s words echoing in his head. He’s trying too hard, he knows, but what else can someone like him do in the face of overwhelming talent? His mom takes his bag and he shrugs off his jacket at the front of his house, hanging it up and heading up to his room with a promise to come down for breakfast.
Iwaizumi’s in his room, a frown deeply etched into his face. It stays that way all throughout dinner, except when Iwaizumi thanks his mom for the meal, and continues long after Oikawa’s set out the spare futon and joined Iwaizumi down on the floor to sleep.
“Your face is going to stay that way if you keep going like this,” Oikawa says in a laughing manner, hobbling over to pull at Iwaizumi’s cheeks.
Irritably, Iwaizumi bats his hands away.
“I could say the same thing about your ankle,” he says with anger laced through his voice. Oikawa instantly sobers up.
They’re sleeping next to each other; the lights are turned off and all that filters through the room is natural lighting from outside. Oikawa opens his mouth to say something but closes it. Repeats this a few times. Feels all the words leave his mind. His voice disappears. He wants to apologize but knows that it’ll be empty.
Blindly, he reaches out for Iwaizumi’s futon, snaking his hand underneath the blanket. His fingers brush the fabric of Iwaizumi’s sleeve and they trail down, fingertips light against the skin of his forearm, touching the ridge of his wrist, brushing over his knuckles, and finally coming to rest against his fingertips.
It’s so slight yet so intimate, so unlike the touches that he and his previous string of significant others have done underneath the sheets. Carefully, Oikawa shifts over and presses more forcefully, his fingertips against Iwaizumi’s limp fingers, relishing in the small contact that provides him insurmountable comfort. The fingers are rough but warm, just like Iwaizumi himself, and Oikawa suspects that Iwaizumi’s palms are calloused with years of volleyball practice, years of spiking the tosses that Oikawa sends him.
Very slowly and without looking, Iwaizumi turns his hand around so Oikawa’s fingers rest against his palm. And, very slowly, Iwaizumi curls his hand against his fingers, keeping them there, rubbing his thumb feather light against Oikawa’s pinky.
“Goodnight, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers.
“Goodnight, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi whispers back. He doesn’t let go.