Ship: iwaizumi hajime / oikawa tooru Fandom: haikyuu Major tags: mention of sexual content Other tags: future fic, ld maybe r Word count: 566
***
“Someone is gonna lose a hand,” Oikawa sing-songs with glee. He jabs Iwaizumi in the ribs just in case he wasn’t being clear enough.
“Guess you’ll have to jack me off from now on then,” Iwaizumi grunts as he presses his back into the rickety metal fence to avoid him; it pings cheerfully in the cool evening air like a titter between them. Oikawa’s fingertips are calloused and warm and they’re like twin points burning a hole right through his thin tshirt and into his skin. It feels almost like a lifetime and hundreds of kilometres since Iwaizumi has been sixteen, but in this sad little patch of grass and gravel behind Oikawa’s apartment complex in what passes for a lawn in Tokyo, with barely any of the white moonlight reaching them for all the street light spilling yellow and fluorescent over the concrete walls, Iwaizumi feels young all over again. He feels unsteady in everything except the way Oikawa is sitting so close and warm to him.
Oikawa scrunches up his nose. “Lewd, Iwa-chan. When did you become so gross? When did my pure innocent Iwa-chan become Pervy-chan.”
“You’re twenty years old. Don’t tell me you’ve never touched your own dick, Shittykawa.” The packet of matches have slipped to the bottom of his overnight bag, but with Oikawa poking him repeatedly with those long stupid annoying fingers of his, Iwaizumi is just about ready to fucking lose it. Are you even allowed to punch a sick person? Maybe today was the day Iwaizumi was finally going to find out.
“Wouldn’t you like to watch,” Oikawa leers, eyes narrow; like they haven’t spent countless training camps away together. Like this weekend wasn’t one of those things they don’t really talk about.
Oikawa’s voice is still stuffy from being sick, but his eyes aren’t bright with fever anymore, and if nothing else he looks perfectly comfortable pretzel-contorted onto the plastic lawn chair, long legs tucked under the three blankets that Iwaizumi had been careful not to let touch the dirt churned into mud from the evening rain. The skies had finally cleared tonight, but it had already been too late -- they had missed the meteor showers that had streaked brilliant and wondrous across the clear country skies in Miyagi, that Oikawa had been too sick to travel for. So here Iwaizumi had come instead, with his overnight bag and his single packet of matches and his too-young stupid idiot heartbeat pounding like thunder in his ears.
“Got ‘em,” Iwaizumi says instead, hand closing around the packet of matches that had fallen inside the pages of his physics notebook. “Enjoy your shitty stars, Shittykawa.”
A swipe against the strip. A flare in the dark. Fireworks.
Everything smells of sharp yellow sulfur and the deep green scent of earth after rain as he hands the lit sparkler to Oikawa, Oikawa who doesn’t even snipe at his lackluster insults; but what Iwaizumi will remember most on the train he takes back to Miyagi the next day is the way Oikawa had smelled of clean white soap and summer showers and something that no matter how far Iwaizumi has to travel, it will always be the smell of home.
“Light another one, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa commands, and his smile is so open and happy as he watches the sparkler burn down in his palm, Iwaizumi does exactly what he says without hesitation.
FILL: TEAM KAGEYAMA TOBIO/OIKAWA TOORU, G
Fandom: haikyuu
Major tags: mention of sexual content
Other tags: future fic, ld maybe r
Word count: 566
***
“Someone is gonna lose a hand,” Oikawa sing-songs with glee. He jabs Iwaizumi in the ribs just in case he wasn’t being clear enough.
“Guess you’ll have to jack me off from now on then,” Iwaizumi grunts as he presses his back into the rickety metal fence to avoid him; it pings cheerfully in the cool evening air like a titter between them. Oikawa’s fingertips are calloused and warm and they’re like twin points burning a hole right through his thin tshirt and into his skin. It feels almost like a lifetime and hundreds of kilometres since Iwaizumi has been sixteen, but in this sad little patch of grass and gravel behind Oikawa’s apartment complex in what passes for a lawn in Tokyo, with barely any of the white moonlight reaching them for all the street light spilling yellow and fluorescent over the concrete walls, Iwaizumi feels young all over again. He feels unsteady in everything except the way Oikawa is sitting so close and warm to him.
Oikawa scrunches up his nose. “Lewd, Iwa-chan. When did you become so gross? When did my pure innocent Iwa-chan become Pervy-chan.”
“You’re twenty years old. Don’t tell me you’ve never touched your own dick, Shittykawa.” The packet of matches have slipped to the bottom of his overnight bag, but with Oikawa poking him repeatedly with those long stupid annoying fingers of his, Iwaizumi is just about ready to fucking lose it. Are you even allowed to punch a sick person? Maybe today was the day Iwaizumi was finally going to find out.
“Wouldn’t you like to watch,” Oikawa leers, eyes narrow; like they haven’t spent countless training camps away together. Like this weekend wasn’t one of those things they don’t really talk about.
Oikawa’s voice is still stuffy from being sick, but his eyes aren’t bright with fever anymore, and if nothing else he looks perfectly comfortable pretzel-contorted onto the plastic lawn chair, long legs tucked under the three blankets that Iwaizumi had been careful not to let touch the dirt churned into mud from the evening rain. The skies had finally cleared tonight, but it had already been too late -- they had missed the meteor showers that had streaked brilliant and wondrous across the clear country skies in Miyagi, that Oikawa had been too sick to travel for. So here Iwaizumi had come instead, with his overnight bag and his single packet of matches and his too-young stupid idiot heartbeat pounding like thunder in his ears.
“Got ‘em,” Iwaizumi says instead, hand closing around the packet of matches that had fallen inside the pages of his physics notebook. “Enjoy your shitty stars, Shittykawa.”
A swipe against the strip. A flare in the dark. Fireworks.
Everything smells of sharp yellow sulfur and the deep green scent of earth after rain as he hands the lit sparkler to Oikawa, Oikawa who doesn’t even snipe at his lackluster insults; but what Iwaizumi will remember most on the train he takes back to Miyagi the next day is the way Oikawa had smelled of clean white soap and summer showers and something that no matter how far Iwaizumi has to travel, it will always be the smell of home.
“Light another one, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa commands, and his smile is so open and happy as he watches the sparkler burn down in his palm, Iwaizumi does exactly what he says without hesitation.