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229zmi · 2 years

Text

NEO-POP - 2

PAIRING: Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader

CONTENT: uncertainties about the future & the passage of time, just teens being teens

WORD COUNT: 20k

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AOBA JŌSAI HIGH YEAR ONE

Iwaizumi is sixteen years old when he finds out you've decided to ditch art for photography altogether. You don't tell any of your friends because you assume they'll figure it out anyway once they notice that none of the artworks displayed on the white walls of this new school have your name under them and that instead it's a handful of the photographs in the monthly school newspaper where they'll be more likely to find the words Photos taken by: [L/N] [Y/N]. Soon enough, this is exactly how Iwaizumi finds out.

He can't say he's upset. Maybe surprised is a better word. After all, it was ultimately your decision, and things aren't bound to stay the same forever, but he'd always thought you were too passionate about art to let go of it. Nevertheless, no matter what clubs you choose to immerse yourself in, he still waits for you after school so that you two can walk home together, just like you've been doing for the past two and a half years since Oikawa had given up waiting for you way long ago, claiming that he just wants to go home already. Iwaizumi doesn't blame him, yet he can't help but think from time to time: what a wuss.

At the moment, you and him are on the floor of his bedroom, working on an assignment for a class you two share. It's silent for the most part between the two of you as Iwaizumi twirls a pen in his hand in concentration, stopping occasionally once he figures out the answer to a question on the homework to write it down.

Your process of doing homework is slightly different from his. You're sprawled out across the floor on your stomach with the side of your head resting atop your forearms while you stare mindlessly at the wall in front of you. Once in a while, you have some sort of epiphany and you lift your head only to scribble something on the assignment (more likely a small doodle than an answer to a question) for a couple of seconds before going back to your original position to space out once again.

Iwaizumi's about almost done with the assignment when you fling a small egg-shaped eraser you got from the dentist at him to catch his attention. At first, he ignores it in favour of finishing his homework. Just a few more questions... But then you toss another eraser at him, one that's decorated with apples. And then another.

"Okay, what do you want?"

You're a little slow to react, so once Iwaizumi looks up from his now completed homework after finally acknowledging you, you've already yet again thrown another eraser at him. It hits smack-dab in the middle of his forehead before bouncing back to the ground, and you see a faint red mark start to form around the area where the eraser hit him.

You don't dare mention it to him. Instead, you ask him tentatively, as if you're dealing with a child who's ready to unleash a temper tantrum at any moment now, "What'd you get for question four?"

Iwaizumi is not a gatekeeping type of guy so he merely sighs in slight annoyance and squints down at his own worksheet, scanning through his written calculations to find the answer. "Four-thousand one-hundred fifty-two point six-five-one," he reads out loud.

"What."

"You can just round up or something."

"What," you say again.

"Four-thousand one-hundred fifty-three."

You gladly write the answer down onto your paper. After you finish writing, you look back at Iwaizumi who stares at you skeptically, noticing that that's all you do: write down the answer. Furrowing his eyebrows, he recalls back to earlier in the day when the teacher mentioned something about docking points if calculations aren't shown for your answers.

"I hope you know we're supposed to show our work. The teacher's grading us mainly based on how we get the answer," he informs you, but you're quick to brush off his words like they're nothing even though he'd be more than happy to help you figure out how to do the questions.

You rub the back of your neck. "Yeah, yeah. I'll do that later. What'd you get for question five?"

"Sixty-two point three-four-seven."

"Thanks. What about question six?"

"Are you just using me for all the answers?" he accuses, finally realising what you're doing. He feels betrayed. He feels used. He can't believe you'd do this to him. "Did you even try?"

"No. Yes. I mean. I did the first three on my own." You even show him your own worksheet for proof. Sure enough, Iwaizumi can see you've at least attempted the first three questions, although he can barely read anything in your chicken-scratch handwriting. He cracks a joking comment about how your answers are probably wrong so you decide to quote his previous words on how the teacher is grading them on your calculations over the answer, and he tosses one of your erasers you'd thrown at him earlier back at you out of spite.

"Anyways. What's question six?" you ask again.

Iwaizumi lets out another dramatic sigh. Or so you think until he starts saying the answer and you realise he was just preparing himself.

"Two-hundred seventy-three million eight-hundred thirty-nine thousand four-hundred twenty-nine point three-six-two."

"What."

"Two-hundred seven—"

"Never mind, I'll just skip that one and try to do it later," you cut in, shaking your head even though internally, both you and him know you won't actually do that. You'll just catch a glimpse of his paper once you think he's not looking and copy off of it. What a leech, he thinks. "Question seven?"

As Iwaizumi reluctantly caves in and relays all the answers to you, he spots something colourful on your upper arm, although most of it's hidden under the sleeve of your shirt, which you've rolled up the sleeves due to the lack of AC in his room. He squints and takes a closer look and realises that it's—

"A tattoo?"

"What." You stare at him and then down at your assignment in confusion.

"No, I'm asking you. You got a tattoo?" he repeats. He makes a vague yet quick gesture at your arm as if it holds some sort of disease. Finally, you realise what he's talking about and suddenly jump up so now you're sitting cross-legged instead of laying down like before. He watches you warily as you proceed to roll up your sleeve even further so that it's bunched up at your shoulder, revealing your tattoo in all its glory.

"Ta-da," you declare dully. Iwaizumi applauds you, not because this is anything interesting but because it's a little too quiet now for his liking. You makes things too awkward sometimes. "It's one of those fake tattoos you put a wet towel over. I'm thinking I'll get the real thing once I'm old enough."

"Oh, wow—" Iwaizumi starts, but you interrupt him.

"But don't tell anyone. Not even Oiks 'cause a big mouth, y'know, and my parents are strongly against that sort of stuff. Against tattoos, I mean," you quickly clarify. "Not Big Mouth Oikawa."

He nods — it's not his business to tell anyone else what you're doing — but then you shove your pinky in his face and wave it tauntingly in front of him.

"Pinky promise."

He lets out a snort at that and swats your hand away like he would a fly. "I'm not doing that. It's stupid," he says honestly, leaning back against the foot of his bed and crossing his arms. He's just telling you the truth, that's all, but then you stare at him like he's just told you to die or something. "Stop staring at me."

"I'll stop if you pinky promise," you insist, pinky finger still extended. A couple of moments later, you amusedly watch him scrunch up his face as if he's about to cry before giving in and begrudgingly locking fingers with you. You'd appreciate it more if he acted a little less resentful but whatever. You take what you can get.

"If you break your promise, I get to cut off your pinky finger," you remind him once he lets go.

He scratches his head. "That's, uh. A little morbid."

"It's tradition."

"Whatever." Then an idea comes to him and the wrinkly expression on his face evaporates. You wonder why for a second until he throws another one of your erasers — the egg-shaped one from the dentist, you note — at you to get your attention even though he already has it. "Hey, you think you could put one of those fake tattoos on me? I wanna see how cool I'll look."

"If you look cool. You might just end up looking like the time I painted your face instead," you say lightly, reminiscing the fundraiser carnival from your second year.

He frowns. You notice he frowns a lot, and you're worried he'll get premature wrinkles before he's even out of high school, but then you suppose that a lot of his frowns are 'cause of you. Whoops. "That's only if you're putting it on my face, which — why would you do that?"

"To cover up that red mark on your forehead."

A hand flies up to his forehead. "What?!"

Whoops.

"Fun fact," you say as you place a wet cloth over the paper, which you've applied face down onto his upper arm since the two of you had made a compromise: if Iwaizumi doesn't kill you for throwing an eraser and accidentally leaving a mark on his forehead, you won't put a tattoo on his face. You think you're supposed to count to thirty seconds so you know when to slide the paper off, but you quickly lose count and decide to just wait for the time on your phone to go up a minute. "I actually don't know how to do this. I had a friend from one of my classes do it for me, and I'm just winging it based on what I remember."

"You're telling me now?! And the instructions are on the back of the box by the way." From his spot on the closed toilet seat, he grabs the box off the counter next to him with his other arm and hands it to you. You skim over the back briefly before shrugging and setting it back down beside the sink. After observing your actions, he decides to remind you that those are instructions, not recommendations.

"Yeah, yeah. At least it's not permanent. I think there's like ten seconds left of this" — you gesture to the cloth pressed against his arm — "so you still have time to change your mind if you want," you suggest, though Iwaizumi's not sure if that's how that works. Regardless, you're right with the first part; it's only a fake tattoo so he lets you continue doing whatever you're doing. Even if it might be wrong.

"Also, why are you holding my arm so tightly? I think it's about to fall off." He moves his other hand up to try and ease your hold on him, but you hit it away. "Ow."

"Sorry. But if you read the instructions, you'd know that it says to hold firmly," you remark snidely. Iwaizumi resists the urge to roll his eyes at you right now.

"It means to hold the cloth firmly against my arm," he explains to you in a typical male manner. "Not my arm itself."

"Oh. My bad then, Hajime."

He feels his face warm up furiously at your usage of his given name, even if you're just mocking him. "What?!" he blurts out, but you choose to ignore it and pretend neither of you ever said anything.

Finally, you announce that it's all done before whipping away the cloth like you're doing some magic trick and peeling off the back of the design, careful to not smudge anything. "What d'ya think? Doesn't it look super legit or what?"

Iwaizumi pushes past you and examines his new fake tattoo in the mirror. You stand beside him, analysing the tattoo as well albeit with your usual neutral expression. "Looks just like a fake tattoo," he muses thoughtfully. "You should form a club at school where you just give people fake tattoos."

You offer one of your rare smiles. "Really? Man, I totally would, but photography club takes up so much of my time." You sound a bit glum at this fact. "Maybe I could make it a weekend service or something. People give me money and in return I give them fake tattoos with a success rate based on their horse cup. I think that would be so cool."

He's too focused on the first thing you said to correct you that it's horoscope and not horse cup. Instead, he questions you on if the photography club being time-consuming is the reason why you're no longer in the art club since it's something he's been wondering for a while.

Your expression shifts into one of confusion. "What."

"Is that why—"

"No, I heard you but literally what are you talking about," you say dryly. "I'm still in the art club. I just don't attend all the meetings and activities anymore."

"Oh, what." His eyebrows dip in confusion. "But none of your artworks are in the halls like the rest of the art club."

You scratch the side of your head. "Oh. Yeah. I never did tell you about it, huh."

Iwaizumi's ears perk up at this. "Tell me what?" he urges.

"I asked the members not to display my art anywhere 'cause there's this group of upperclassmen that's been following me around in the hallways and making fun of me," you tell him, much to his surprise. "The first and only time I hung a finished art piece that I made in the hallway outside the art room, they scribbled all over it with permanent marker and wrote some kinda crude stuff on the side that almost got me in trouble. I figured they'd keep doing it unless I did something about it."

"Have you told a teacher about it? Like, you know who's in the group, right?"

"Only by their faces. The teachers just told me to ignore it, so I guess I'll wait until they get bored or something. Y'know," you add as you offhandedly pick at your fingernails. "I think most of them are fans of Oiks, and that's why they're targeting me."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. I see them in the bleachers during your matches sometimes. They're way nicer when Oiks is around."

Iwaizumi can't help but grimace. He feels like he might throw up.

Your room is different from when Iwaizumi last saw it. He thinks he may have just stepped into the wrong room because the last time he was here, which was maybe a few months ago before the school year even started, he couldn't tell what colour your desk actually was or used to be since it was covered in all sorts of different colours that you left on it and never bothered cleaning.

But now it's all gone. Somehow, you've managed to clean off all the paint marks on it, or maybe you bought a new desk that was the exact same as your old one, and now he can tell that your desk is actually white. It's like looking a newborn baby for the first time; he's not sure if he should be proud (that you finally cleaned your desk) or weirded out (that it's really just plain white this whole time).

He also remembers the numerous cups and small boxes you had sitting on top of it, all labelled with black marker on muddied pieces of tape, as well as all the stray stationary you had messily lying around that made your desk look more like a garage sale than a work area, but now the surface is all empty, save for a fancy camera and a couple photos you have left out. There also used to be to be a giant handmade ceramic pot with an even bigger plant in it sitting beside your desk, but now you've replaced it with a tall lamp. (He wonders where it is now.)

However, no matter how different your desk looks from before, it's not the most drastic change here. The walls of your room used to be painted in your favourite colour and decorated with all kinds of posters from your favourite media and your past artworks, but now they're painted over again in white and there's almost nothing hanging on them. The only thing that Iwaizumi sees on the walls is a calendar and a rack to hang some things.

Iwaizumi thinks he may have just stepped into the wrong room, but with the way you nudge him out of the doorway and then flop onto the bed with an aggravated sigh, it turns out that no, this is in fact your room. You've just decided to change everything.

"Hey, [L/N]?"

"What."

"What's with the drastic change in your room?" He gestures to his surroundings. "It's so minimalistic, it's scary. Are you in your serial killer era or what?"

"Yeah. Thanks for noticing." You suddenly roll off your bed and land onto the floor with a thud. Iwaizumi, alarmed by the unexpected action, peers over at you to check if you're okay, though you seem physically fine for the most part. Mentally, however, he's not so sure.

You jump up from the ground almost comically and grab the camera from your desk to show him. You present it to him like you're doing a YouTube make-up tutorial, hand behind the product and all. "Isn't this so cool? I spent all my savings on it. It's a Fujifilm X-T200," you boast. As if Iwaizumi knows what that is.

"Uhm, yeah," he says unsurely. "Let's just work on the assignment. Don't want Mrs. Ishida scolding you for forgetting again."

"You know, Oikawa wouldn't like it if he saw you harassing one of his best friends."

As per usual, Iwaizumi had been waiting for you in your regular meeting spot after school so that the two of you can walk together. However, after noticing that it's been almost half an hour since you were supposed to be done with your activities and checking his phone to see no text from you that would indicate that you'd be late, he decided to go look for you himself.

After a while of navigating through the entire school, he found you in the middle of a hallway somewhere on the third floor, although you appeared to currently be in the middle of a conversation with some people, who had formed a semi-circle around you as you leaned against the wall. What a weird situation, he thought — and they appeared to be moving closer to you with each passing minute.

Upon first glance, you seemed relaxed by your stance, and he almost thought he shouldn't intervene despite this rather hostile group formation. However, after a couple more moments of waiting, he caught a few words from your conversation that sounded particularly aggressive and put two and two together, realising that these were the fans of Oikawa who had been following you around and bothering you.

Hence why he finally came out of his hiding spot around the corner and spoke up.

"Who are you?" one of the upperclassmen splutters, shocked as though they didn't really expect anyone to come up here. Another whispers in their ear, and the confused glint in their eyes changes to one of recognition. "You're Oikawa's best friend, Iwaizumi," they say intelligently.

After this observation, the rest of the group seem to understand the credibility behind his words because then they all utter something among themselves that Iwaizumi can't quite catch before hurrying down the stairs.

Huh, that was a lot easier than I thought, Iwaizumi muses to himself.

Only one sticks around to say one last thing.

"Don't tell Oikawa about this or else," they say. By the last part of their sentence, Iwaizumi isn't sure if that can be considered a threat, but regardless, he's not looking for a fight so he nods. "I'm serious," they add, still unconvinced by his answer. "Don't tell him. Or anyone, for that matter."

"Okay," he tells them. And then he makes a mental note to remember to tell Oikawa all about it on the phone later as he watches the leftover finally leave to catch up with their friends probably.

Suddenly, before he can even register in his mind what just happened, you grab him by the shoulders, causing him to straighten his posture, and look him dead in the eyes. There might as well be stars in your eyes with how impressed you are at him just now.

"Tell me how you did that right now 'cause that was so cool. I can't believe you just said one sentence, and then suddenly they were all scared and just. Left." You wave your hands wildly to convey your confusion. Or awe. Or some other emotion, he doesn't know actually. "I wished they acted like that when they found out I was Oiks' friend."

All can he do is shrug. "I don't know. But you should let me know the next time people are bothering you. Not to get all sentimental on you or anything, but I'll always have your back, you know."

Though you want to thank him and maybe make fun of him for acting all cheesy now that he's heroically saved you from the bullies or something, you can't quite bring yourself to, so you settle for nodding stiffly before hooking your arm around his and dragging him out of the school to go home.

"Excuse me?"

Despite the verbal warning, Iwaizumi jolts when he feels a tap on his shoulder before turning in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. His natural response is to make the most hideous face ever known to mankind, as per usual whenever he's caught off guard — his eyebrows unintentionally compress together and his face contorts into a scowl that gives the impression he's mildly irritated regardless of whether he actually is or not. And understandably, most people tend to scream and run away before he even gets the chance to redeem himself with a more socially acceptable look, but strangely enough, the person he meets eyes with this time doesn't do that. Instead, there's an unstable smile on their face and an overall nervous expression that looks like they're holding in a couple tears or something.

"Good morning!" they shout suddenly, causing Iwaizumi to stumble back out of pure surprise.

"Good" — his eyes flit toward the items in their hands in a quick and short movement — "morning."

And then he offers a smile, one that's tight and restrained around the corners and doesn't quite reach his eyes, yet he hopes it looks genuine enough to conceal the mild unease that he's feeling right now. They're holding a small box of chocolates and an envelope in their hands — he took note of that a few moments before — and upon further inspection, he can see that on the front of the envelope, there's his name written with a cutesy heart next to it, along with a couple more words below it:

A hundred hearts would be too few to carry all of my love for you.

He blinks. Once and then twice for good measure to make sure he's really seeing things right. No, he cries out mentally. In his mind, his mouth is shaped into an oval and his hands are pressed to the sides of his face for the dramatic effect. It couldn't be...?!

The corners of their mouth twitch. They briefly look toward the doorway, where two of their friends are standing with thumbs-up and toothy grins, and then they look back at Iwaizumi, their forehead glistening underneath the classroom's fluorescent lights in a nervous sweat. Iwaizumi is a near mirror reflection of them; even his now wobbly smile can't conceal his restlessness, as evident in the way he's fidgeting with the charms on his phone like they'll suddenly fall off and run away.

(He reminisces lightly. You had gotten both of them for him a while back, for Christmas and as an end-of-the-year gift, and they're a little disgusting now if he has to be honest, having significantly tinted an ugly shade of piss-yellow over the past few years. But for some reason, he can't be bothered to take either of them off, even after Oikawa somehow lost his matching one during practice and you accidentally vacuumed yours up in the middle of deep cleaning your desk.

They're sentimental, he thinks. That might be why.)

"I'm — so sorry to bother you, but my name is Nakamura! From class 1-4!" The words tumble out in a rushed mess as if they have no control over what they're saying, and truthfully, Iwaizumi is only able to make out last part of the sentence. He then remembers there's only a few minutes before the bell rings; whatever it is this Nakamura from class 1-4 has to say to him, he hopes it won't make them late to their class. "I have these to give to you. For you! From me!"

They proceed not-so-gracefully shove the items toward him, so that he has no other choice but to take them, and then glance shyly to the side. "I hope you like them. I know we've never actually met before, and uh. Man, I don't know if you — if you even like chocolate... But please read the letter inside it once you have the time to. I put a lot of thought into it and... I hope you feel the same way..."

Their rambling continues to serve as background noise to Iwaizumi as he stares down at the gifts dumbly for a couple of moments. No, it couldn't be! a voice in the back of his mind exclaims again in an even more melodramatic manner.

Shut up, he retaliates to himself. He gawks at the letter and the chocolates some more until at some point the realisation clicks in, and then in an instant, he feels all at once an increase in the temperature, his pulse quickening, and the palms of his hands sweating as if he's just ran a marathon.

So it is.

He hastily snaps out of it though, suddenly remembering to properly voice his gratitude. In response, Nakamura from class 1-4 nods so frantically that he's somewhat afraid their neck might snap from the vigorousness of the action.

"It's really no problem. Happy Valentine's Day!" They scuttle away out the door after that, an imaginary trail of smoke following them right as the bell rings, leaving Iwaizumi vaguely confused. However, he doesn't have the time to muse on it any further once the teacher walks in and signals for the class to return to their seats, so he shoves the gifts inside his backpack before zipping it shut.

So someone had given him chocolates and a letter for Valentine's Day. It's really no big deal. However, no matter how many times he repeats this to himself, with the way things are going it doesn't seem like the butterflies in his stomach are going away anytime soon.

It's no big deal, yet he can't stop staring at the envelope, even as he's reaching into his backpack to pull out a notebook. Even as he's zipping his backpack up before he slings it over his shoulder and heads off in the direction of the school gym and even as he's tugging his t-shirt over his head in the clubroom right before practice — it's there, front facing up atop of the chocolates. Iwaizumi Hajime ♡ A hundred hearts would be too few to carry all of my love for you, in all its glory.

It's really not that big of a deal, but he feels like he might combust if he doesn't find out what's in the envelope soon.

Today, you have no club meetings to attend so it's one of the rare occasions you're spectating the team from the sidelines, papers and other materials in disarray all around you as you attempt to work on your schoolwork.

Iwaizumi observes you from the other side of the gym and wonders if you've received anything for Valentine's Day, before a volleyball promptly meets his face, serving as a painful reminder to pay attention.

"What's that," you ask him, sounding mildly interested as you fix your eyes on the envelope in his hands and plop onto the ground in front of him. Even though he was strongly against it, you're on a group call with Oikawa, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa regardless since they felt left out and they asked somewhat nicely, hence why he can hear some incoherent noises of confusion before you clarify that you're talking to Iwaizumi, not them.

With incredible brute strength, Iwaizumi tears off the top of the envelope, ignoring your remark on how he could've accidentally ripped whatever was inside by doing that, and haphazardly pulls out a small piece of paper from inside it. "'Dear Iwaizumi,'" he reads out loud as soon as the words appear in his line of vision. "'I have a small confession. Forgive this pouring of my heart.'"

Before he can continue on, he hears some more indistinct sounds coming from your phone. You pause thoughtfully for a second and then turn on the speaker as you shove your phone in his face. A voice nearly as tumultuous as a sperm whale blares directly into his ear, and he assumes it must be Oikawa: "WHAT'S GOING ON?"

You quickly turn down the volume a few levels. "He's, uh, he's reading this love letter he got at school," you answer on his behalf. He hears multiple gasps coming from the other end followed by something along the lines of he's reading a what?! and takes this as a sign to continue now that the audience is well-informed.

"'I cherish the school hallway, where we first met,'" he reads. "'The moment I clapped eyes on you, I thought you were so cool. You were my Man-Crush-Monday for the longest time. However, I have recently begun to regard you as much more than just that. My feelings for you intensified when I saw you volleyballing in the gym. I was further wowed by your tremendous spiking skills. You have ears like epic carrots and the most sporty face I've ever seen. When I look at you, I just want to hug those epic carrot ears and smooch that sporty face. You're so special with your lovely ways. The way you handle your awesome-sauce team shows great patience and kindness. I know that to you I'm just a stranger, but I think we could be happy together, happily in love like two super cool fish. Please accept these chocolates and say you'll be mine, Iwaizumi Hajime!'"

"Well?" says an eager voice from the other end. He thinks it might be Oikawa, though it's slightly hard to tell with the call's distortion. "Are you? Are you?!"

"Am I... what?"

"Oh my god" — Iwaizumi imagines he's rolling his eyes at this moment — "you troglodyte. Are you gonna, you know, accept their love? Say you'll be theirs?"

"Oh. I don't know. I don't even know how I'm gonna respond to them," he replies with an exasperated eye roll even though he's acutely aware no one but you can witness it. It's not like there's a classic YES/NO written on the back with a simple instruction that tells him he's supposed to circle one, as typical of the confessions Oikawa got in middle school, and in-person confrontation doesn't sound at all very appealing.

"What do you mean? Obviously, just walk up to them before class and tell them."

"I am NOT doing that."

"Hey, Iwaizumi..." Hanamaki begins, suddenly sounding like he's holding in a really big cough. "How come you didn't give chocolates and a love letter to [L/N] for Valentine's Day?"

If this was a cartoon, Iwaizumi's eyes would practically be bulging out of his eye sockets right now. His face furiously heats up. "What?"

Before Hanamaki can start to elaborate, Oikawa cuts in.

"Iwaizumi Hajime, I'm so disappointed in you! You're literally their closest friend." Oikawa clicks his tongue as evidence of his disappointment. "Even I was gracious enough to give chocolates to all four of you."

"Only 'cause you had extras! Those chocolates were originally for you from your fans."

"Well," Oikawa splutters, the noise of his spit echoing through the call for a split second, and then he explodes, "that's not the point!"

Following after his words, his other two friends proceed to boo Iwaizumi, not particularly because they agreed with Oikawa in any way but because they felt like it.

"BOO! YOU SUCK!"

Rolling his eyes, Iwaizumi looks down at the letter and then at the envelope and the chocolates that now lay discarded on the ground and then back at the letter in his hands. This process goes on for a long while, and suddenly there's that voice again: It'd be kinda nice if these were from [L/N].

(He blinks as a moment of clarity washes over him. Shit, what was wrong with him? Was he possessed?)

He pushes the thought out of his head as quickly as it came to him.

Iwaizumi's thinking again. Maybe his friends are right, as much as he hates to admit it. Maybe he should have gotten you something for Valentine's Day, as a symbol of his friendship or something. But, paraphrasing what Nakamura from class 1-4 so wisely said, Man, he doesn't even know if you like chocolate. (At that, he frowns. He's known you for years.)

MESSAGES APP

[ Nakamura > ] TODAY, 2:21PM

Nakamura: hiii iwaizumi!! are u free next friday?

0X-XXXX-XXXX: I am :)

Nakamura: great! there's this new restaurant downtown that i heard is rlly good. how about we check it out together?

0X-XXXX-XXXX: Sure, what time did you want to go?

Nakamura: i was thinking maybe around 6-6:30pm?? idk whatever works best for u is fine by me :)

"Iwaaaaa! Why do you look so happy? Who're you texting?"

Iwaizumi scoffs as he proceeds to combat Oikawa's feeble attempts to sneak a peek at his screen. "No one, Nosy-kawa. It's none of your business anyway."

"Uh-huh," his best friend drawls, not the slightest convinced. "Is it [L/N]? You're always smiling like that whenever you're texting them."

Iwaizumi freezes and his grip becomes slack. "I what?"

Suddenly, Oikawa's yanking his phone out of his grasp, and before Iwaizumi even gets the chance to recover or process what's happening now, he's already reading out loud the name at the top of the screen with the impressive literacy skills of a kindergartener. "Na...ka...mura? Who's Nakamura?"

"Give that back, Shittykawa!"

Nakamura is nice. Iwaizumi learns over the next week that they're really into old-timey poetry and and that their favourite animal is the spotted wobbegong.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Iwaizumi looks down at the time for the nth time within the past half hour and then at the brief text conversation between him and Nakamura from earlier in the day.

He isn't too sure about romance and all that, but he supposes that going to dinner at a restaurant with someone who confessed their love to him is what people would typically call a romantic date. However, he's not really feeling neither the romantic aspect nor the date aspect, especially now that it's been over thirty minutes since Nakamura was supposed to show up and twenty minutes since he sent a quick message to them, asking if they're on their way.

No, scratch that. Iwaizumi finds himself watching the time on his phone go up a number once again, and now it's been twenty-one minutes since his last message. He likes to think that he's generally a patient person, yet he can't help but grow increasingly irritated as more time passes. He decides to send another message, figuring that maybe they didn't get the notification from the first. It happens sometimes, he gets it.

Surprisingly, the Read tick mark shows up just seconds after he hits send. Three dots pop up in the corner, taunting him as he waits for an answer.

And then...

Still no response. The dots disappear.

He decides to send another message consisting of a singular question mark, but it doesn't go through and instead he's met with an automated message: You can no longer message this person. The corners of his mouth turn downward when the disappointing realisation hits him—

He had officially been stood up.

Iwaizumi is not that heartbroken or anything weird like that. No, considering he didn't even know their name up until Valentine's Day, he thinks that would be ridiculous, even if he did get to know them over text during the days leading up to what was supposed to be the date. But for some unknown reason, he feels the odd need to go to your house and tell you all about it right now, and that's exactly what he does.

"Nakamura didn't show up," he announces while hanging up his jacket on the singular rack you have hooked onto the wall and dropping everything else onto the floor beneath it. He makes himself comfy by flopping onto your bed, though careful to not mess up anything too much because you've decided recently to just sleep on top of the covers everyday so that you don't have to make your bed anymore. You like to call yourself innovative and a genius for it, but he believes the word unhinged would be more accurate.

You're in the middle of rummaging through the drawers of your desk when he breaks the unfortunate news to you. Although your back is turned to him and you seem to be preoccupied with trying to find the specific camera you want to use for your newest project, you make it somewhat clear that you're listening by asking him, "They didn't?"

Iwaizumi sense a headache coming on upon thinking about it, and it makes him feel nauseous for a very quick moment; he could've thrown up if it wasn't for the fact that this is your room and it would be sort of rude to suddenly spew vomit all over your floor. Instead, he shuts his eyes and places a hand over them, effectively blocking out the brightness of your ceiling light. The sick feeling doesn't completely go away, but at least the headache wanes a little bit.

"Yeah, they blocked me."

"Man," you say as an expression of your dismay. "I'm sorry to hear that."

He then rolls over onto his side and finds himself face-to-face with one of the many stuffed animals you have lined up on your pillow. It actually takes him a few seconds to recover from the shock he gets from looking at it because it's a little grotesque after years of being in your possession, resembling a mixture of CGI gone wrong and a biblically accurate angel, but once he does, he's left wondering why you have this godforsaken thing on your bed and if it's always been there.

"Hey, [L/N]? What's... this?"

You continue searching through your desk, not bothering to look up. "What's what."

He blinks at his reflection in its beady eyes and glares at it for a long while in silence. A shiver runs up his spine, and for some reason, he suddenly feels the strange compulsion to not ask about it further anymore. "Nevermind," he says instead.

At that, you tilt your head in his direction, gradually lowering your hands that are currently holding a Sigma FP Mirrorless Digital Camera, one of your favourites but not quite what you're looking for for your project. "Are you — okay?" There's a slight arch in your eyebrow. You're beginning to think that this was more serious than you'd initially thought.

"Yeah." He pauses, and an amused expression crosses his face. "What, are you worried about me?"

"Yes," you affirm, returning to whatever you were doing. "You must've really liked them, didn't you."

Oh.

"No—yes," he begins without thinking, which costs him sounding like a broken CD at first. "Maybe? Well, I don't know." Out of frustration, he sighs and scratches an itch above his lip as if it'll help him come to a coherent conclusion. It actually kind of does. "Maybe I did like them. Or maybe I only liked the idea of someone taking interest in me for once. Either way, I'm kind of glad that it didn't work out in the end. I'd rather spend my time with you over anything else anyway."

Perhaps it's your hideous stuffed animal that possesses him all of a sudden, or maybe he really is heartbroken after being stood up on a date for the very first time, but the last part slips out easily without much thought put into it.

You freeze upon processing his words. Cue a record scratch and then a small voice in the back of your mind — what did he say? — the last word echoing dramatically along with a high-pitched continuous beep in the background as if you're a character in some TV show suddenly having either an epiphany or a concussion, which you think is a perfect representation of how you feel right now as something in your hand slips and falls back in the deep depths of your desk, creating a horrendous series of noises that sounds a lot like a middle school band performance.

Embarrassment seeps into your skin and spreads through your veins as you slowly reach back into your drawer, curl your fingers around the dropped object, and bring it up to your face to examine it for any damage, though you're not as concerned about it as much as you are over how you should react. You don't do well with this sort of stuff; whenever he said anything remotely cringe or sweet (synonymous), you'd usually acknowledge it with a nod or something of the sort and leave it at that for both yours and his sake, but you have a feeling you can't really do that in this situation.

You swallow an invisible lump in your throat. A lobotomy seems nice right about now.

"I... like spending time with you too," you start in a painstakingly slow manner, and already you want to punt yourself in the head. You're not sure where you're trying to go with this, but, feeling the humiliation start to burn the back of your throat, you scramble for something more to say — anything. "Even if you're always making fun of my room, saying it looks like a hospital ward."

After a beat, he turns around and shoots you a glare, which at least gives you some indication that what you said wasn't totally socially unacceptable.

"What? I've never said anything like that. You probably heard it from someone else," he retaliates, sounding a little too defensive for someone who's apparently innocent of the offence you've just accused him of as he pushes himself up to sit cross-legged atop your bed. Taking the ugly stuffed animal in his hands, he proceeds to juggle it like he would with a volleyball, and you scrutinise his problematic actions through narrowed eyes, though the tension in your shoulders eases.

"Like who."

"Like— I don't know." He quickly ransacks his brain for someone to blame. "Shittykawa."

You stare blankly at him for a long while. It was already obvious that he was lying even before he spewed out the name, but now you have clear-cut evidence of it. You've seen Oikawa's Pinterest boards, or rather been blinded by it many times. He's into the all-white minimalist aesthetic. You know he'd never diss your room like that.

It doesn't take much for Iwaizumi to crumble along with his bluffs. You reach out and pull on his cheek hard. "Lying is bad," you scold him. He swats your hand away and, for good measure, scoots to the other side of the bed to be as far away from you as possible. Briefly, he considers jumping out the window to get even farther away from you.

"Come on, you can't blame me. Look." He gestures wildly toward your surroundings and begins to narrate everything in your room. You nod along, pretending as though this is all new to you. "Everything is white. The walls. The floor. Your bed. Your desk."

"Yes."

"And look." He then holds the stuffed animal in front of him at an arm's length, as if it carries some sort of disease. (And by the looks of it, it probably does.) "This... thing. Makes me wanna hurl just by looking at it. Personally, the only situation I'd ever sleep in the same room as it is if I was a seriously ill patient and on my deathbed."

Now you're severely offended. You can't believe he'd say such a cruel thing. "Don't say that."

"Do you get nightmares from this?"

There's a long silence that settles between you.

"It's sentimental," you finally insist instead of answering.

His eyebrows nearly meet his hairline out of shock from your statement. How can something so creepy-looking be considered sentimental for you? He doesn't understand. "Uh-huh... How about I do you a favour and punt this fugly thing out the window?"

In all honesty, it was meant to be a joke; he wasn't really going to do it, even if he was considering it a little bit. However, what he didn't expect was for you to suddenly forget whatever you're doing, jump up from the floor, and lunge at him as soon as the words leave his mouth. His upper back hits your pillows behind him with a soft thud! upon the full impact of your hands ramming against his shoulders before he's yanked forward immediately once you latch onto the demented stuffed animal, and a classic game of tug-of-war officially commences between the two of you.

The floorboards creak under you as you shove a clothed foot against the side of your bed for leverage and simultaneously push and pull as hard as you can, while Iwaizumi, for his own sake, focuses on trying to not fall off your bed and splat on your floor like a dead bug. He finds out quickly, though, that if he just spreads his legs super wide and stands as if there's a huge boulder under him, he's able to maintain his balance fairly well, even if it does make him look insane.

Not to brag or anything, but Iwaizumi has never lost in a game of tug-in-war no matter what. You, on the other hand, well... you've lost countless, and this time is no exception, even when you've clearly got the upper hand. With one final yank, the stuffed animal slips out of your grasp, and you crumble to the floor in defeat like you're being crushed by a hydraulic press.

"Ha-ha," he says dryly, "I win. Seethe."

You stare up at him, appearing scandalised even though you can't deny that he's right, and do exactly as he says. "This is absolutely not funny," you claim with a dramatic finger pointing in his direction to express your anger. "My lawyer will be in contact."

A faint smile tugs at his lips, the corners lifting just barely enough for you to discern. "You're just a sore loser."

And then, instead of carrying out with his initial threat like you thought he would, he shoves the stuffed animal down into the small space between your bed and the wall, leaving it to mingle with all the dust and cobwebs and whatnot, and you appear scandalised for the second time in a row. You can't decide which is worse but you declare it as cold-hearted betrayal nonetheless — after all, there's no way in hell you're ever sticking your hand down there.

AOBA JŌSAI HIGH YEAR TWO

In his childhood, Iwaizumi remembers time feeling a lot like a river. When he thinks of time, he imagines a long, shallow stream that trickles down the earth, undemanding and deliberate; one adorned with all kinds of natural twists and turns and timeworn, flattened rocks that he'd use as stepping stones to get across because when he's younger and hardly meeting the height requirements for all the big kid rollercoasters at amusement parks, everything always seems much more vast with neither beginning nor end in sight.

To a kid, time is a river because it's so slow-moving, unquantified by the dates on a calendar or a constant ticking clock counting every second of every day. Instead, it's measured by the breaks he has off school that never seem to arrive any quicker, by the ridges etched onto the frame of the doorway to mark his height and tell him how much he's grown since the previous year.

Time is told by the cluster of colourful alphabet magnets, now rotting away in the bottommost corner of the refrigerator, that once spelled out his name and held up family photos taken on a shitty camera; by the large indent in the backyard fence from when him and Oikawa first decided to give volleyball a try, by the flickering street lamps in his neighbourhood that once shone brightly enough to indicate when playtime ended, and by all the ruptures and cracks weathered permanently into the concrete underneath rubber bike tires and the soles of frolicking children.

(Time, then, felt infinite.)

When he's older, though, time is measured in numbers and dates, and suddenly there's not enough of it. Like sand pouring to the bottom of an hourglass— there's a limit, a countdown of some kind. Time no longer feels like a river because it seems so slow-moving, but because it flows only in one direction.

And at certain points, rapidly.

Too quickly, perhaps, because it's like this: Iwaizumi blinks, and two months slip away between his fingers, easily, as spring saunters in with remnants of winter thawing beneath its footsteps. Another blink, and the entire first term of his second year passes by in a blur. And as much as he knows this is just a normal thing that comes with growing older, the thought of time moving so fast that he can't properly process it still plagues him, way more often than he'd like to admit — a burden that he carries on his shoulders as of lately.

A particularly cool breeze slips through the window, cracked slightly open. Iwaizumi feels it more than he hears it, shivering as the air sweeps across his bare neck. Goosebumps arise in its wake, making his skin look like a sheet of unpopped bubble wrap, and it almost makes him regret having you cut his hair for reasons other than the fact that it could turn absolutely horrible because, well, it's you and you're obviously not a professional barber.

However, his hair was starting to get a little long, you didn't have anything to do today anyway, and going to you is way cheaper than going to an actual hairdresser, even if it means he'll get whatever results that are worthy of a can of soda and eight-hundred yen. Plus, how bad could it turn out anyway? He knows you'd never purposefully sabotage him.

"I am almost done," you announce uselessly for the most part, considering it's the nth time you've said those exact words within the span of maybe fifteen-ish minutes. He doesn't know how many more I'm almost done's he'll have to sit through until you're actually finished cutting his hair — perhaps far too many to count at this point, to the extent where it's actually concerning.

Regardless of his growing irritability (either you don't notice or just don't care enough to address it), you continue to hack at his hair with a pair of scissors like it's something you've been doing all your life or something you could possibly even do in your sleep, deciding to start with the top part, then the middle, and lastly the bottom section. You believe this technique is called layering, though you're not entirely sure, but whatever. Even if you're not confident in the correct terminology, you're confident enough in your abilities to recreate the epic hair-do that Iwaizumi showed you a picture of on his phone.

Again: "I am almost done."

You circle around him to examine the progress of his hair. With a noise that sounds a little too close to a dissatisfied hum, thus causing his concerns to literally skyrocket to the exosphere, you take a section of his hair and try to even it out with the rest. So, he thinks, maybe asking you to cut his hair was a bad idea, but it's too late to undo it all now. He supposes he'll have to just pray and trust the process with this one, which honestly is a lot harder than it sounds, but hey, at least it's summer break and his hair'll definitely grow back by the time he returns to school... Hopefully.

"I am almost—"

"You've been saying that for the last twenty minutes," he finally enunciates his truth, scratching an itch near his eyebrow as if it'll somehow console his worries in any way (it does not, for the record). "Don't say you're almost done when you're obviously not almost done."

"Almost can mean anything," you say eloquently, like what you're about to say is going to be something profound. "It's sort of subjective, so like. My definition of almost could be different from your definition of almost, but that doesn't mean I'm not almost done just 'cause you think I'm not almost done."

He blinks vacantly at the wall in front of him, trying to comprehend your words, but honestly, it just goes in one ear and out the other.

"What," he settles for, though he supposes he should elaborate for your sake, so— "What the fuck is your point?"

"My point is that you're wrong."

You proceed to exhibit awful customer service by letting out yet another declaration of being almost done, and for emphasis, there's a loud snip! coming from your scissors. An irk mark appears cartoonishly on his forehead, though he doesn't say anything, figuring it might be best not to provoke you until the scissors are far from his hair (that is, if he'll still have any by the end of this haircut) and out of your reach.

After what seems like forever, you finally set the scissors down on the table beside you and then start to brush away some hairs that had fallen onto his face as a result of your lack of carefulness, fingers sweeping across his cheek. Oddly enough, Iwaizumi finds your touch soothing, and this is when he becomes painfully aware of the fact that he's never quite seen you this close up before for longer than an accidental, fleeting moment. He can see up your nostrils from this angle and count your eyelashes one-by-one; and not that he's always thought you stunk, but he's particularly surprised when he catches a waft of the fragrance you wear and it smells nice.

Airy, fresh, and comforting. It suits you. He swears he can physically feel the scent against his skin as you step forward and slightly bend your knees with narrowed eyes, trying to pick up a singular hair off the tip of his nose between your index finger and thumb. It makes his chest feel all weird like some invisible force is pressing down on the area where his heart is, a similar feeling as when he drinks a can of soda too fast, and the air suddenly feels like it's??? Running out. He isn't sure why.

Soon, you move away before passing him a mirror, and immediately after his reflection comes into view, his breath hitches. You must have mistaken this as the beauty of your work literally taking his breath away because then you ask him, a little too haughtily, what he thinks about it.

"It's—" He swallows.

Sadly, though, the unfortunate truth is as follows: IT'S HIDEOUS!

"What the hell, [L/N]?" A few more blinks from him emphasise the shock in his statement. He hopes you don't notice how unusually high-pitched his voice has become at the moment.

"You like it?" you ask.

"It's... interesting. But I can't go out like this."

"Okay, uhm. What's that supposed to mea—"

"Here's your money and your drink." Iwaizumi suddenly twists his body to rummage through his duffle bag for your payment. Once he finds what he needs, he shoves the money into your hands and pops open the can of soda before shoving that into your hands as well. An awkward smile makes its way to his face, somehow, in spite of the mess on his head. "Thanks for the haircut."

You stare at him blankly for a couple of seconds as if trying to analyse him before shrugging as if to say Okay and accepting the payment in a rather lukewarm manner.

Ultimately, Iwaizumi learns two things:

1) To consult a professional barber next time because you cannot cut hair for your life.

2) Being close to you, strangely, gives him symptoms of heart failure.

Sometimes, the thought of time moving too quick strikes Iwaizumi in the most mundane of moments, often in the middle of a particularly boring class or during the walk to school when his surroundings are reduced to nothing but a quiet buzzing sound in his ears that doesn't require too much of his attention, thereby leaving him to his thoughts. Then, in a manner similar to lightning during a storm, it quells as quickly as it came.

But other times, other times, it gets him right as he's about to go to sleep. With spindly invisible claws, it crawls right under his skin as if it's a home and remains there until the early hours of morning when the sunrise slips through the spaces in between his blinds, scattering across the familiar grey of his walls. And whenever that happens, he just... lays there in a cold sweat, kind of like a dead body. Unmoving. The only difference is that, unlike the deceased, his mind and heart are racing. Fast.

Because when he thinks of time, he doesn't think of a lazy, shallow river anymore. Instead, what comes to mind now is a cataract, an image of water swishing over the ledge in an erratic disarray before plunging toward the bottom and hitting the rocks with a violent splash!, because time isn't gradual and steady so much as it's tumultuous and fast-moving now.

And sure, that's normal. He knows that's a thing of life — yet a large part of him can't help but dread the foreboding day when high school graduation comes with a foot meeting his rear, the day in which the inevitable future'll engulf him whole and everything he's familiar with is wiped away in an instant before he's even ready.

If he'll ever be ready for when that happens, that is.

That's just the thing: he isn't certain what he'll do once his future's left up to him because life is full of changes and continuities, causes and effects. There's the fear that whatever decision he ends up throwing into the unknown, or whatever path he blindly chooses to take, will either fall short of anything profound or lead him to become so, so utterly and permanently miserable that he becomes forever known as Iwaizumi Hajime, the Loser Who Peaked In High School.

A shiver racks his body at the prospect.

Seventeen is a fickle age, vicious and wayward; the age of in between and change, the cusp of adulthood. He feels as if all that time he was supposed to spend in his childhood figuring himself out — all his goals and dreams and stuff, something like that — has only gone to waste now, and sometimes, he would rather be thirteen again and blissfully unaware. Thirteen, when time still seemed as if it stretched on and on forever like a vast ocean with no shore in sight. Other times, he wishes he was fifteen and in denial of the fact that time was becoming more like a ticking bomb with each day, and there was nothing he could to do to stop it.

(Autumn falls into a deep slumber. Winter creeps in without a sound.)

Studying for winter term final exams with you never gets any more productive than the past couple of years. He might even say it gets less productive as time goes by, even with the change in scenery: instead of the familiarity of your hospital-esque room or his plain and ordinary room, it's the towering walls of volumes that surround you and him along the harsh shush that the librarian emits once in a while whenever the ambience starts getting a little too loud for her liking.

You hunch over the table with one of your knees brought up to your chest and the end tip of your pen pressed against your cheek as if it'll help you concentrate when really all that does is leave a slight indent every time you lift the pen, making it look like you attempted DIY dimples. Meanwhile, Iwaizumi sits in the chair across from you with numerous papers surrounding him in almost all directions, exhibiting equally as bad, if not worse, posture as his eyes skim through his notes.

However, when the words and numbers begin to blur together and his laptop starts beat-boxing with an alarmingly loud, fan-like sound, he takes that as a sign from the universe to take a break. It's well-needed in his opinion, anyway. After all, although the both of you appear to be deep in concentration, clearly only one of you's finding any success in actually studying for the upcoming finals next week.

In fact, you're not even trying to hide it, and that's evident by your closed notebooks and the stack of worksheets you've yet to even glance at, both of which you instead decided to discard to the side since the second you sat down in favour of bringing out your favourite markers and your sketchbook.

Observing you scribble across the paper with your lips twisting in concentration, Iwaizumi notes that your art style's changed. Even as someone who doesn't know a thing about art, he can tell most of the subtle differences from watching you draw so often.

For one, your lines aren't as careful as they usually are; they're sharp, bold, tactically crooked yet somehow indicate confidence. The shadows are particularly defined in a way that reminds him of a comic book, and the colours you select are vibrant enough to blind him — neon reds, yellows, and blues that seem to clash when he sees them on the caps of the markers that roll around on the table in a disarrayed cluster after you're done with them, but somehow, they look fine when you put them on paper.

At some point, you sense his gaze on you. It's hard not to when minutes before, he was exhibiting academic weapon behaviour and now he's just craning his neck like a giraffe to creepily watch you. A staring contest commences between the two of you as you wait for the other to speak first.

Your voice finally cuts through the silence, "You wanna draw too?"

He blinks at you once, then twice. "What?"

"You and all your staring's making me think you want something from me."

Before he has the chance to respond, you shove all your utensils onto his side of the table and start searching for a blank sheet of paper to give him. The chair scrapes against the floor as he scrambles to stop you and pushes everything back to your side, all while ignoring the librarian who's sending death glares his way as if he's just committed a crime in front of her very eyes.

"God, no. I was just watching you draw 'cause you seemed focused," he says, this time more mindful of his volume. Smiling faintly, he adds, "And I have to study, y'know. Because unlike someone here, I wanna try and pass my finals."

"That's 'cause you're a nerd," you taunt.

"Nerd?" His smile drops to the floor and runs away. What replaces it is an incredulous look, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. "You'd be the same way if your club also threatened to boot you if you didn't pass your exams."

"No, I wouldn't. I'd still do perfectly fine without studying 'cause I'm just that good," you say. "Constantly beating the skill issue allegations, not that there's any about me."

"I'd say perfectly fine is an overstatement."

"You're jealous."

"Not jealous. And the hell is a skill issue allegation?"

You ignore him. Iwaizumi takes that as another sign from the universe; this time, for him to go back to studying.

Iwaizumi rests his chin on the palm of his hand as if it'll help him pay attention to the presentation better, his eyelids threatening to shut any second now. The presentation's got something to do with college and career readiness, if he recalls the name of the slideshow correctly, and it's apparently supposed to help students consider their options and plan out their future, though he can't say it's working. Maybe if the presentation wasn't such a bore, he'd be more inclined to listen, but to be fair, he isn't sure if a remotely interesting presentation is even possible with the way his teacher talks — or rather, drones on and on without inflection.

You're not too far in difference from his opinion on this presentation, although your method of passing the time is slightly more productive. You've decided to doodle all across his arm with some random chewed-up pen you found on the ground earlier and pretend as if you're a tattoo artist doing this for some actual money when in reality you're just doing this for your own entertainment... or are you really?

"I'm done. Now pay up."

"What?!"

"Iwaizumi. [L/N]," the teacher scolds you from her desk, interrupting her presentation to give you a stern look, which, as a result, brings about a cacophony of oohs that erupts from your classmates for less than a second before being silenced with a sharp shush. You pretend not to see or hear anything, staring blankly at the floor tiles as if they suddenly interest you. On the other hand, Iwaizumi slowly slides down in his seat in embarrassment, feeling like he's just birthed a million spiders with all these eyes on him, the curious stares of his classmates burning holes into the back of his head.

"I won't be giving any more warnings after this. If I catch you two being disruptive for the remainder of class, it'll be detention."

"ᴼᵏᵃʸ."

After the presentation resumes and everyone's moved on, you whip your head around and narrow your eyes at him like he has just offended you personally. "Can't believe you and your loud mouth almost got us in trouble."

"Me?" His eyebrows furrow in disbelief.

"I was kidding, obviously," you continue. "You get a 100% off discount 'cause we're friends and all."

Iwaizumi fixes his neck-breaking posture before sending a half-hearted glare in your direction. "Should've made that more obvious, stupid. You didn't sound like you were joking, so of course I thought you were being serious."

"I think I was being obvious enough. But, I guess...," you pause, pretending to ponder, and then, after some moments, shrug and lean back in your chair with a softer lilt in your tone, "...if that's how you want to perceive it."

"How I want to perceive it?" he repeats, wrinkling his nose. He wonders if this is some sort of gaslighting tactic. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

"Well, I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

"Okay."

A silence falls between the two of you.

"Hello?" he says as if the two of you are on a call.

"It's whatever you think it's supposed to mean. The sky is the limit. The limit is you," you philosophise.

"Literally what are you saying right now."

Before he can hear the answer to his question, the teacher claps her hands, and when Iwaizumi looks to the front of the classroom, he realises that the presentation is nearly over with only a couple of minutes left before the bell rings.

"Class, please take out a sheet of lined paper," she instructs. "Write your name at the top, you'll be turning this in by the end of class as a participation grade."

She eyes both you and Iwaizumi, who again slumps in his chair. You bow your head down and act as though writing your name on your paper is some super difficult feat that requires your full attention.

She begins slowly pacing around the classroom.

"I want you all to write about your plans after graduation. It can be anything, whether we discussed it in the presentation or not. Perhaps you plan on going to university straight away or taking a gap year. Maybe you want to travel, get a job, join the military, volunteer. The options are endless. And, as I covered before, it's okay to not be sure of what you plan to do, but keep in mind that the end of the year is nearing and soon you'll be in your last year of high school, which of course will fly by very quickly..."

Iwaizumi's face sours and shrivels up like a plant that hasn't been watered in a while. Last year of high school... will fly by very quickly. There's that unsettling thought again; he wonders if it'll ever go away.

You flick an eraser at his arm.

"What?"

"I finished mine." You hold up your paper for proof, and indeed, you've already written down your plans after graduation, presumably. He scrutinises his own paper with a frown. Unlike yours, it's glaringly blank. "If you're done with yours, I'll turn both of ours in."

He blinks and stares down at his blank paper again for a moment before scribbling something down quickly and then handing it to you with a quiet thanks. Although he's well-aware that this small assignment isn't a legal document or anything that'll set his future in stone and Mrs. Ishida isn't going to watch over him for the rest of his life to make sure he does exactly what he wrote, he can't help feeling sick to his stomach as nausea burgeons in his body.

"Iwaizumi. Are you ok—"

"I'm fine," he mutters gruffly, shaking his head as if the action will clear his mind of all his worries. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Dunno." You shrug. "Just— you look like you're holding in a fart. Like there's something really bothering you and you just have to let it out in order to be mentally okay."

"Well, I'm not." In an attempt to change the subject, he asks, "What're you planning on doing after we graduate?"

"Me? Hm." You pretend to think for a moment and then answer, "I don't know. I lied on my paper."

"Really? I've always thought you wanted to go to art school."

"Yeah."

"So why not?"

"I enjoy art as a hobby, but I don't really want it as a career." You rest the side of your face in the palm of your hand, tracing shapes onto the desk with your opposite finger. "I think it'd get kinda sad after a while, no matter how much I like it. What're your plans?"

With a grimace, Iwaizumi supposes he had, technically, walked himself right into that one, though it's a little too late to take it back now.

"I don't know either."

"Not volleyball, huh."

"No — yes — just... I don't want to go pro," he confesses, "but maybe something related to volleyball would be alright."

"I see." You lean back in your chair with a distant gaze set on the bleak chalkboard in front of you before laying a heavy hand on his shoulder and patting it. "Well, I'm sure we'll figure it out eventually. Don't stress too much about it."

The bell rings. The two of you stand up and sling your backpacks around your shoulders. Students start to shove past you as they make their way to the exit, but for some reason, Iwaizumi lingers by the doorway without leaving the classroom, even after everyone else has already left so now it's just the two of you alone. You give him a silent questioning look and he answers.

"You're making it sound easier than it actually is," he says quietly. "We have only a year before we graduate."

"Okay." You blink at him idly. You don't see what's the issue.

His fingers furl. He swallows a lump in his throat harshly. There's a beat of hesitation and then—

"I really don't know what I want to do with my life," he blurts out, "and I'm terrified of making a decision that I'll end up miserable with later. You know, it feels like everything I do as soon as I graduate will be set in stone, and just thinking about the future... it's all so overwhelming 'cause everything'll be changing, and I'm not ready for that."

A beat of silence, then — "So?"

"So?" he repeats like a parrot, furrowing his eyebrows. Is that all you have to s—

"Nothing in life is set in stone. You can always change your mind."

"But—"

"Listen. You won't be the same person in a year, five years, decades from now as the person you are today, so it's okay if you don't stick with what you decide right now. Hell," you move your arms up in a broad gesture before pointing your index finger at him in an aggressive manner that nearly gives him a heart attack, "you don't even have to decide what you wanna do with your future right now or immediately after graduation or even a year after that. You can decide in a decade for all anyone cares."

You step forward.

"No one gives a shit 'cause people are supposed to move at different paces and it'd be kinda weird and boring if they didn't, y'know. So you—" the tip of your finger digs into his chest "—move at whatever pace you want and feel most comfortable with, whenever you feel like you're ready."

Your voice reverberates in the empty classroom. By now, the hallways have almost completely cleared out, yet even if there was still a commotion outside — and it's not that you spoke any less quieter than you usually do — Iwaizumi thinks he would have heard you anyway. Loud and clear.

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready for the future, honestly," he admits after another moment's hesitation.

"Me neither," you say. You shuffle backward awkwardly after realising how close you'd gotten. "But like I said, we'll figure it out at some point. Even if it takes us, like, a gazillion years."

"Even if it takes us a gazillion years," he repeats. He exhales, then unfurls his fingers, revealing tiny crescent-shaped indents in his thenar. "Okay."

It's true that Iwaizumi doesn't like to think about the future. In fact, he'd like it to stay away from him for as long as possible. But he supposes maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so entirely bad as long as you're by his side.

Because not only does he find comfort in that you're as clueless and indecisive about the future as he is, but he's certain that this — you and him — will never change no matter what. [L/N] [Y/N] and Iwaizumi Hajime, like two peas in a pod.

(He likes the sound of that.)

Your room looks... livelier these days. Iwaizumi walks in and sees it all in one glance.

On your desk: a couple stacked boxes of stationary that look worn and muddied with some sort of combination of marker and paint by the looks of it. On your walls: a few of your past artworks along with some photographs clipped onto a string of yarn. On your bed: nothing but that horrifying stuffed animal (he wonders how you managed to fetch it out of the old dusty space between your bed and the wall).

By your desk: a familiar-looking enormous ceramic pot with an even larger plant sticking out of it.

The coolness of the ceramic seeps into his skin as he skims his fingertips over the surface, admiring all the finer details that he hadn't noticed the last time he'd seen it, on account of being bad at art and thus not caring much to appreciate it. As of lately, he finds himself appreciating the intricacies of art just a little more, though it's not that his art skills have gotten any better than they were when he was thirteen and neither has his interest in it really increased by that much so perhaps there should be a correction in that statement; for you, he finds himself appreciating the intricacies of your art.

These days, you seem happier. Relieved, even. Your name doesn't show up in the monthly school newspaper anymore ever since the beginning of the new term, and Iwaizumi recognises your signature underneath some of the artworks displayed in the hallways.

So, with an inkling of curiosity, he asks you about it later on a dreary afternoon in January as the two of you make snow angels in his backyard. Simple and straight to the point: "Are you still in the photography club?"

Your response comes quick as if you've been expecting him to ask that question, and you look ahead, feeling his gaze snap to you as soon as the words leave your mouth. "No. I quit."

"Why?"

"I didn't feel like it anymore."

He lets out a low whistle. "Just like that? You changed your mind so suddenly."

"Yeah." You pause in your movements halfway as if to think, squinting at the slate sky above you. "I wanted to try something new for once so that's what I did, and now I don't see the point in continuing with something I don't enjoy anymore."

A gust of wind sends a flurry of snow in your direction, and in a moment of survival, you launch yourself up, spluttering and trying to blink the snow out of your eyes. Iwaizumi lifts his head up ever so slightly, eyeing your hunched over figure.

"Aw man, mine's fucked up now," you complain, staring at the obvious hand- and elbow-shaped indents imprinted on what's supposed to be the wings of your snow angel. Translucent clouds escape past his lips as you hear him emit a chuckle.

"Sucks to be you," is all he has to say to your misfortune.

"You suck. You're literally the worst."

"Thanks. Can you help me up, though? Gotta make sure mine turns out perfect and all, y'know." He smiles cheekily. "Wouldn't want mine to turn out like yours."

"No." You grab a handful of snow and toss it in his direction. He must have already seen that coming because your attack doesn't appear to be reeling any sort of panicked reaction out of him like you'd hoped; he just lets the snow rest on his face for a moment before calmly turning his head to the side and shaking it off. With a sneer, you tell him, "Hope your snow angel turns out all ugly and weird and gross."

"Okay," he says eloquently. His tone turns teasing. "Just say you're too weak to pull me up, I get it."

You narrow your eyes at him as a grin spreads wide across his face before standing up, dusting off the snow off your pants, and latching onto his hand with just the tiniest bit of spite evident in your motions. Even though you're technically the one who initiated the help, you're still taken aback by the heat that radiates off his hand and quickly spreads to your face.

However, you overestimate your power as you suddenly find yourself being pulled downward by a force stronger than yourself, almost knocking the air out of you. You land on top of him with a grunt and your face making impact with the snow next to his head, and you feel a hand immediately come up to stroke the back of your head along with some sincere-sounding apologies, though the ringing in your ears drowns out all other noises around you.

Once the ringing subsides and you return to your senses, you roll off of him and conclude that his snow angel will in fact turn out ugly and weird and gross just like you had hoped. A win is a win, you suppose, although the small victory does nothing to stop the ache in the tip of your nose and your forehead, both of which had taken the brunt of the fall. You're sure that a bruise'll form, nasty and as clear as a summer's day by tomorrow, but nothing's bleeding nor broken and that's good enough for you.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he says for what you're sure is the nth time, eyebrows pinching together in concern. "Really. Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh." For emphasis, you roll your head around and shrug your shoulders exaggeratedly — all indicators of a perfectly healthy human being, of course.

Awkwardly rubbing the side of his neck, he glances around at his surroundings. "Looks like both of our snow angels are fucked up now."

"Well, yeah. That was obviously my super genius plan all along."

"Mine still looks better, though."

Another handful of snow promptly meets his face.

"Hi."

"Hey, [L/N]." He fishes out something from his school bag and hands it to you with a nervous smile and shaky hands.

"'Happy Valentine's Day,'" you read aloud, your gaze drifting first to the wobbliness of the calligraphy. Then, you notice the messy paint streaks outlining the giant pink heart in the middle and what appears to be red sparkly glitter glue adorning the corners of the card in the shape of tiny hearts. You turn the card over and find yourself staring at yet another mess of white, pink, and red for a moment before quickly overcoming the shock and reading the small note in the middle, although not audibly this time. Upon recognising the handwriting, your suspicions are confirmed, and you suddenly hold the card up, gesture toward it like it's something he should be proud of. "Did you make this yourself?"

With a slight wince signalling embarrassment and a reddened face, he rushes to explain himself as if there's a need for him to. "I thought I should make you a card myself since I figured a store-bought card would come off as sort of insincere. And none of them really had what I wanted to say—to you."

"I love it, thank you so much."

You appear like you're about to raise your arms and go in for a hug, but then you freeze, seeming to hesitate. A weighted standstill falls between the both of you for what seems to be an eternity before you step forward and awkwardly wrap your stiff arms around him, and it occurs to Iwaizumi all of a sudden as he mirrors your actions that you and him have never really hugged before, just the two of you. Neither of you were the type to initiate such affection, certainly not you, and there was simply never a need to, so he'd like to believe this moment is kind of monumental.

That, and the fact that hugging you feels different from any other hug he's known. He's had his fair share of hugs with the closest people in his life — with his friends, his family, the volleyball team, you get the idea — but with you, he doesn't feel the same sense of calm nor comfort that typically comes with a hug. No, there's a heavy feeling as if you've just dropkicked him in the stomach; there's a rapid pounding in his chest and a warmth that rises to his face and bleeds red into the tips of his ears.

(And Iwaizumi isn't so sure what it is, but he's got a hunch. A gut feeling, though it's telling him something so ludicrous that he'd never admit it to anyone or himself for that matter. He would rather die than do such a thing.)

You pull away after some seconds, although his fingertips still linger near your shoulder blades and you feel the heat of his palms pressed against your upper arms as you hold up the card once again, pointing to the message.

"I'll get this tattooed on my forehead. As a sign of my gratitude." You say this in an ominous manner, like you're foreseeing the future rather than stating something you merely plan on doing. For the second time in a row, his cheeks flush furiously. It's not that what he wrote was emotionally loaded or anything of the sort, but if any of his friends — say, Oikawa — ever read it, he'd never hear the end of it.

"Don't," he warns, but even with his halfhearted threatening tone, he can't stop the corners of his mouth from turning up into yet another smile. It seems that you have that sort of effect on him often, and quite frankly, he isn't complaining.

Springtime washes back up against the shore, and with the tide of spring cleaning, Iwaizumi rediscovers bits and pieces of the past scattered throughout the sand — and by sand, that means his room.

Laid out on his bed is a mess of paper rings (you once claimed that one day you will get him a real one in the future — as a sign of your friendship, you'd then rushed to add, like promise rings but for friends or whatever), birthday cards, and friendship bracelets made of all kinds of mediums, from beads strung on some elastic string to multiple strands of yarn braided into one, which he finally took the initiative to rescue from the darkest corners of his closet.

Somewhere in the pile, there's also a realistic portrait of him drawn in nearly dried-out blue pen, a comic about you and him and some bank heist, a cactus stuffed toy that he'd received for his birthday just because the spikes were apparentlyreminiscent of the way he styled his hair, a tiny floral-themed ceramic bowl made by you that he never quite got around to using, and a half-finished still-life painting that he kept after you decided you didn't really like it despite spending so many hours on it.

Lastly: a sheet of crumpled paper, discarded near the outer edge of the pile.

Iwaizumi frowns at its unfamiliarity, reaching out to pick it up. The writing on it looks like it's yours, and the contents of it are as follows:

Coach Referee Sports statistician Commentator Event organiser Photographer Marketing specialist Mascot performer Sports psychologist Athletic trainer

He flips over the paper; there's nothing else to indicate what exactly it's for.

"What's this?"

You look up from your seat on the beanbag chair in the corner of his room to glance at the so-called this before returning your focus to your phone. "Did you read it."

"I did. You wrote this, didn't you? It's your handwriting."

"Yeah."

"So... what is it?" he asks again, mildly vexed as he waves the stupid paper around.

"It's a list," you finally answer. Iwaizumi groans, dragging a hand down the side of his face.

"No shit. I know it's a list..." He narrows his eyes at the paper as he skims over it again. "...of jobs?"

"Yes."

"For... what?"

"You," you answer.

"For me?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I compiled a list of volleyball-related careers in case you're still struggling with deciding what you wanna do with your life. Narrows some options down, y'know," you explain. "I hope that at least eases some pressure off of you."

Dumbfounded, he blinks at you as if he's not really believing what you're saying, but he hopes his ears aren't deceiving him right now. Chances are, though, they might be because he can hear the thumping noise of his heartbeat, which he's fairly certain isn't possible or normal for the average human, and he's so numb with a sudden giddiness that he can't tell if his facial muscles are pushing out a smile, a grimace, or a weird-ass combination of both right now. A jolt of electricity runs down his spine and startles all the butterflies in his stomach.

Perhaps that's not normal for something that's supposed to be platonic between the two of you.

Typically he'd brush this sort of transient thought away, attribute the warmth in his face to the weather, stubbornly ignore the racing of his heartbeat. He would tell himself that he's only made it his responsibility to dote on you because of all the rumours about you that used to circulate among the students like bad body odor and the weirdos who try to discourage you from pursuing the arts, that he's just being supportive as your closest friend. That's all.

However, he realises, the thought — of his feelings toward you not being as platonic as he believes — isn't so fleeting. Because it's always been there, just pushed toward the back of his mind like the clearance section in a store.

"Personally, I think being a mascot would really suit you," you add, snapping him out of his daze. His face drops.

"A mascot?" he splutters. "What on earth makes you think that?"

With a lacklustre shrug, you don't answer or elaborate. Sometimes, Iwaizumi wonders if you're like one of those people who respond to others' text messages in their mind but then forget to actually do it — it would make a lot of sense. Regardless, he brushes it off as he usually does, having grown so used to your indifference over these past four years to the point where he expects it of you anyway. Although you do manage to surprise him at times, your most defining trait has always been that your communication skills don't quite excel as much as your art skills do; he and everyone you know know that.

Nonetheless, that doesn't matter. Sure, your conversation abilities fall short of what's expected, but as he's staring at all the things you've made and given to him, there isn't really a lack of communication in your friendship. He thinks you've always managed to get your message across pretty well in your own gift-giving, arts n' crafts type of way, and maybe he loves that about you.

After all, it makes you, well. You.

"Hey, [Y/N]?"

"What."

(His heart feels stuck in his throat.)

"Thank you."

And maybe, as he's staring at the crumpled list in his hands: he loves you.

AOBA JŌSAI YEAR THREE

Tonight, the month of April brings about a mugginess that is almost too much to handle, simmering into the fabric of your shirt and clinging onto your skin uncomfortably as the surrounding air wraps you up in a scent cocoon of petrichor and freshly cut grass. With its blossoming wildflowers and singing birds, paired alongside a gloomy haze that looms over the prefecture most days, April is a month so lively and dreary all at once. Refreshing, yet so desolate that for the past couple of weeks, you've found yourself stuck in an art block.

When you tell Iwaizumi this during one of your hangouts, he comes up with the brilliant idea of going bug-catching, hence why you're at the park right now. And though the idea doesn't sound quite as thoughtful as it did when it first popped up in his head, it appears to be working well in practice so far as you sit underneath the big cedar tree at the far end of the park, where the nearby streetlamp illuminates just enough of the sketchbook in your lap for you to fill the pages with all sorts of insect doodles.

You hear a familiar, gruff voice — "Gotcha." — and then grass rustling underneath heavy footsteps before a mess of strong limbs crouches in front of you. Two hands outstretch above your pencil, which comes to a halt as you observe a couple flashes of amber light and a slight fluttering motion encased between Iwaizumi's palms.

With a hum, you hunch over your sketchbook again and scrawl in your messy handwriting: firefly, next to your previous drawing labelled rhinoceros beetle. After taking another long look at the insect, you nod at Iwaizumi, and he opens his hands, allowing the firefly to frolic away and disappear into the shadows.

"God, it's so humid out here."

He yawns before shifting himself so that he's sitting diagonal to you. With his legs splayed out comfortably on the grass next to you, he leans back and braces the palms of his hands against the ground for support, letting the occasional breeze sift through his hair, which had thankfully grown back to its usual appearance after your... objectionable haircut last summer. "After this, you wanna head home?" he asks.

"Sure. It's past your bedtime now, isn't it."

"Very funny," he says with a scoff that comes out more lighthearted than intended, punching your shoulder gently. "Especially when you're the one with a curfew."

"Me." Your pencil comes to an abrupt stop, the lead chipping off in the process, and you stare at him with some disbelief because you don't recall your parents ever designating you a curfew, at least not since you were in middle school.

"My mom wants me to take you home before 11PM," he explains after seeing the look on your face. "You're her favourite out of all my friends, y'know. Somehow."

"That is so sweet of her," you say dryly, deciding to ignore that last part. There's a couple beats of silence, and you start adding in the final details of your firefly drawing, but then he nudges your shoulder.

"You're my favourite, too."

Your hand jerks. You blink at your mistake for a second before hurriedly erasing it from the paper with a tense grip on your pencil.

Iwaizumi, oblivious to your reaction, lowers himself to the ground with an arm comfortably placed beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. He yawns again, then closes his eyes, and stretches his other arm over his face to block out the light emitted by the streetlamp. You glance over at him, settling your eyes first on the mole sitting just below his jawline and then the faint freckles that spatter across his cheeks and then the slight bump in the middle of his nose bridge and then the faded scar on his chin from when he busted it open while learning to ride a bike for the first time and then and then and then—

You force yourself to tear your gaze away.

"You're going to fall asleep."

His arm shifts ever so slightly, and you catch sight of a sliver of olive green peeking out from behind it, fixated on you.

"No, I won't. I'm just resting my eyes." He pats the open spot next to him. "Come lay down with me."

Eyeing it with a hint of scepticism, you respond, "There are bugs."

"No," he says, which is not very reassuring in any way, but at least he tried and you appreciate the effort somewhat. "I'm all sweaty and — admittedly — stinky. So my stench'll scare them away enough for the both of us."

You wrinkle your nose in disgust, and you're positive that is not how that works, but it's the way you set your sketchbook aside carefully that betrays the impression you're trying to convey before you finally move yourself away from the shade of the tree to lay down next to Iwaizumi, who just smiles when you look over at him again. Luckily, he's not as smelly as he claims, although you're not entirely sure if that's a good thing, considering that was his plan, wasn't it? Just to be safe, you lay on your side and prop yourself up on one elbow, allowing for a quick getaway in case you start to get an uncomfortable crawly feeling anywhere on you.

"I didn't know you were so scared of bugs."

"I'm not," you respond haughtily. Chin jutted upward and everything, as if that'll make your statement any more convincing.

"Okay." He pauses for a moment, then moves on, "It's too bad we can't see the stars from here."

You crane your neck to look up and find that he's right. All you can see is a tarp of soot that stretches over the sky, bruised with ashen clouds but no stars in sight; tonight — and most nights, in fact, with the prevalent existence of pollution — the stratosphere appears as a void canvas, a foreboding shadow that falls down onto your shoulders with a certain heaviness you can't quite pinpoint. Maybe it's because the feeling of how minuscule you are in comparison to how immense the universe is unnerves you. After all, when you observe the sky, you don't foresee an end.

Your gaze falls back on Iwaizumi.

"Hey," you speak up.

"Hm?"

You swallow a nonexistent lump in your throat, pick at the skin around your fingernail, take a breath. Iwaizumi isn't sure why you're so nervous, but it's almost making him nervous too.

"I gotta tell you something."

It's hard to imagine you being thousands of kilometres away. So, Iwaizumi does the simple thing and doesn't.

It can almost be considered impressive how after the first week of you dropping the news to him at that dingy park — of you telling him that your parents have been offered a work promotion outside the country, that they're going to take it, and that you're moving overseas in a couple of months; January, to be precise — neither of the two of you bother bringing up The Move™ again, as so creatively coined by you.

("Makes it sound ominous, like it's important," you claimed.

"It's already important even if you don't call it that," Iwaizumi said with an air of irritability and the hater energy he tended to possess.)

The majority of that is to be blamed on Iwaizumi, who, you noticed, initially looked like he was on the verge of tears every time you brought it up, and regardless of whether or not that was due to the ominous essence of The Move™, you decided to stop mentioning it altogether for his sake. It's not like you minded it, anyway. Sure, you wanted to brag a little about graduating a term early and the excitement of getting to move out of the country, but honestly, you weren't liking the idea of leaving all your friends behind so soon either, and talking about it seemed to make the time fly by even faster.

This year's summer break feels like the shortest ever. The days slip between your fingers as easily as water evaporating from the pavement the morning after a night of rain, and soon you're back in school before you know it, swamped with homework and projects and art club activities yet again. Everything is the same, but at the same time it's not; it's a fact that The Move™ now looms over you like an overbearing parent when you're learning to drive for the very first time, constantly butting in at the most unnecessary of moments and making things more dramatic than they seem. Every single moment of happiness comes with a strange feeling of melancholy, growing even stronger as the dreaded deadline nears.

(Sometimes, you wonder if maybe you should've called The Move™ something less foreboding because this is seriouslymessing with your psyche.)

"Hey, do you need help with that?"

Iwaizumi pokes his head through the doorway, eyeing the clay sculpture you're currently struggling to get up on the shelf in the back of the classroom. It's the end of the day, and you were taking an abnormally long time to leave the classroom, so he's decided to come in and see what's up. It's true that you feel as if you're sweating drops the size of golf balls right now, but you're also not one to give up so easily so you utter out a strained no, certain that you can handle this yourself and soon you'll be out in no time.

However, Iwaizumi has eyes, you know, and he can clearly foresee by your wobbly arms and the fact that a heavy object is being held considerably high off the ground that this is just a tragic accident waiting to happen. And what kind of friend would he be if he let you sabotage yourself like that?

"You need help," he declares, already navigating his way through the desks to make his way toward you.

"You're delusional."

"Okay."

All of a sudden, you sense an ominous presence behind you, and when you mildly dislocate your neck to look behind you, you find that this is not the art room's honorary ghost that visits once every couple of weeks but in fact Iwaizumi, whose strong arms reach around you to take hold of the sculpture by the wooden base, careful not to touch the clay and leave any fingerprints. Your face twists into some sort of grimace because didn't you say you didn't need any help? before realising—

"This is kinda romantic." Your useless commentary doesn't do anything to stir up the conversation again as much as it does make Iwaizumi look like he wants to piss himself.

"Don't say that," he snaps as soon as the sculpture is fully on the shelf, furiously attempting to hide with his hand the redness that's beginning to stain his face, though he's doing a rather poor job at it because it looks like he's trying to hold back a giant sneeze more than anything. You can't decide if this is a result of your simple observation or him realising just how close you two are in proximity, but nonetheless, you step away, offering a mock-salute as you brush past him to pick up your bag.

He can be dramatic sometimes, you think.

When the leaves start turning rotten around the edges and the grass sours into a dullish mousy, your room changes again, becoming less like a hospital as Iwaizumi so affectionately called it and more like a...

Well— he isn't so sure anymore.

You've torn down all your artworks and photos and even the coat rack near the doorway, which surprisingly held on for quite a while with the cheap sticky tack you borrowed from the art room a few years back, and you've begun packing away your belongings inside boxes piled upon even more boxes in one corner of your room. When Iwaizumi walks in and glances around at the sudden new changes, the only thing left on your wall is a calendar, which has been due for a replacement now since over two years ago according to the printed date, giving the odd illusion of your room being suspended perpetually in time circa your first year of high school.

A wave of uneasiness sweeps over him in the form of tension in his shoulders, a cold dread that feels like liquid nitrogen oozing through his veins.

To Iwaizumi, your room is neither like a hospital ward — and admittedly, it never was, he just said that to get under your nerves — nor a messy amalgamation of you and all your interests as it was before. Surrounding him with four walls of bleakness, your room is an unfamiliar, harsh reminder of your early departure in January, which is approaching far too quickly for his liking.

Strangely enough, Iwaizumi doesn't know what's worse: hearing a constant series of fireworks being set off outside followed by a seemingly never-ending applause, or watching Oikawa flirt with his mini fanbase in the living room as if there's no tomorrow, like the world'll collapse in itself the second the clock hits midnight in about an hour. Whichever it is, he can't decide; both are feeling equally detrimental to his sanity at the moment, and the liquid calm seeping through the crevices of his brain doesn't seem to be helping very much — just adds fuel to the flame that is the buzzing in his ears and an upcoming migraine.

With another sip of his drink, he lets his eyes wander around. There's Mattsun sitting on the other side of the living room, playing some niche board game with a few of the former volleyball club members who graduated last year, and Hanamaki in his peripheral vision who's currently having the time of his life doodling dicks in permanent marker all over the unsuspecting face of someone taking a nap on the table. Seeing him snuggle against the decorative vase as if it's a teddy bear, Iwaizumi doesn't think he'll be waking up any time soon.

Then, a little ways from him is Oikawa, of course, still indulging his admirers' flattery, unfortunately for Iwaizumi as a sharp ache sears through his temples when the fanbase exudes a collective, shrill noise resembling something between giggles and cheers.

Shittykawa must've shown them his party trick, he scowls. Apparently, no one has ever seen a person roll a coin over their knuckles in real life before. The bitterness on his tongue suddenly feels too unpleasant to bear.

"I'm going to get a drink of water. I'll be right back," he tells his best friend, who squints at him like that'll help him hear Iwaizumi's words better over all the commotion.

"Uh-huh..." Oikawa says slowly, before stating with far too much confidence, "Go piss girl."

"No, the fuck?" Iwaizumi's eyebrows pinch together into his usual disapproving frown. "I said I'm going to get some water. Wa-ter. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone." He isn't sure if Oikawa even hears him correctly or not, but regardless, he decides that is no longer his problem as he stands up from the couch he's been loitering since the start of this New Year's Eve party and makes his way to the kitchen.

Humming along to the background music quietly to himself, he empties out the cup he had been drinking out of into the sink before filling it up with water. Just as he turns around to leave the kitchen, though, you suddenly pop up beside him like a jumpscare from a low-budget horror movie, and the way he flinches nearly sends the water splashing out of the cup and onto the floor.

"[Y/N]—?" He blinks rapidly for a moment, trying to overcome the shock by your sudden manifestation. His eyes spare you a quick once-over before settling on your face. "Hi."

"Hi."

His index finger taps against the cup along to the beat of the music — a nervous action. "I wasn't expecting to see you here," he says.

"Me neither."

"Got any New Year resolutions?"

"No."

"Oh. Me neither."

He nods slightly, gnawing on his bottom lip and glancing around the living room once more after realising he's got nothing else to say. There's Mattsun still playing a board game. Hanamaki drawing on some asleep guy. Oikawa and his unofficial fan-meet. Another bout of piercing giggles erupts from them, clashing simultaneously with a mix of yippees and boos from Matsukawa's group and the cacophonous noises of a literal explosion outside. It comes off as no surprise that the buzzing in his ears persists, yet when he allows his eyes to follow you from head to toe again — before realising with crimson stained ears that he'd done that already, not even five minutes ago — he finds the ache in his temples ebbing away, like receding tidal waves.

His thoughts then become clearer, no matter how much he doesn't want to acknowledge them: [Y/N], I'll miss you.

You'll be thousands of kilometres away, after all, and though Iwaizumi's always been aware that things in life aren't guaranteed to last forever, there's a part of him that wants to believe you and him might be the exception. However, he also knows that these types of friendships — long-distance friendships — are prone to drifting away, slowly yet surely, like sand slipping through your fingers with the wind and out of your reach. You and him might drift away, he fears.

In an attempt to distract himself, he takes a sip out of his cup, harshly swallowing the water and, in the process, forcing down the emotions that threaten to spill off his tongue in the form of a hushed, sweet confession. However, his first mistake is him believing they would go away so easily, and it comes off as no surprise yet again when the physical action of suppression doesn't work; the feelings reappear in the same manner they have always been for the past four years, but this time, they crash down on him ten times more fervently.

I'll miss you. Stay, please. I think I love you more than friends should.

No, he shakes his head in a way you don't notice. He can't say that. He can't risk losing your friendship in the unforeseen circumstance that you don't reciprocate his feelings, risk you rejecting him be the last memory he has of you before you leave, because as much as he knows you'd never intentionally try to hurt him, humiliate him, whatever, he also knows that things would never be the same afterwards, be it for the better or for the worse.

"You're leaving tomorrow, aren't you?" he asks instead. His voice shatters the the glass wall of silence between you easily, and you appear somewhat surprised that he's the one bringing The Move™ up after so many months of avoiding it like it's the cheese touch.

"Yes."

(Say it.)

"Are you excited? Moving to an entirely different country must be... exciting," he finishes lamely, scratching a nonexistent itch on the back of his neck.

You shrug. "I thought I would be — and I was, at first — but now that it's coming up so soon..." You fix your usual impassive gaze on Iwaizumi, and there's a faraway look in your eyes, as if you're worlds away despite being right in front of him. Like you're becoming out of reach already, even though it isn't for another several hours you'll be on the other side of the globe.

He wants to look away. However, some unknown invisible force continues to draw him toward you and this conversation.

(Say it.)

"Never mind," you concede at last, after deciding that no amount of mental somersaults would be able to concoct the right words for how you're feeling right now. "I am excited. Ecstatic, even."

"Uh-huh," he says, unconvinced, though he plays into your overexaggerated lie for your sake anyway. "I'm sure you just can't wait to get away from all of us." For emphasis, he gestures with his arm toward the living room. Despite the vagueness of the action and how crowded the room is that you can't really see anyone in particular, you automatically know the three he's referencing.

"Maybe them," you agree with a small smile before adding, "but not you."

(Say it.)

(Say it. Say it. Say it.)

He lets out a slight laugh. "Better not say that around Oikawa or he'll throw a fit over you picking favourites. You might hurt his feelings."

"I'm not picking favourites at all," you defend yourself, but with barely enough effort for it to be considered a successful or honourable attempt. "He's got plenty of admirers anyway. This won't hurt him too much."

He raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh? Are you implying that you're one of my admirers?"

"You say that like you have any admirers at all."

"Yet you're not denying it."

Something in your eyes flickers, and he's almost certain this isn't due to the flashing strobe lights Matsukawa had brought for the party. "I did deny it," you reply.

"When?"

"Like, earlier. Must've just immediately slipped your mind or somethin', old man."

"Old man? We're literally in the same year." With an incredulous scoff, he shoves you away. You laugh and stumble backward, bumping into the host of the party in the process.

Oikawa grins, first slinging an arm around your shoulders and then pulling Iwaizumi closer by the sleeve to do the same with him. "Iwa, [Y/N], there you are. Just who I've been looking for."

"I take it you're finally done talking to all your fans," Iwaizumi grumbles.

"Aw, don't say it like that! It makes you sound jealous." Oikawa's smile grows even wider, if that's possible. Since his back is turned against the flashy lights of the living room and thus only the two of you have the misfortune of seeing his smug face, he isn't too worried about revealing the more heinous version of himself — dubbed Trashykawa by Iwaizumi, of course, among many other versions: Shittykawa, Loserkawa, Whoreu...

"Jealous?" Iwaizumi says incredulously, hardly believing his own ears right now.

"Jealous," Oikawa confirms before waving his hand dismissively, which Iwaizumi takes as an opportunity to distance himself a bit from Oikawa's grasp. "I prefer to call them supporters, anyway."

You and Iwaizumi share a look.

"Anyhow. I was looking for you two 'cause I heard the neighbourhood-wide countdown's about to start in a few minutes. You guys wanna go? I mean, practically everyone is, but it's okay if you want some alone time one last time—"

"Alone time?" Iwaizumi splutters.

"—before [Y/N] leaves tomorrow morning. I'll totally understand since I'm so philanthropic like that."

"Philanthropic," you repeat, like you don't believe that that's true.

"Damn, is there an echo over here?" Oikawa's laugh rings out through the atmosphere, above all the music and the celebration.

"There's something seriously wrong with you," Iwaizumi says. When Oikawa pretends to not hear him, making a big show of having something stuck in his ears, he turns to you with an irritated expression, as if to say, There's something seriously wrong with him. You make no effort to disagree.

This time, Oikawa pretends to not see him, giving you one last hearty pat on the shoulder as some sort of goodbye before heading off to open the front door and announcing to everyone that the countdown is starting soon. All you can do is watch as a mob of people proceeds to follow Oikawa out the door, shoving their way past the frame in a rushed manner as if their lives depend on it.

"I'm so sick of his ass."

Again, you make no effort to disagree.

Three minutes until countdown.

It's 11:57PM when Iwaizumi finds that his thoughts are jumbled yet again like one giant word search puzzle. The only difference is, whereas one has to find the letters comprising a specific word in a word search puzzle, he's struggling to find the right words to string together the message he wants to convey while you're standing next to him on the balcony, watching the fireworks as they shoot up from behind the surrounding houses.

Iwaizumi, having grown sick of hearing and now seeing the fireworks after just a few minutes, fixates his gaze on the street below. Every now and then, a car whizzes by, and he follows it with his eyes until the taillights disappear around the corner, the sound of the engine dissipating into the horizon.

(Say it.)

"[Y/N]," he forces out, swallowing thickly as he tries to contain his thoughts from spilling out in the form of one big mess, whether it's words poorly strung together in a way that's barely comprehensible or literal bile, "I'll miss you."

There's a beat of silence. You chew on the inside of your cheek before responding with what you believe is a foolproof plan, "I'll shove you in my suitcase and bring you with me, if that's what you want."

"Okay." He doesn't question how you came to that idea but instead— "How do you plan on getting past TSA?"

"Dunno." You shrug half-heartedly. "We could pay someone who works there to help sneak you in— or I could give you one of my grandparents' passport and you can try to pass off as—"

"Nevermind, I think I'm good," he interrupts, deciding he doesn't need to hear any more of your plan. He's read enough of your comics throughout the past five years to know two things: one, your ideas can get pretty outlandish. And two, things never end well for him, for some reason, in the ones where he's featured. (Exhibit A — the bank heist comic from your second year of junior high.)

It's 11:58PM when a particularly grandiose firework lights up the sky, irradiating your face with the vibrant colours of red, green, and blue. Iwaizumi glances at you with a pounding heart while you mutter something along the lines of how it's his loss.

"It's going to be weird not being able to see you face-to-face everyday. Mrs. Ishida's class'll be lonely without hearing her scold you for drawing on the desk all the time. And the weird, spontaneous group projects she assigns— God."

"We can always video-call. And at least you'll still have Makki and Mattsun to pair up with for the projects." You trace shapes into the snow lining the metal railing, although unsuccessfully for the most part since the surface area is so narrow that the snow topples over the edge with just the slightest nudge by the wind.

"That's true. But they're not you."

"Yeah. Obviously."

Iwaizumi frowns.

"That's not what I meant."

You turn toward him, tilting your head ever so slightly. "Then tell me what you do mean."

Your sudden bluntness catches him off-guard.

"I—" he falters, "I don't know."

"Okay."

There's another period of silence.

"I mean," he begins. Tries again. "I mean that you are special to me in a way that no one can replace. And not in that 'every human is unique and irreplaceable' bullshit kind of way."

His words hang in the air. He steps closer. You remain rooted to the spot you've been standing in for the past several minutes but remove your elbows off the railing, letting your hands dangle by your side. Another explosion of colour lights up the side of your face for a brief second, revealing the curiosity in your expression as you wonder what turn this conversation is about to take, though you have a feeling what it might be.

It's 11:59PM when you nod at him in a manner that gives Iwaizumi the last bit of courage he needs to continue — take the leap of faith across the gorge. The words begin to unscramble themselves, one by one.

"I mean it in a way that's specific to you," he continues. "[Y/N], you're— I don't even know where to begin. As curt and vague as you are, I enjoy talking to you and being around you a lot. Sometimes studying with you isn't as productive as I'd like it to be, yet I wouldn't have it any other way because there's no other person I'd rather have as a study-buddy. If it isn't you, I don't want it."

Another step closer. You hold your breath, as if afraid you'll ruin the momentum of whatever this is.

"You're selfless and generous, always giving me drawings, pottery stuff, bracelets, and whatnot, and I think that's one of the most endearing things about you. I've grown so used to your presence that I can't imagine a future where you're not in it..." He inhales —

I love you.

"...with me," he finishes awkwardly, unceremoniously, and a bit anticlimactically — then exhales at the same time you do.

(The neighbourhood-wide countdown starts at some nameless person's house. The both of you hear it in the background: a loud, uncoordinated mess, but from the balcony of Oikawa's house, the sound is reduced to nothing more than a foreboding echo trailing over your heads like thunder. Comes and goes, like: Ten... Nine...)

"Okay," you acknowledge. (Eight...) You then smile at him, and it's lopsided and wide and creased around the corners in a way that's just so you that the sight of it makes his heart ache. (Seven...)

Iwaizumi takes another step forward, his hands coming up to perch on the rim of the metal railing on either side of you. (Six...) You let your head fall against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne as his arms wrap around your waist and pull you closer into a tentative yet purposeful embrace.

(Five.)

For you, this moment is exactly the cusp between home and the unknown. Today, you are here, in Miyagi, Japan, in Hajime's arms, and all other synonyms for what you recognise as home and familiar; but tomorrow, you will have landed in some foreign country you've never been to. Tomorrow, you will cross an entire ocean via plane just to be faced with yet another vast ocean, one of endless possibilities and that you'll have to navigate along with language barriers and unfamiliar streets.

You know that in life, changes are as inevitable as an iced lemonade melting underneath the sun on a summer day because nothing lasts forever, or however the saying goes. However, you also know that there are constants: some things just never change. And you hope to whatever deity exists up there that Iwaizumi Hajime being in your life is one of them.

So, even with the headache-inducing fireworks and the awfully orchestrated countdown in the background, even with the December-almost-January air clawing at your skin and the sensation in your hands that's bordering between painful and too numb to feel anything at all— you'd like this moment to last forever, if it's possible.

(Four.)

You pull away to look at him, your palms finding rest on the back of his neck. (Three.) His eyes lock onto yours before averting downward a bit, an unspoken question swirling inside pools of mossy green — (Two.) — and you answer it with a nod so slight that it's only noticeable with how much focus he has set on you.

(One.)

Without a word, Iwaizumi sweeps in for a kiss. A roar of celebration erupts from somewhere else in the neighbourhood. Fireworks sizzle and pop over your heads. A car revs its engine as it drives by. Wind howls, and the barren trees whistle a hymn of nature. All of it falls unheard upon your own ears.

You're left in a trance once he pulls away. Not even a second later, his head dips to whisper in your ear, "Fly safe, okay?"

"Yeah," you say intelligently, staring past his shoulder and off into the distance. "I'll be sure to tell the pilot that."

Thus, the year ends with some amount of uncertainty: neither of the two of you seem to know what you are now. However, there's no need to put a label on it because what you do know is that wherever you go, Iwaizumi's heart will follow no matter what, be it through the inconvenient hoops of time zones or across oceans in the form of a shittily put-together care package. As long as you're aware of that, Iwaizumi doesn't think there's anything to worry about.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #iwaizumi x reader #229ZMI #haikyuu series

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