Archive of Our Own ^beta

The four third years sat around the table. Each of them stared, with their own individual looks of discomfort, either at the others around them or the large 2L bottles of soda set before each person. Not one of the four looked particularly thrilled to be there.

“Why do we have to accept a dare from the underclassmen, anyway?” Hanamaki grumbled, eyeing the soda bottle with distaste before flicking his glower up to Oikawa. He had been the one to insist upon this, and thus was the one everyone else was currently inclined to blame. This had been what Oikawa had predicted; unperturbed, the volleyball captain simply shrugged and gave his friend a look that suggested he ought to know better than to ask.

“To show them that their senpais are not cowards,” he replied, in a tone one would use to explain something to a particularly young child. “Really, Makki, have a little bit of pride.”

Hanamaki scowled. “I've got plenty of pride, but that certainly doesn't mean I want to guzzle down an entire bottle of soda just to prove I can. This is stupid.”

“Probably,” Oikawa shrugged, looking as if this were a fact he’d accepted a while ago -- probably from the first second Yahaba had brought the challenge to them. Oikawa really is a sadist, Hanamaki realized without feeling the slightest hint of surprise. Or a masochist. Probably both. And none of the other third years were any better, himself included.

“But they told us to do it, and if we don't they'll be able to call us chicken. Now hush, because Iwa-chan already bought the Cola from the store.” Oikawa brushed off Hanamkai’s reluctance with a wave of his hand, turning to his right to glance at the rather unenthused but nevertheless game Iwaizumi sitting next to him. “It's not Diet, is it?”

“Of course not. I know the rules of this dare just as well as you do,” Iwaizumi replied with a roll of his eyes. Oikawa smiled grimly.

“Perfect. Are you all ready? Makki? Mattsun? Iwa-chan?” He looked to each of them in turn; it was clear he wasn’t searching for any actual confirmation, and Hanamaki didn’t bother to provide anything more than a noncommittal shrug.

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Matsukawa muttered, shrugging broad shoulders.

“Right.” With measured precision, Oikawa uncapped the bottle of soda and carefully lifted it; the others followed suit. “Count of three… one… two… three!”

The soda burned his throat going down, but Hanamaki eagerly chugged it all the same; Iwaizumi was already swallowing quick mouthfuls, and he determined not to be outdone by him yet again. When he finally broke away from air, he felt he had to have already drank down half the bottle. Upon pulling away to realize that he hadn’t even reached the wraparound plastic label yet, his dismay was palpable.

With a displeased grunt, he set the bottle back down on the table to take a breath. “Down the hatch.”

“This is disgusting,” Oikawa moaned, doing likewise. A trickle of soda had flowed from the side of pink lips and run down his face, flowing beneath the collar of his shirt; he swiped at it with distaste, grimacing. “Gross.”

As if to throw in his two cents, Matsukawa let out a low moan that was abruptly cut off by a loud belch tearing its way from his throat. He covered his mouth promptly after, but didn’t look terribly ashamed when he sat up straighter.

Iwaizumi coughed out a dry chuckle. “I feel the same way, Mattsun,” he muttered, raising a hand to stifle his own burp. At his side, Oikawa looked slightly queasy, though whether it was from all the soda going to his head in a bad way or the blatant disregard of table manners Hanamaki couldn’t be sure. With Oikawa, it could be anything.

“Are you regretting this now?” asked Iwaizumi.

“Yes.”

A dim flicker of hope sparked in Hanamaki’s chest. “Willing to give up?” he asked, hoping that he infused his tone with just the right amount of equal degrees provocation and pleading. Maybe it came out a little too provocative; Oikawa never liked losing.

Oikawa’s eyes locked on Hanamaki’s own; very deliberately, he reached over and picked up his bottle again, promptly guzzling back another few massive mouthfuls before pulling away with a gasp. “Never,” he gasped, pausing to hiccup softly behind his hand before leveling a steady glare at his friend. “Better catch up, Makki.”

Iwaizumi clapped Oikawa on the back; Hanamaki half suspected it was just for the purpose of seeing Oikawa jolt with another hiccup at the impact, but the put out expression on his face was satisfying all the same. “Let's go together again,” the vice-captain announced, smirking at his best friend. “You alright, Oikawa?”

“Sure.” Oikawa crinkled his nose, mirroring Iwaizumi in lifting the bottle again. “Let's go.”

“Three… two… one.”

The second time was, if possible, even worse than the first; as Hanamaki tilted the bottle to his lips he actually had to make himself swallow, the sting of carbonation in his throat causing his mouth to rebel against him. Stubbornness won out, however, and he managed to get down a few more wholesome mouthfuls before having to pull away for air once more.

He and Matsukawa broke away at roughly the same time; promptly, the darker haired boy let out a deep belch that seemed to reverberate in his chest. Hanamaki winced in sympathy and Mattsun grimaced. “Ugh,” he muttered. “That hurt a bit.”

“Are you kidding? This… hrmph. Stings like hell.” Gingerly, Hanamaki massaged his throat, ignoring the uncomfortably carbonated feeling growing inside him, as well as the realization that drinking two liters was probably a lot harder than he’d thought it would be. Next to him Oikawa moaned, flopping forward over the table with a hand over his stomach.

“I don't even really like - ulp - soda. Ohh, I feel sick.” He bit down on his hand to stifle another soft belch; Hanamaki was grimly pleased to note that out of all of them, it seemed to be Oikawa who was taking this challenge the worst.

Iwaizumi was still chugging, a grim determination of his face that could only be admired; Mattsun and Makki were both openly staring when he finally set the bottle down, coughing slightly as he did so. Amazingly, he’d already managed to finish off half -- the rest of them had barely passed the plastic label. He glanced warily over at Oikawa, and though Iwaizumi didn’t look too good himself he still narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Damn it, Crappykawa, don't you dare puke on me,” he grumbled; his last word was cut off by a low belch that had him mirroring Oikawa in slumping over the table.

Matsukawa’s brow was furrowed slightly. “You two alright?”

All of them unanimously elected to ignore the drawn out “noooooo” that came from Oikawa; Iwazumi raised his head, nodding decisively before taking a few deep breaths. “Just full, is all,” he muttered with a wince. “That stuff really fills your stomach.”

“You don’t say,” Matsukawa nodded, letting out another burp behind his hand; comfortingly, Hanamaki patted him on the shoulder. All three of them were eyeing their cola bottles warily, no one really eager to begin another round.

To everyone’s surprise it was Oikawa who, pushing himself up very suddenly, lifted his own bottle back in the air. A determined gleam had entered his eye that left Hanamaki feeling somewhat scared. In three years of experience with that look, he knew well enough that nothing good could come of it.

“Let’s go,” he ordered sternly, in what could only be described as a slurred version of his ‘captain’ voice. “We’ll finish this like men!”

“Any man, woman, or child with half a brain wouldn’t have done this in the first place,” Hanamaki pointed out flatly; but Iwaizumi was picking up his bottle and Matsukawa was doing the same, so reluctantly he followed suit.

Not bothering with counting now, Oikawa simply called out, “Go!” and they all lifted their bottles to drink once more.

The urge to gag was stronger now; but Hanamaki was gifted with both an iron stomach and an even stronger will. Forcing the liquid down his throat while being careful not to taste anything, he actually felt as if he might be making a bit of progress. He was the first one to set his bottle down, and was pleased to see that he’d almost caught up to where Iwaizumi had been before.

Oikawa was really no good at this chugging thing, he noted, as more than a little bit of soda continued to flow from the side of his mouth. He almost felt tempted to call him out for cheating, but Oikawa was nothing if not a fair sport; when he practically slammed his bottle down, wide-eyed and face slightly green, Hanamaki suppressed a snort. Their handsome captain looked a sight.

“Oh, shut -- hic! Shut up, Makki! I should have -- urp -- should have… served a ball into the back of your head when I had the -- ulp -- chance.”

While Oikawa pouted, Hanamaki somehow found it in him to grin. He opened his mouth to reply with something equally biting, but all that wound up coming out was an unattractive, wet belch that left him feeling more than a bit nauseous.

Matsukawa placed his bottle down again and glanced over at him sympathetically, pressing the back of his hand to his own mouth for a minute before seeming to simply give up. A few thick burps slipped out of his mouth with ease, and he looked relieved to get them out. “It’s easier when you let the air out,” he muttered, his words punctuated by another low ‘urp’.

Iwaizumi finally slammed his bottle back down on the table; only a slight amount of liquid remained at the bottom now, a few more mouthfuls before he would be done. The other third years all gaped at him incredulously; he shrugged back, and if he’d been feeling up to it Hanamaki had little doubt that the other would have probably grinned. A small part of his mind was hissing in bitterness; beaten by Iwaizumi again.

“How,” was all Oikawa said, and Iwaizumi snorted in reply.

“It’s not hard. You just… ugh… don’t think about it and focus on getting as much… down as you can.” The look of discomfort on his face was distinct, and one hand rested on his abdomen. Hanamaki felt a flash of sympathy, remembering Iwaizumi’s words from before and realizing that the other boy probably really wasn’t feeling great right now.

He wasn’t the only one to notice. Oikawa tilted his head slightly, blinking from beneath dark eyelashes. “Iwa-chan? Are you alright?”

The look Iwaizumi shot the other boy was indignant, in a defensive sort of way. “Course I am,” he shot back; and then, as if to prove it, he promptly picked up the bottle and guzzled down the final mouthfuls in one go. Carelessly, he then allowed the bottle to drop to the floor, and the plastic echoed dully against the ground as Iwaizumi slumped forward.

“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa chimed again, but his only answer was a low groan.

“Well, he probably shouldn’t have drank that fast,” Matsukawa muttered, and Hanamaki offered another soft burp as agreement. His own stomach was feeling quite full; he couldn’t help but feel bad for Iwaizumi.

“Shuddup,” Iwaizumi grumbled, but his voice sounded choked and labored. Oikawa seemed to deliberate for a few seconds before gently easing Iwaizumi back from his slumped position. “Aww, poor Iwa-chan,” he mumbled, and when Hanamaki leaned over he could see that Oikawa’s eyes were lingering on Iwaizumi’s stomach. The usual tight muscles now bulged a bit from the amount of liquid he’d consumed; his shirt had ridden up slightly, and overall it looked quite uncomfortable for the other boy. Gently, Oikawa leaned Iwaizumi back against the wall behind them, and he didn’t protest; all he did was let out a muffled hiccup when Oikawa somewhat tentatively attempted to pull his shirt back down.

Hanamaki wasn’t a nice person. “Oi. Come on, are we finishing this or not?”

“Ugh,” Matsukawa muttered. “I hate you, Makki.”

Hanamaki hated himself quite enough in that moment; still, Oikawa turned back to them, his face set in determination, and he promptly nodded his head. “Yeah,” he agreed firmly. “Let's do this.”

The liquid burned like fire running down his throat; he swore that the bubbly soda was just trying to force itself back up again the same way it had gone down. He focused on quantity over comfort, singlemindedly devoting himself to guzzling as much of the sickeningly sweet drink as possible. He broke away with a gasp, clasping both hands over his mouth and slumping forward to grip at his aching stomach.

There was less than a few swallows left in his bottle now; beneath the heavy feeling of nausea and sickening sensation that he was one carbonated bubble away from floating off into space, he was victorious. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to beat Iwaizumi, but he would still come in damn close --

Matsukawa slammed his own empty soda bottle on the table. “Done.”

“DAMN IT MATTSUN!”

His friend raised a lazy eyebrow, leaning back in his seat and easing up his shirt to gently massage his own full stomach. Hanamaki seething over a competition he’d lost was a common enough sight now that no one else paid it any mind.

“Relax, Hanamaki. You’ve still got your -- uuUUrp -- pride. Unlike the Beauty Queen over here.”

How Oikawa managed to get soda into his hair none of them would ever know -- for as much as they were forced to listen to him whine about it later, they suspected that Oikawa didn’t even know himself. Yet by the time Oikawa managed to polish off the last of his soda bottle, at least a third of it had run down the side of his mouth and past his lips, dripping into his shirt and running droplets along his neck. It was surprising, then, that the volleyball captain was in the worst shape of all of them.

“Ooohhhh…” Oikawa let out a long groan, tentatively placing a hand over his stomach and curling in on himself. “I really… don’t feel good now.”

Impressively (worryingly, perhaps, if any of them were better people) Iwaizumi hadn’t moved a muscle in the past fifteen minutes; at the sound of Oikawa’s distress, however, his arms suddenly spread open, and the brunet wasted no time in nestling himself in his vice-captain’s arms. Looking supremely nauseous and more than a little sugar-crashed, Oikawa buried his face in the crook of Iwaizumi’s neck and muffled soft burps and hiccups against his shoulder.

“How disgustingly… cute,” Matsukawa remarked, before his eyes swiveled towards Hanamaki. He raised his eyebrows, waggling them suggestively; but Hanamaki’s patience had run out with the last bit of soda.

He flung an empty bottle at the other’s head, and took a sadistic delight in watching Matsukawa flop over like an overbalanced block tower.