Chapter Text
The first time he sees you cry is after they've already lost to Karasuno. Iwaizumi is sniffling and he’s doing his best to comfort but not hover, his mind already in a thousand pieces after talking to Ushijima. Everyone else is watching them with wide, red eyes, their own tears held back at the sight of their ace letting out his frustration.
You come barreling out the doors, face flushed and eyes frantic. He can’t help the way that his breath hitches in his throat when he sees you skid to a stop. He’s just lost, damnnit, he should be beyond thought, but the sight of you with your wind-ruffled hair and panicked expression makes his broken heart flutter pitifully in his chest.
Your eyes are searching all of them for something that he realizes he doesn’t posses; slanted, serious eyes, tawny like tree sap. You find them and you launch forward, latching onto the arms of the ticking time-bomb himself.
“Kyōtani-kun!” You say, voice breathless in a way that is no way related to the fact that you ran all the way here. “Kyōtani-kun, you did so well, I’m so proud—”
Oikawa Tōru watches, already a little helpless, as the wing spiker shakes his arm out of your grip, turning to scowl down at you. It’s a mix of sadness and anger that causes him to do it, the same feelings that are currently swirling inside of all of them. It helps, usually, because then they go home and they practice. But this is something else entirely. Maybe it’s because he’s still new to all of this, or maybe it’s because he was incensed during the match, but Kyōtani Kentarō chooses that moment to take all of his sadness and anger, his devastation and his helplessness, and turn it into something destructive.
“Don’t touch me.” He grunts, and you recoil as if the words have manifested themselves and slapped you across the face. Oikawa watches, one of a handful of witnesses, as your heart breaks and Kyōtani gets on the bus.
__
The first time he sees you smile is a much nicer time. He’s already finished his first year of university and is currently eating in the cafeteria after a long day of moving back into his dorm when you pass him.
There’s a flicker of recognition on your face, which is replaced by a burn of embarrassment in your cheeks. Oikawa frowns, a little offended that his face is somehow related to your memory of being dumped by his kohai, and waves you over despite the fact that you look like you’d rather die.
“Hi.” He says. “I remember you, from the Spring High playoffs. I’m—”
“Oikawa Tōru.” You finish, and although it shouldn’t come as a surprise that you know who he is, he’s pleased nonetheless. That flushed expression is still on your face, but it’s much less frantic than he remembers. You’ve matured. “I’m [Surname] [Name].”
“Nice to meet you.” He laughs, hoping the sound will ease your expression. It does, just a little bit. He wonders how bright your face gets when you smile, then asks himself if his heart would really be able to handle that sort of beauty.
“Nice to meet you too.” You allow yourself to lapse into silence, shifting a little bit in the cafeteria chair. Oikawa smiles, determined to keep you here for as long as he can.
“So, [Surname]-san, what brings you here? Do you go here? Your boyfriend?” He asks, trying his best to keep you from noticing that he’s hoping you’ll say you’re single.
He wants to smack himself when you pause again. Did he get too personal? Were you creeped out? His inherent charm didn’t seem to phase you, did that mean—
You lean back in the chair a little bit and laugh, a slow smile stretching on your face. He’s awestruck, absolutely winded by how beautiful you are.
“No,” you shrug, “it’s just me.”
__
The first time he sees you angry— actually seething, hands flying and shattering things— comes almost a year afterwards. You’d gotten back together with Kyōtani shortly after formally meeting Oikawa, something he learned because of the secret fact that Iwaizumi has always been a little bit of a gossip. It pissed him off just a little bit but did nothing to deter your budding friendship.
After all, that’s what he wanted, right? A friendship with a girl, one who wouldn’t get in the way of him sampling all the others when he went to school. Not deeply buried feelings that arose once he learned that your personality was just as beautiful as your smile. Of course not.
He’s only here to witness your reign of terror because you called him to do so, and Oikawa Tōru will always, always come when you call. He sits on your bed between declarations of “He’s such an asshole, can you believe this!?” and “This is the last time I let him pull this shit. I mean it.”.
And he waits. Waits until the storm has passed from your eyes and you slump down into your desk chair. Waits for the perfect words to form on his tongue, ones that won’t excuse what his former teammate did nor incite more aggravated shrieks. He’s sure your neighbors will love him for it.
“You don’t deserve to be treated like that. You’re too good for him,” is what he decides on, watching as a little bit of the badly-hidden hurt drains from your eyes and you look at him— see through him, really— and give him a watery smile.
“I guess.” You say, punctuating your statement with a forlorn sigh. He has the urge to scoop you up in his arms and save you from all your troubles, no matter how impossibly large they are.
His stomach drops, though, when he fully takes in your words. He knows what they mean; he’s heard you say them so many times after every single fight.
“You’re going to take him back?” His asks, a little more incredulous than he should be. He thought this was the last time. Had hoped it was the last time.
“I don’t know anymore. I just. Love him. I think.” You stammer out, already looking like you want to break something again. Oikawa does too, and the image of kicking his former teammate in the stomach is oddly pleasing.
No, Tōru. How fucking weird is it that he thinks in Iwa-chan’s voice? You can’t do that. He’s your friend.
Oikawa frowns at the thought. Is he really? Is Kyōtani Kentarō actually his friend? Past issues aside, the fact still stands that Oikawa would sell his soul in an instant to be in his place, to be able to call you his and hold your hand and do all sorts of other things that couples get to do. It makes him sick, legitimately, and he thinks he might just throw up with how jealous he is.
Kyōtani Kentarō has an opportunity that Oikawa Tōru would kill for, and he’s throwing it away. He’s taking pictures with other girls, ignoring your calls, and brushing you aside. He’s letting one of the most beautiful creatures on this earth slip right through his fingers, and Oikawa isn’t even comforted by that. It’s clear that no matter what, you will love your boyfriend for a long time. Maybe even forever.
Suddenly his mind is filled with thoughts of you walking down an isle in a dress that was not picked out for him. An image of you holding a black-haired child that is not his. A blush spreading on your face that he did not cause.
He stands, ignoring your suddenly worried expression, and bolts to the door, some sort of lame excuse falling from his lips as he does so. You protest, but you do not chase him out.
__
He calls Iwaizumi on the way back to his dorm. “I’m in love with her.” He says, the statement caught somewhere between a pant and a wail.
“I know.” Iwaizumi says.
__
He never spends his Saturdays alone. It’s a perk of being on the volleyball team; they always go to parties together, packed in a cramped house like a school of fish. The beat of the music is so strong that it feels like it’s rattling his bones.
He watches, a little bored, as the contents of his cup slosh around. He’s never been much of a drinker, but he does like to indulge himself.
He watches as a pretty redhead walks by, shooting him a kind smile. Yes. Indulge yourself.
He wonders what you’re up to. Probably reading a novel or watching some new show; anything to procrastinate doing homework.
Pushing off from the wall and taking one last sip from his drink before setting it down, Oikawa steels his nerves for what’s about to happen. He’s going to try and forget about you, even if it’s only for a few minutes. You can’t continue to control his life like this. Even though you have no idea that you’re doing it, it’s still annoying as hell and he wishes he had never met you.
That’s a lie. He thinks it before he can stop himself. He scowls. The only thing that he’s wishing for is to be back in your dorm with you, laughing about some inside joke that he’s forgotten the origin of. He wants to be there, under your covers with you, telling you how perfect and amazing and wonderful you are, holding you to his chest and making you forget that you ever even loved someone else.
But he can’t. So he walks over to that redhead, tapping her on the shoulder and introducing himself. She smiles again, telling him there’s no need, she already knows who he is. She has nice green eyes. They aren’t as pretty as yours, though.
He manages to keep it together as they break away from the party, finding a room where they can be alone. He maintains his composure through the heavy petting, through the gradual loss of clothing, through grabbing a condom and putting it on. Through the guttural groans and moaning of names.
At least, he thinks he does. When they’re done he’s a little mortified to see her hurt expression, doubly so when it morphs into one of understanding.
“My name isn’t [Name].” Is what she says when she’s dressed again. She leaves him there, alone in that room.
Oikawa Tōru cries.
__
The first time he sees you broken, one hundred percent shattered, is three weeks later. Your reunion with Kyōtani did not go well, that much is certain.
He finds you curled into a ball on your bed, still wearing your pajamas at five o’clock in the evening. He’s still feeling a bit guilty for moaning your name during his last tryst, so he’s kept his Saturday night escapades to a minimum since then. It’s a good thing, in hindsight, because it allows him to pick up the pieces of what might be your final breakup with the temperamental volleyball player.
“I can’t believe he drove all the way out here just to say that he met someone else.” You sniffle, hands balled into tight fists. “Why would he get back together with me in the first place if he knew he was just going to break my heart again?”
“Some people feel safer going back to something they’re familiar with.” Oikawa tries to soothe you but you just swat his hand away. He smiles, a little pained.
“Well that’s stupid.” You mutter, pushing yourself up to sit cross-legged. Your hair is a complete mess. He likes it. “People should do new things. People should take risks, y’know? Not go back to something just because it’s easy. Kyōtani is a coward.”
He makes a noise of agreement in his throat, but it’s cut short when he remembers his promise to Iwaizumi that he’d try to remain neutral. You don’t seem to notice, too absorbed in reassembling yourself to realize that Oikawa is right there and he would give anything—
“You’re not a coward.” You say. Your voice has an air of finality to it that’s a little bit terrifying.
“What do you mean?” He asks, a little afraid that you’re going to go off on a ‘you’re such a good friend. I’m glad I know you’ tangent because he doesn’t think he can quite handle coming to terms with being rejected by you.
“You and Iwaizumi-kun. You two are best friends, but you didn’t go to the same university with him. You branched off and did your own thing. You didn’t stay with him just because you wanted everything to be normal and easy. You took a risk.” You smile, wiping away tears that hadn’t even fallen yet. “I really look up to you, Oikawa-san. You’re brave.”
“Tōru.” He blurts. “Please call me Tōru.”
You blink. Then, slowly, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, you smile. “Tōru. I’ve always thought you had the prettiest name.”
“Thank you.” He says. He pulls you close, your face to his chest and his chin on your head. You breathe in— you always said he smelled good— and let out a shaky laugh. He strokes your hair, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head.
You don’t complain.
__
By now, there are no more firsts. He’s known you for two years now, through every up and down that the world has to offer. He’s seen you happy, sad, jealous, angry, bitter, reserved, even dazed. Each expression is like its own little secret, a moment that he could slip into his pocket and save for later. He sees them every time he closes his eyes, every time the sun shines a little too brightly in the sky, every time the wildflowers on campus bloom. You’re everywhere, so tangled up in him and the person that he is that he’s not sure he could ever stand to be apart from you.
He’s making progress. He’s been celibate— you laughed when he told you, saying ‘celibate’ was a word that old men used when women no longer wanted to sleep with them— and somehow, that seems to erase a lot of the guilt he feels. He doesn’t feel bad for openly appraising you when you grab lunch with him, or when you’re biting on the end of your pen while working on homework.
He doesn’t feel bad for overstepping his boundaries. Most people would give him a look of contempt for trying to woo someone who dated a teammate of his, but he’s found that he no longer gives two fucks.
“[Name]-chan, I—” He immediately comes to a stop when he hears two voices from inside your room. It’s odd; usually your door is open so that he can come and go as he pleases.
“I don’t know why you’re here, Kentarō.”
“[Name]—”
Against his better judgement he presses his ear against the door, hardly believing his own ears. Kyōtani goes to school on the other side of Japan, why would he—
“I’m not getting back together with you. You’re the one that said you didn’t want to see me again, in case you’ve forgotten.” Your voice is dangerously low and flat, betraying not a single emotion. Oikawa is proud, in a sick way.
He hears shuffling. Something on your desk rattles. A surprised grunt.
“You’re friends with Oikawa?” Kyōtani sounds like he can’t quite believe it. Almost like he’s offended. He must have seen the framed picture on your desk, from the night that you and Oikawa had dressed up as Star Trek characters in order to get half-off on your movie tickets.
“Yes. Tōru is my best friend.” You snap. He can almost picture you yanking the picture from his grasp, a scowl on your face.
“Tōru? You’re on a first-name basis with that guy?” Oikawa almost sends his fist through the door. That guy. As if Oikawa hadn’t given Kyōtani everything that he has.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” You quip. More shuffling.
“I still. You know. Love you.” It must be painful for Kyōtani to say. Oikawa, never one for religion, suddenly prays that you won’t say it back.
You don’t. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out. I don’t want to see you ever again. I’m done with you. I should have been a long time ago.”
“You’re serious?”
“Get. Out.”
Oikawa pushes away from the door when he hears those thundering footsteps, but he has no place to hide. Kyōtani comes barreling out like a true mad dog, but his eyes are a little too glossy to be angry. He stops short when he notices Oikawa there, giving him a once over. Something in him relaxes; his shoulders slump a little bit and his forehead loses a wrinkle. Kyōtani stands before him, a man defeated.
The mad dog grunts at him, then turns on his heel and walks away.
__
He supposes that all of this pain could have been avoided if he had just spoken up sooner. That he could have gotten an answer if he had just told you when he first started to recognize that he had feelings for you.
But he also supposes that you’ve been wrong about him. Oikawa Tōru takes risks, yes, but he is nowhere near brave. He’s a coward, favoring an easy friendship with you over the risk of asking you to be his girlfriend. He has nobody but himself to blame for the emotional turmoil he’s feeling, Iwaizumi tells him. He’s the only one who can determine his fate.
So he does.
You’re surprisingly pliant in his grasp, like a handful of clay that he can mold to his own liking. Oikawa isn’t tricked by that, though; there’s a sharpness in your eyes that betrays just how independent you’ve become. He knows that no matter what way he bends and twists you, you will always go back to what you were before.
The thought, weirdly, turns him on.
“Tōru.” You whine, pressed up against your door in an almost depraved way. You wonder what made him finally snap, what made those adoring eyes of his turn absolutely feral the moment he stepped into your room. Then, you don’t wonder at all, your brain going up in flames at the way his mouth is moving against your neck.
He doesn’t respond. In retrospect, you should have seen this all coming ever since that party he took you to, where you spent the entire night rubbing your body against the captain of the basketball team. The look in his eyes had been dark, like two little pinpricks of a void. You didn't know what it meant then. You do now.
“Tōru, please, I—” He cuts you short with a little nip to the juncture of your shoulder and neck, teeth scraping around a bruise that will be there for almost a week. He hums, pleased with his own work, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips.
You want to ask what’s gotten into him, why he’s suddenly all over you. You want to laugh and say that you thought he was celibate. You want to know why he chose you, of all people, to do this with, did he not know what this would do to your friendship, was he just using you for sex—
His mouth seals over yours and fuck it feels so right that you wonder why you ever wasted time on other men. He’s perfection personified, sending shocks through your system with every movement of his hips. You may not know his reasoning, but it’s clear that he wants you, and he wants you bad.
He pulls back. “Let me fuck you.” He whispers, eyes boring into your own with such ferocity that your knees knock together. You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you nod.
He picks you up like you weigh nothing, even though you are by no means the lightest person in the world. Your back hits the bed and you bounce a little, but you’re immediately anchored by his weight over top of you, his looming frame caging you in. You feel small compared to him, as you often do when you remember just how tall and muscular he is.
“Tōru.” You whisper, and he groans as if you’ve wounded him, pressing his hips into your own. Your eyes widen a bit at just how hard he is, how big he feels even through his pants. You grab at the front of his shirt and pull him down, mouths colliding with a fervor that has been building for two years.
He grits out your name when your hands wander south, fingers dancing over the tops of his pants. He’s absolutely floored by the haziness in your eyes, the pure want that’s directed at him. It’s an expression that he’s never seen, despite believing the contrary, and it makes the air in his lungs leave with a startled woosh.
“Please.” He says. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that it was a command rather than a question. One of his large hands is already slipping under your shirt, grabbing your breast firmly, like he has to prove to himself that he’s actually doing this. You swat him away, ignoring how he pulls back with a mildly heartbroken look on his face, because it vanishes when he realizes that you did so just so you could remove your shirt and bra.
“Fuck.” He hisses, once more trapping you within his arms. “You’re goddamn beautiful, you know that?”
You swallow harshly at his words, trying not to think that he’s only saying these things so that you’ll sleep with him, trying not to imagine who else he’s said these words to. Right now it’s just you and him tangled in this moment, so absorbed with each other that thinking about anything else kind of hurts.
“I could say the same about you.” You say, placing a chaste kiss to the tip of his nose.
Just like that, the dark look in his eyes becomes something else. It’s no longer all-consuming. It’s something that is so warm and bright that you almost shy away from it. You know that look; it’s the look you used to give Kyōtani.
“Hey.” He says, noticing that you’ve stilled for a moment. “Hey, I’m not gonna make you do this.”
You blink. Then, you laugh, albeit a little bit uncomfortably. “No, it’s not that, it’s just. I dunno. I don’t want you to do this just because you want to get laid.”
You’ve hurt him. He recoils a bit, but there’s still a little bit of understanding in his eyes. “No, that’s not it. I want to do this. I have for a long time.”
You stare up at him. You’re heartbreakingly gorgeous, your eyes wide and a little disbelieving. He could have you underneath him every day for the rest of his life and he would never get tired of it, he thinks.
“You’re…” You trail off, then think fuck it and pull him back down, mouth meeting his in a harsh kiss that you didn’t know you were even capable of. He appreciates it, though, if the smooth roll of his hips is anything to go by.
You break apart once again so that he can pull off his own shirt, the rippling muscles in his arms and chest absolutely drool-worthy. You’d feel self conscious about your own body if you were with anyone else, but the way he’s looking at you now makes any thought of the sort vanish into thin air like smoke.
He pulls at your pants and you let him, sliding them down until you’re left in just your panties, already clinging to you with how wet you are. He slides his fingers along you apex, humming in a pleased way as he does so.
“Is this for me?” He coos, looking insufferably cocky. You roll your eyes but buck up into his touch regardless, especially because he chose that moment to press two of his fingers against your cloth-covered clit.
You nudge him, raising an eyebrow at the fact that he’s still half clothed. He laughs, a little breathless, and complies with your nonverbal wishes. His boxers do nothing to hide the fact that he’s absolutely massive, and you realize that all this time, his cockiness has been completely warranted.
You reach out and touch him before he’s even asked you to. He’s warm and hard as steel, feeling absolutely perfect in your hand.
He freezes, stutters out a curse, before kissing you again. It’s slow and a little sloppy, his tongue darting out to tangle with yours almost obscenely. He rocks his hips into your grip, letting out a small noise of appreciation when your hold on him tightens.
He suspends himself over you with one arm, leaving the other free so that his hand can wander south again. His fingers gently hook underneath the elastic of your panties, sliding over the warm skin the leads to the apex of your thighs. Now it’s your turn to freeze in anticipation as he starts to drag the fabric downwards, exposing more of you to him.
“You sure you want to do this?” He asks against your lips. You know it’s the final time that he will question it. You nod.
“Of course.” You whisper, squirming a little bit as he sits back and moves your legs so that he can fully remove your underwear. He tosses them to the ground. You snort and roll your eyes.
“Don’t even think about kissing me again until you’re naked too.” You warn, and he laughs, looking a little stupefied that he’s actually doing this with you. He gives you a mock salute, which makes you roll your eyes again, and pulls his boxers off with a grace that makes you a little jealous.
Then, he’s back on top of you again.
“A lot of back and forth, isn’t it?” He mutters, pressing a peck to your collarbone. You circle your arms around him, running your fingers up his back and down again, featherlight touches that make him shudder.
“I guess.” You muse, returning a peck to the column of his throat. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He’s nervous.
“Ready?” His voice has gone a little hoarse. You smile up at him, a full on beam that makes his heart slam against his ribcage, and grab his cock again. He understands; you’re not in the mood for foreplay. Not this time.
He lets you guide him to your entrance and enters you slowly, his eyes glued on your face with rapt attention that would make you feel self-conscious if you weren’t too busy feeling like your mind was shutting down.
“Finally.” He groans once he’s fully inside of you, “fucking finally.”
The pace he sets is languid at first, like he’s testing the waters to see what you like. To his absolute delight you’re a moaner, letting out appreciative sounds every time his hips slap into yours. Your hand goes back to running down his back, your nails leaving little trails of white-hot pain that coerce him into putting extra force behind one of his thrusts. You squeal. He grins, the expression looking a little unhinged, and quickens his pace.
Your hands fall to your sides, one gripping the sheets next to your head while the other settles next to your thigh. His pace is absolutely punishing, forceful enough to make you see stars behind your eyelids. You wrap your legs around his hips and he makes a pleased sound, one of his hands sliding home into yours.
It’s a gesture that takes you by surprise, and you open your eyes to see him staring down at you with that soft expression again, his tongue darting out to lick his lips before he presses them to yours again. There’s a thought wriggling around in the back of your mind, a discovery that Oikawa Tōru is most definitely not just using you for sex, and the intensity of it makes you clench up around him.
“Shit.” He hisses as you come undone, your eyes shutting once more and your mouth framing a long moan that he soon realizes is his name. His hips slam into yours again, the smack of skin-on-skin an absolutely perfect accompaniment to the sound of you reaching your peak. He manages a few more thrusts before he’s following you, his emission coating your insides and smearing between your thighs when he pulls out and you collapse together.
“Tōru.” You say once you catch your breath. Theres hundreds, maybe even thousands, of things that you want to say to him in that moment. You want to scold him for not pulling out, ask him why he chose now of all times to make a move. You want to figure out what this means for you and him, if he expects you to just go back to the way that you were.
He beats you to the punch. “I love you.” He says. It’s the first time he says it to you, out loud and without hesitation.
Neither of you know it then, but he will never say it to another girl for as long as he lives.