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“Iwaizumi-san, how are you?”
This is really weird for multiple reasons. Like, one—they barely know each other. Not well enough to know each other’s names without it being considered creepy, low-key awkward. Which is why it’s weird that he’s so flippantly throwing around Iwaizumi’s like they know each other beyond volleyball courts and Air Salonpas-induced headaches.
Two, this kid’s smiling at him. Literally, smiling, like there’s nothing wrong at all with the current situation. Like this is all totally okay, totally normal, a totally respectable way to run into a supposed-to-be rival.
Three (and this one’s killer), this is beyond weird because Iwaizumi is…
Well, he’s kind of—
Okay, maybe it’s beyond weird because Iwaizumi doesn’t… he doesn’t really mind how weird it is.
Yeah.
So with a forced bravado, he secures the strap of his mother’s hot pink gym bag over his shoulder. Iwaizumi tries to look as purposeful as possible as he turns his head to greet the other boy.
“Oh.” He nods in acknowledgment, like he hasn’t been counting down the minutes to this very encounter. Like he isn’t maybe suffering from a heart attack? Is this a heart attack? He might be dying. “Hey, Ennoshita.”
Everything slows down. It’s all slow motion and this is, honestly, the most cinematic Disney-worthy scene he’s ever had the honor of viewing with his own eyes.
Ennoshita tilts his head to the side and offers that sleepy smile of his and Iwaizumi feels a lurch in his stomach that is absolutely traitorous.
“… Iwaizumi-san?!”
It would have been cooler, in retrospect, if he had successfully executed the cool lean against the wall thing instead of missing and landing on the cold, hard, ground. Cooler, yeah, and probably a lot less painful.
On the ground, he thinks about a lot of things. One, he will never be able to tell Oikawa about this; two, Ennoshita’s hands are really fucking soft; and three, it is incredibly unfair that it only took two and a half weeks for him to do a complete one-eighty from cool senpai to paralyzed on the floor by—could it be?—infatuation.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
Probably not ten, because Ennoshita is the only ten he see—
Well, fuck.
-
“Wow.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t even—”
“Shut up.”
“Iwa-chan, you’re being so mean!”
“Shut up.”
Oikawa huffs over the phone. “Well, if you don’t want my incredible advice…”
With much futility, Iwaizumi grits his teeth and hazards a sigh of defeat. “Wait.” He can feel them slipping away, the remaining tendrils of his pride, his dignity. Iwaizumi sighs again and tries to smooth out the frustrated creases of his forehead. “Help me.” He has tastefully avoided sharing the mishaps of the latest encounter with Ennoshita but seriously. He needs help.
He can picture the exact smile on Oikawa’s face and it is absolutely infuriating.
“What’s the magic word?”
“… I’m hanging up.”
“Aw, Iwa-chan! Don’t give up so easily on your Snow White-chan!”
Iwaizumi physically freezes. He pulls his cellphone away from his ear and stares at it incredulously, like there might be some chance that Oikawa will get a glimpse of how done he is with this entire conversation. “Who the hell is Snow White-chan?”
“Snow White-chan is your darling wing spiker.”
“Where did you get Snow White from?”
“Well, his hair is black. He is your fairy tale love interest.” Oikawa pauses and hums, contemplative. “And he’s sleepy like Snow White.”
“Oi.”
“What?”
“That’s Sleeping Beauty.”
Oikawa pauses again. “You think Snow White-chan is beautiful?”
“I’m hanging up.”
Oikawa’s laughter echoes through the phone and Iwaizumi rolls over on his bed, contemplating smothering himself with his pillow. He’d figured it was a bad idea to step out of his comfort zone and actually ask Oikawa for advice but—
He sighs.
“Don’t be so pessimistic, Iwa-chan. Obviously this boy has to have a modicum of interest in you if he’s dutifully kept you company despite how unexciting you must be as a conversational partner.”
This is supposed to be comforting, Iwaizumi thinks, yet for some reason, he feels greatly offended. He almost alerts Oikawa of this revelation but is too caught up with deciding between choice words to sprinkle into his announcement. Oikawa manages to shift the conversation subject before he seizes the opportunity.
“Let’s just run through this from the top,” Oikawa suggests brightly. He clears his throat. “Approximately three weeks ago, you went to the rec center to escort your mom to her water calisthenics class.”
“Yes.”
“Probably sporting her favorite hot pink gym bag with that terrible scowl on your face.”
“Focus.”
“Sorry, sorry. Back to the rec center. You get there, disgruntled, because you are Iwaizumi Hajime, and you have no reason to be sitting in the waiting room of a rec center because of water calisthenics.”
“… Yes.”
“Lo and behold! Snow White-chan!”
“Christ,” Iwaizumi mutters mostly to himself. It’s already well past ten in the evening and Iwaizumi only has a couple more hours to think of how to approach the situation before his mom’s next class at the rec center—before his next encounter with Ennoshita.
“He enters the waiting room, sporting a bright purple gym bag. There is a look of recognition on his face and one on yours. For some reason, there is a thumping in your heart as he approaches you. You feel your cheeks redden. Could this be? This is lov—”
He hangs up spitefully and ignores Oikawa’s following four calls and two voicemails. After much contemplation, he decides to read through Oikawa's accumulated text messages.
From: Oikawa
3 suggestions for u
From: Oikawa
1. maybe it would do u some good to ask him to hang out
1a. outside of ur mothers’ joint calisthenics classes, which, ok, im sure are romantic
1b. lol
1c. l o l
From: Oikawa
2. for the love of god wear some jeans tomorrow
2a. u have a nice ass (no homo) and im sure snow white-chan would love it
2c. ;---)
2d. 8=====D
From: Oikawa
3. THIS JOKE ISNT FUNNY ANYMORE STOP IGNORING ME U HEATHEN
-
The morning consists of Iwaizumi rushing his mother into the car so they can hurry to the rec center before she’s late. She ends up being early. By an hour, give or take two, and it is important to note that it is his mother’s patience (or lack thereof) that he inherited.
“Why were you in such a rush, Hajime?” his mother asks primly after tweaking his ear in a manner straight from the ninth circle of hell for the past five minutes.
“Punctuality,” he says stiffly, rubbing at his battle wound forlornly. “Early bird gets the…” The pool is occupied; there’s a pre-K swimming lesson going on, nearly finished by the looks of how winded the instructor appears after a presumably long class. “The early bird gets the best gym locker.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, thoroughly unconvinced as she tucks her hair beneath a swim cap. He extends his arm out to accept her gym bag, tactfully choosing not to comment on the gaudy daisies adorning her cap.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “A proverb, probably. Maybe Confucius said it.”
His mother rolls her eyes before moving on to the next subject of her choice.. “You’re wearing jeans.”
“No, I’m not,” he says quickly. “Well, I mean, I am. But not for the reasons you’re thinking.”
“What are the reasons I’m thinking?”
It is terrifying how his mother traps him in hypothetical corners nine times out of ten.
“I’m wearing jeans but it's not because I didn’t do my laundry,” Iwaizumi says as neutrally as possible. He actually didn’t do his laundry, but his mother doesn’t need to know that. Just like how she doesn't need to know that he's maybe wearing jeans because he's maybe trying to impress someone. Maybe.
She eyes him suspiciously, looks deep into his soul and probably deduces more than he can imagine from his singular attempt at conversing naturally. He decides not to speak further so as to avoid digging the ditch he’s in deeper than it already is.
An hour, thankfully, passes by relatively quickly. Sooner or later, the middle-aged women are flocking through the halls and entering the swimming pool. There are bags deposited in lockers and he dutifully bids his mother farewell to go loiter about in the lobby.
“Ah, Iwaizumi-san,” a familiar voice greets him from behind.
Iwaizumi freezes. Oikawa’s words haunt him with each second he avoids looking Ennoshita in the eye. Why did he wear jeans again? Why does he care about how his butt looks in the first place?
“Hey,” Iwaizumi says instead of vocalizing any of his present concerns. It’s a wise decision on his part, and he commends himself on keeping his expression plain, neutral. “How’s it going?”
Ennoshita only shrugs, watching as Iwaizumi seats himself on one of the lobby benches before sitting down as well, a comfortable distance away. “It’s going well,” he says with a light smile. “Nothing new. What about you?”
“Fine,” Iwaizumi says a little too quickly. He swallows down the lump in his throat and stares begrudgingly at the wall in front of him, like it’s done something terrible to him.
After lifting Oikawa’s silent treatment the night before, Iwaizumi had spent a considerable amount of time threatening Oikawa’s hair with perfectly aimed volleyballs, following Oikawa’s attempts at teaching Iwaizumi the ways of coy small talk.
The conversation had left him with two infinitely important pieces of wisdom: one, Oikawa is a terrible teacher and two, Iwaizumi is never going to be able to accomplish Operation: Snow White.
Well.
Maybe now is a good time to unleash the charm (that, okay, maybe he doesn’t really have). This would be great, an opportune moment for Iwaizumi to talk intelligibly about volleyball games (but he’s prone to ranting) and great books he’s read (he doesn’t suppose his math textbook counts) and fantastic movies that are out (which are really limited to alien documentaries, courtesy of Oikawa, and psychological thrillers, courtesy of Hanamaki) and—
“So do you like summer?”
... ABORT ABORT ABORT. ABORT MISSION ABORT MISSION. His mouth is moving on its own and it's completely out of his control now.
“I mean, uh, do you like seasons?”
THIS IS NOT A DRILL WE REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
“Season…ing? Paprika, maybe?”
In the distance, Iwaizumi hears Oikawa’s laughter reverberating off the walls of the building, off the walls of his skull. It lingers. He suppresses a grimace.
Ennoshita, for all he has just been subjected to in terms of Terrible Attempts at Small Talk, only smiles pleasantly. It makes Iwaizumi hate the world all that much more because it isn’t fair, really, how one random boy from Miyagi of all places has the power (AND AUDACITY!!) to waltz into his life and be the most infuriatingly (read: endearingly) tolerant person on the planet.
“I’m a fan of cusps, actually. Summer’s too hot and winter’s too cold. I like the days where it’s right in the middle.”
“Oh,” Iwaizumi says smartly, wondering if it’s too late to invest in a time machine to make sure this conversation never happens ever again.
“As for seasonings, I’m partial to acidity. My tastes are kind of unrefined. I’m pretty happy with just salt and vinegar.”
“Great,” Iwaizumi says faintly. He wonders if his voice sounds as hoarse as it feels. He wonders if Oikawa is omniscient, if he’s watching this unfold right now and laughing his ass off or something equally as cruel. “Simplicity is good.”
Ennoshita looks entirely unaffected by the truckload of weird hurled at him. In fact, he looks as calm as he always does, faint smile on his lips as he stares at the same wall as Iwaizumi like there’s some sort of important secret hidden there.
“So how do you feel about psychological thrillers?”
He diagnoses himself with a serious case of word vomit. This is new, very new. Iwaizumi Hajime does not get fucking flustered by sleepy-eyed near-strangers with a penchant for handling socially inept interactions.
“I like them if they’re done well,” Ennoshita replies.
“Me too,” Iwaizumi says without thinking. “Done well, I mean. I’m done well.” He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s saying anymore, too caught up with wondering why Oikawa sent him an 8 followed by ====D last night and okay, maybe now isn’t the time to be thinking about it but really? What kind of a typo is that? “Yeah,” he says, just to top it all off. Just to silence himself. Just for good measure.
Ennoshita laughs lightly, politely, and this is how Iwaizumi knows the boy is an angel, probably, or the type of person who’s too patient to have to deal with the incompetence of lesser beings such as Iwaizumi Done Well Hajime.
“Iwaizumi-san,” says Ennoshita carefully, turning his head to stare at the side of Iwaizumi’s face like it is the most eye-catching sight in the world (and it isn’t) (he will admit right here and right now that Oikawa’s side profile is marginally better if that’ll get Ennoshita to stop looking at him). “Are you okay?”
“I’m doing…” He’s doing great. Could be better. Okay. Fine. “Better.”
“Better?”
“Better…” Oikawa’s voice echoes in his head, reciting pick-up lines that, if used, Iwaizumi would never forgive himself for utilizing. “Better now that you’re…” HERE.
Ennoshita stares, lips parted, confusion evident in his features.
“Oh my god,” Iwaizumi says instead of finishing the pick-up line. “I can’t do this, I’m sorry.”
He wonders if Ennoshita can see the last of his confidence leave him like tufts of steam from his ears. He wonders if this is as comically tragic for him as it is for Iwaizumi. There is a tiny piece of him that hopes it is maybe minutely endearing. And then there’s another tiny piece of him that hopes this is just a terrible nightmare.
“You must have had a long morning,” Ennoshita comments, voice a little too kind for someone who’s witnessed what can only be defined as twelve-car collision during rush hour on Tokyo’s most crowded highway, except in human form. “Are you busy this afternoon?”
He is terribly busy this afternoon, actually. He is busy avoiding Ennoshita for the rest of his life and packing up to seek holy introspection in a distant mountain village.
“I’m not.”
“Can I treat you to some ice cream?”
For a second, he’s a little disappointed (not in Ennoshita) (mostly in himself). He thinks back to the horrible attempts at seguing into asking Ennoshita out on a date, has the decency to shudder, and then contemplates the probability that this is real and not a dream. He’s only disappointed that in the end, his efforts amount to this—complete and utter defeat at the hands of a boy one year his junior with more tact than he’ll ever manage to have.
“Seriously? After everything?”
“Conversations like this keep me on my toes.”
“God,” Iwaizumi says to himself. He isn’t sure if this is supposed to be tallied as a victory or not.
Ennoshita hums, contemplative. “I’m just relieved you aren’t on the ground. It’s much easier to see you when you’re upright.”
There’s a bubble of relief at the very core of his chest though. He’s—okay, he’s kind of stupidly happy, grateful, that in the end, the result he gets is the one he wanted. So he cranes his head, meets Ennoshita’s eyes despite how red his face is already getting.
“Ice cream is fine,” he finally manages to say, covering his face with his hands and only barely peeking out from between his fingers to acknowledge Ennoshita.
“The next date’s in your hands,” Ennoshita replies with a serene bob of his head. “I figured you just needed a push in the right direction.”
There they are, sitting two feet apart in the lobby of a local rec center, hot pink and plastic purple gym bags stationed by their sides respectively. This is, Iwaizumi thinks, probably the complete opposite of generic, cheesy, summer love story, but he’s a simple guy. He’ll take what he can get.
-
From: Oikawa
did u use the pick-up line
From: Oikawa
pls god tell me u used the pick-up line
From: Oikawa
literally my happiness depends on u using outdated pick-up lines
to romance ppl who are obviously already into u
From: Oikawa
UR IGNORING ME AGAIN
-
outtake
(“This is when you’re supposed to kiss me.”
“Oh, hey. You’re right. The chocolate chip does taste pretty g—what?”
“I mean, cinematically speaking.”
“… Explain.”
“I say, ‘here, try some of my ice cream,’ and then extend the spoon. You grab my wrist instead and—you’re turning red again.”
“…”
“Iwaizumi-san, don’t look so worried. I was kidding.”
“… Your jokes are terrible.”
“For some reason, I get that a lot. Feel free to tell me to be quiet every now and then. Otherwise, I will definitely find more reason to make you blush—”
It’s kind of messy, a little unsophisticated, how Iwaizumi actually does grab Ennoshita’s wrist to pull the spoon away from his lips. How Iwaizumi does lean across the table, ignoring the rapid thumping of his own heart to kiss Ennoshita on the lips quickly.
“Oh.”
“Sorry,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “I thought of a better way to say ‘be quiet.’”)