Chapter Text
Oikawa was used to being admired. It was practically a full-time job.
It came with the territory: the hair that deserved its own shampoo commercial (bouncy, glossy, and somehow always artfully tousled like he'd just stepped off a runway); the smile that could cause minor traffic accidents (and had, once, when he smiled at a fan across a busy intersection); and, of course, the devastating jump serve that had crushed more dreams than he could count (and he could count pretty high, thank you very much).
Admiration wasn’t just something he expected. It was the air he breathed, the stage he lived on.
He was used to people looking at him like he was something to be worshipped, coveted, chased after. He wasn’t used to—
He wasn’t equipped for—
Being aggressively flirted with by a very, very drunk Iwaizumi Hajime.
Especially when said Iwaizumi seemed firmly convinced that Oikawa was some sort of "hot stranger" sent specifically by the gods to personally ruin his life (in the best way imaginable).
It had started innocently enough—or at least, as innocent as anything involving Hanamaki and Matsukawa ever could start, which was to say, it hadn’t been innocent at all. One round of drinks had become two, then four, then an untraceable number lost somewhere between bad decisions and the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt.
At some point, Iwaizumi had wandered off—like a belligerent baby duck on a mission of chaos, leaving a trail of confusion and spilled drinks in his wake.
Oikawa had sighed the sigh of a man who knew, deep in his bones, that he was the only tether to sanity left in their drunken universe. So, with the weary dignity of someone who has accepted the thankless role of The Responsible One™, he went to retrieve him.
He had not, however, anticipated finding Iwaizumi perched precariously on a barstool, cheeks flushed to a vibrant, cartoonish pink, and grinning like a gremlin about to cause biblical levels of mischief.
"Hey, beautiful," Iwaizumi slurred, leaning forward so fast that Oikawa instinctively lurched backward.
Oikawa froze.
Panic hit him like a taser to the spine.
Behind him, Hanamaki let out a strangled snort that sounded suspiciously like he was dying.
Matsukawa, traitorous snake that he was, already had his phone out, recording the moment with the cold precision of a war documentarian.
"Uh, Iwa-chan?" Oikawa stammered, hands flapping like a distressed Victorian maiden facing down a scandal.
Iwaizumi blinked at him. Slowly. Like he was trying to reboot his entire brain and it was taking a minute.
Then he scowled, but in a way that somehow managed to be charming.
"Nooooo," Iwaizumi said with the over-enunciated patience of a kindergarten teacher explaining colors to a goldfish. He waved his hand in a wide, reckless arc that nearly decapitated Oikawa. "You—you’re...like..." His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Oikawa with the intense focus of a man trying to see through time itself.
"—the hottest thing I’ve ever seen," he declared finally, throwing his arms wide in a grand, wobbly gesture.
Another wild swing. Another near miss.
Oikawa’s brain blue-screened. His heart did a backflip, cracked its spine, and died.
"What?" he croaked, voice cracking like a teenager's first confession.
"You heard me, handsome stranger," Iwaizumi said, suddenly serious, suddenly dangerous, leaning in so close that Oikawa could feel his breath—a warm, boozy, completely illegal caress against the shell of his ear.
Oikawa flinched like he’d been physically struck. Behind him, Hanamaki was sliding out of his chair, laughing hysterically, and Matsukawa was shaking with silent, tearful mirth.
Oblivious, Iwaizumi continued, voice thick with sincerity and the kind of heartbreakingly pure adoration that should have been outlawed.
"Oikawa’s an angel," he said, as if revealing a holy truth. "A sexy angel. Like...like if God was horny when he made him."
Oikawa made a noise. A strangled, undignified noise that defied human classification.
Iwaizumi, now fully committed to ruining Oikawa's entire existence, barreled forward without mercy.
"His hair," he said, staring wistfully into the distance like he could see it right now, haloed in divine light. "His dumb pretty face. His stupid long legs." He sniffled. Sniffled.
"So fucking pretty."
Hanamaki wheezed audibly. Matsukawa actually fell backward off his stool with a loud thump, still recording.
Oikawa stood there, hands limp at his sides, caught between the instinct to run, scream, and combust into spontaneous flames, while his brain tried—valiantly, futilely—to restart.
And then—because life was unfair and God was clearly laughing—Iwaizumi grabbed his wrist with alarming tenderness.
"Come home with me," Iwaizumi whispered, voice cracking on the last word like a teenage boy asking his crush to prom. His eyes were shiny, glassy, filled with such raw, unfiltered emotion that Oikawa felt physically assaulted by it. "Please. Oikawa would bring me home. Oikawa loves me."
Oikawa’s stomach performed a triple axel, crashed into his ribcage, and died a messy, glorious death.
He turned to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, desperate, pleading, only to find them both enthusiastically making kissy faces and obscene gestures, like two incredibly drunk, incredibly unhelpful cheerleaders.
"No—Iwa-chan—you don’t understand—" Oikawa tried, flailing weakly.
But it was too late.
Iwaizumi’s bottom lip quivered, trembling like he was about to be cast out into the cruel, loveless streets.
Oikawa cracked.
He cracked like a dry riverbed in a drought.
"Fine, fine, fine!" he hissed, grabbing Iwaizumi and hoisting his arm over his shoulders like he was dragging a particularly affectionate boulder.
Hanamaki and Matsukawa erupted into applause so loud it drew stares from across the bar. Someone actually whistled.
"I’m ending both of you tomorrow," Oikawa snarled over his shoulder.
"Love you, sweetie!" Hanamaki called, blowing a dramatic, sloppy kiss.
Dragging Iwaizumi home was like trying to wrangle a golden retriever that had just learned about the concept of soulmates. Every few steps, Iwaizumi would stop to:
-
Compliment Oikawa’s ass with the reverence usually reserved for priceless works of art. ("So round. So perfect. So...grab-able...")
-
Attempt to kiss Oikawa’s fingers, one by one, like some drunk Victorian poet trying to court a duchess.
-
Ramble, in endless, slurred loops, about Oikawa’s "glorious thighs" and how "they could probably kill a man. And like. I’d say thank you."
By the time they staggered through Oikawa’s apartment door, Oikawa was vibrating at a frequency only detectable by small birds and scientific equipment.
"Stay here," he panted, shoving Iwaizumi onto the bed like unloading a sack of potatoes—if potatoes came with emotional damage.
"I’m sleeping on the couch."
"Noooooo," Iwaizumi whined immediately, catching Oikawa’s wrist with alarming speed and strength, clinging to him like a very determined koala.
"Stay. Sleep. With me. You’re hot. Hot people should stick together. It’s a rule."
"It’s a twin bed!" Oikawa screeched.
Iwaizumi made the saddest noise Oikawa had ever heard—a tiny, wounded whimper, the sound of a man whose dreams had been ripped away.
"Oikawa would sleep with me..." he sniffled.
Oikawa covered his face with both hands, groaning like he was being tortured.
"Fine! Fine! Just—stop looking at me like that, for fuck's sake—"
With the defeated air of a man marching to his own execution, Oikawa crawled into the bed, contorting himself to occupy as little space as possible.
It didn’t matter.
The moment he was within reach, Iwaizumi latched onto him like a koala on a particularly attractive eucalyptus tree. His arms wrapped around Oikawa’s waist, his face burrowed into Oikawa’s collarbone, and he let out a long, satisfied sigh that seemed to vibrate right into Oikawa’s bones.
Oikawa’s heart tried to make a desperate bid for freedom through his ribcage.
And then it got worse.
"Mmh...so lucky..." Iwaizumi murmured, breath warm against Oikawa’s skin. "Hot best friend... Hot man in bed... So hot..."
Oikawa whimpered audibly, a sound of pure mortal suffering.
And then—because fate was cruel—he felt it: wet, sloppy kisses being pressed against his arm. Soft, fluttery, absolutely devastating kisses.
"Iwa-chan—stop—" he hissed, trying to wiggle away, but Iwaizumi clung harder, mumbling something about "soulmates" and "destiny" and "thighs made by God himself."
And then—
Then—
Iwaizumi’s mouth found his neck.
Nipped.
Suckled.
Oikawa levitated off the mattress like he was experiencing an exorcism.
"STOP, STOP, STOP—" he yelped, kicking helplessly, but it was like trying to fight a loving, drunk octopus.
Eventually, mercifully, Iwaizumi stilled, breathing slow and even, a soft snore ruffling Oikawa’s hair.
Oikawa lay there, wide-eyed, burning alive with mortification, while Iwaizumi snored softly into his chest like he hadn’t just ruined Oikawa’s entire existence.
Tomorrow, Oikawa thought with the hollow despair of a man standing before the gallows,
Tomorrow he would have to deal with this.
Tomorrow he would have to look Iwaizumi in the eye.
Tomorrow was going to be the worst day of his life.
God help him.