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Puberty gives Tooru a lot of things. It gives him a nasty five centimeter height advantage. It gives him a fine dusting of downy leg hair. It gives him a gracefulness in his limbs on the court that’s totally unfair.
Puberty gives Tooru acne, too, though.
It starts when they’re fourteen. Iwaizumi spends half an hour sitting on the bathroom counter while Tooru cries on the toilet because he’s got a few spots on his cheek and wipes his snot on the tissues Iwaizumi hands him. His Mama takes him to a dermatologist and she tells Tooru to make sure he’s washing his face with organic, non-oil-based face wash and exfoliating twice a week. Tooru exfoliates four times a week and builds a nighttime routine that’s bordering on ridiculous, but it works. It becomes a non-issue after that, as most things tend to do after Tooru’s cried himself dry over them.
“What’s this one?” Iwaizumi asks as Tooru smudges something sweet-smelling and lumpy on the bridge of his nose. His tongue is sticking out from between his teeth and he’s got his eyes narrowed in concentration as he works, while Iwaizumi sits crossed legged across from him on the bathroom floor. Iwaizumi is fourteen years old, horny too often and angry all the time, and he’s just starting to notice that Tooru’s legs are really long, that his lips are kinda soft looking, and his fingers feel good pressed under his jaw.
“Ginseng and rice,” Tooru mumbles, tipping his head and carefully swiping across Iwaizumi’s forehead. “It’s for toning and stimulating.”
Iwaizumi hums and tries not to lean too heavily into Tooru’s other hand where it’s cupping the side of his neck, thumb pressed up behind his ear. It’s hard. He’s tired from school and practice. Tooru’s fingers are deft and his touch is feather soft against Iwaizumi’s cheeks, his chin, his jaw. The face mask is cool and tingling and Iwaizumi kinda gets why Tooru likes these dumb things so much. But it could also just be Tooru’s fingers on his face that make it so pleasant.
“Feels pretty good,” Iwaizumi mumbles as Tooru smooths his fingers along Iwaizumi’s cheekbones.
“Sleepy Iwa-chan,” Tooru sighs, jostling him a bit. “Don’t pass out.”
“No promises,” Iwaizumi says, closing his eyes and tipping backwards. He lets Tooru squawk and try to hold him up from falling completely until Tooru’s giggling and threatening to “never, ever let Iwa-chan try another face mask again!”
Iwaizumi sits up at that, cracking an eye open and watching Tooru dip into the pot to put his own face mask on. It sort of annoying that he doesn’t even need to use a mirror to do it. He just pokes his tongue out again and does it and Iwaizumi isn’t staring but Tooru’s humming along to whatever song he’s got stuck in his head, eyes wandering the room while he smears ginseng clay all over his cheeks, and Iwaizumi loves his best friend but he’s also feeling a little bit gay about him, so that’s weird. Iwaizumi’s been having a lot of weird feelings lately, actually, not just for Tooru, but for other guys and girls in his classes too. It’s sort of confusing and awkward but he guesses it’s alright because Tooru-feelings tend to be the weirdest, but they can still do things like hold hands when nobody’s paying attention and they can do face masks every Friday night.
* * *
“This smells super weird,” Iwaizumi says at sixteen and a half as Tooru holds him in place by the chin and smears shit on his face.
“It smells good, Iwa-chan,” Tooru huffs, leaning close and knocking their foreheads together. “This one’s good for oily skin, which you definitely have.”
“Rude,” Iwaizumi replies, half-assed and drowsy and Tooru’s fingers drag across his jaw, his cheeks, the sides of his nose. There’s nothing but the smell of warm peppermint and Tooru’s bedroom but Iwaizumi has an important question to ask so he tries to keep himself awake. Tooru’s got his legs tucked under him where he’s sitting across from Iwaizumi, and Iwaizumi reaches out and sets his hands on Tooru’s thighs. They’re bare and the skin is soft and the hem of his boxers tickles Iwaizumi’s knuckles but he splays his hands out anyway and rubs his thumbs like little windshield wipers because Tooru likes that sort of thing. The touchy stuff that, taken out of context, might seem dirty or weird, but it’s just Tooru, so Iwaizumi windshield wipes Tooru’s soft thighs and pretends to not notice the way Tooru’s shoulders relax or the way he plops onto his butt and spreads his legs so Iwaizumi can touch more skin.
“What’d you get on that math test?” Tooru asks, squeezing Iwaizumi’s chin between his fingers and scooting closer.
“Worse than you,” Iwaizumi says. “You didn’t miss anything.”
That makes Tooru laugh and he leans into Iwaizumi’s space, nuzzling their noses together before launching into an entire story about how Iwa-chan should study! Iwa-chan’s nowhere near as smart as Oikawa-san, but he could be if he begged to be tutored!
Iwaizumi lets him posture until they’ve both got masks on because then it’s seriously talking time and Iwaizumi has important things to say. So when Tooru takes a deep breath to ask if Iwaizumi is listening, Iwaizumi pinches his thigh. Tooru yelps and pulls his leg away but Iwaizumi pulls him right back and goes back to windshield wiping. It’s a hard question to ask and Iwaizumi’s scared his hands are going to get sweaty and he doesn’t wanna rub his sweaty hands on Tooru.
“Would you be my friend if I liked boys?” Iwaizumi asks, pulling his hands back and crossing his arms over his chest.
Tooru’s lip curls and he tugs and Iwaizumi’s arms, “Stupid Iwa-chan. I already know that you like boys.”
“You do not already know,” Iwaizumi snaps. There’s no way he knows.
“Oikawa-sama knows everything, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, successfully yanking Iwaizumi’s arms out from where they’re crossed and tangling their fingers. “I know you like boys. That’d be a stupid reason to not be your friend.”
“I like girls, too,” Iwaizumi says.
“Me, too. I like everybody. Well, not everybody. But, you know what I mean? Boy, girl, person that’s neither, person that’s both.”
“Cool,” Iwaizumi says. He doesn’t really know what else to say. Tooru is still tugging at his hands and he doesn’t stop until Iwaizumi sets them on his thighs again and starts kneading the muscles there with his thumbs. Tooru makes a happy noise.
“Isn’t this kind of weird?” Iwaizumi asks. “I bet Matsukawa and Hanamaki don’t do this.”
“They’re not childhood best friends,” Tooru says easily, leaning back on his elbows. “And Iwa-chan needs to take care of his setter.”
He looks stupid with his green face mask and his hair tied up with little purple bobbles. He also looks pretty as hell. The bridge of his nose is narrow and his nose turns up at the end like a little button. He’s just stupidly tall now, too, and sometimes he gets tripped up over how long his limbs are and flubs a serve because he’s not used to them yet. He can reach things better than Iwaizumi. Annoying.
“Have you ever kissed a boy?” Iwaizumi asks. “I know you’ve kissed girls.”
“Yep,” Tooru says, lolling his head backwards. “It’s not really different.”
Iwaizumi’s never kissed a boy. He wants to kiss a boy. He wants to kiss Tooru because those weird feelings he started having in middle school haven’t gone away. If anything, they’ve gotten worse and Iwaizumi has these dreams where him and Tooru are at amusements parks but everybody at the park is a chicken and, for some reason, Tooru’s naked and Iwaizumi’s neighbors are all there, but Tooru wants to kiss so everything’s fine. Then there’s one where him and Tooru are kissing but they’re not really kissing, they’re just spitting back and forth into each other’s mouths and that one sort of haunts him. So, to say the least: he's nervous about kissing.
* * *
There’s a Friday when Iwaizumi is 18 that Tooru tells him he’s busy. And Tooru’s never busy on their Friday nights. He always moves his plans, always parties on Saturdays, always forgets to pretend to set up a futon for Iwaizumi to sleep on so they can cuddle. But on Friday, June 23rd, Oikawa Tooru is busy and after practice he doesn’t even bother texting Iwaizumi. So, he can choke.
Iwaizumi puts on one of Tooru’s shirts and does a face mask by his-damn-self. It’s the one Tooru got him for his birthday a couple of weeks ago and it comes in a little black pot by some American company. It’s this weird, lumpy, green-grey shit that’s supposedly made of bamboo charcoal and green tea leaves. It sounds stupid but it feels incredible and Tooru told him that his pores look smaller, so that’s always good.
Once Iwaizumi’s got it slathered on his face he sits his happy ass down on the floor near his bed and decides he’s going to play at least five hours of Borderlands 2 because his best friend might be a flaky son of a bitch, but there’s a DLC to finish, a Handsome Sorcerer to defeat, and he hasn’t built up his Guerrilla skill tree for 46 levels for nothing.
There are enough side quests for him to settle back against the bed and grind out some solid gameplay. Either way, he ends up getting distracted. He’s not distracted because of Tooru. He’s not. Tooru is probably at some stupid party, drinking stupid beer and flirting with stupid people. Iwaizumi acquires a gun that he can shoot enemies drunk with and goes on a rampage. Tooru can party all he wants, it’s just shitty that he blew off their Friday night tradition to get drunk with a bunch of classmates that he doesn’t even really like.
Iwaizumi isn’t jealous because there’s nothing to be jealous of. Tooru isn’t his, he can’t monopolize his time and he’s being a little bit unfair but he can’t help it. He wants Tooru here so they can play their couch co-op and talk shit about school. He wants Tooru’s cold, wiggly toes tucked under his leg, he wants Tooru’s fluffy hair tucked under his chin when he gets bored of playing and wants to cuddle. He just wants Tooru, which sucks. He had really, really been hoping that this stupid crush would go away after time but it really, really hasn’t. It’s just stayed. Tooru is smart and kind when he needs to be. He’s tall and he smells like honey and lavender and he always whispers against Iwaizumi’s neck when they curl up in bed. And Iwaizumi knows that he’s awful sometimes and that he works too hard and forgets to eat and Iwaizumi loves him for it.
Iwaizumi jolts and fumbles with his controller. Loves. Iwaizumi loves Tooru. He’s in love with Tooru. Iwaizumi huffs. How did he not see that coming? He’s totally in love with Tooru. It’s not a fucking crush, and that’s why it’s not going away. His phone pings ominously from near his leg and he kicks it gently out of reach. The last thing he needs to do is be in contact with drunk, overly affectionate Tooru because something really bad could happen very quickly. He can still see his phone screen, though, which makes the next three notifications even more annoying. There’s another Snapchat and then a text message. Iwaizumi would be lying if he said he didn’t crane to try to read it. He knows it’s Tooru. He knows it’s going to be some stupid, drunk selfie or a picture of a beer pong table and Iwaizumi’s a little too frazzled for that dumb shit.
* * *
“You’re getting sort of handsome,” Tooru says, thoughtful as he smudges something green along Iwaizumi’s forehead. “You don’t look like a fat, grumpy baby anymore.”
“You look like the lovechild of a cave goblin and that weird cryptid that sucks goat blood,” Iwaizumi replies, nipping at Tooru’s fingers. He catches Tooru’s thumb and bites down on it, hard enough that it’s sort of satisfying and Tooru squirms uncomfortably.
“I’m pretty,” Tooru says.
Iwaizumi scoffs and spits the finger out of his mouth.
“I’m pretty,” Tooru repeats, slightly firmer. He sets the pot of clay mask down. He cups Iwaizumi’s face with both hands, pressing his fingers into Iwaizumi’s fresh face mask. He leans close and bumps the tips of their noses together.
“Tell me I’m pretty, Iwa-chan,” he teases.
Iwaizumi’s heart skips once and then picks up, slightly too fast, “Fuck you.”
“I know you want to,” Tooru says, leaning back and grinning. “But you’ve got to butter me up first. It’s foreplay, Iwa-chan!”
“Fuck off,” Iwaizumi says. “I don't have to do anything.”
Tooru scowls and his lower lip comes out in a pout, “Tell me I’m pretty.”
Is this guy serious? Iwaizumi narrows his eyes and is about to go straight for a punch to the gut, but he knows that Tooru is full of shit and probably just feeling self-conscious so he grabs Tooru’s wrists and squeezes. Tooru at eighteen is breathtaking. Tall as hell, wicked smart, a monster on the court. His laugh is this little imperfect snort that gets muffled into his hand or Iwaizumi’s shoulder when he can turn his face into it. He’s lithe and strong, the muscles in his shoulders shifting when he pulls his shirt off to change, when him and Iwaizumi have flexing competitions.
“You’re gorgeous,” Iwaizumi says, frowning. “You’re the prettiest person in the world, probably.”
Tooru hums and tips his head, “I know. Tell me you love me.”
He’s pushing it, he knows. Iwaizumi can see the look in his eyes that means he knows he’s pushing it, but he’s got a vice grip on Iwaizumi’s face and his hands are trembling just enough to Iwaizumi to notice and Iwaizumi doesn’t really know what that means.
“I love you,” he says, but it sounds like a question even to himself.
Tooru’s face closes off and he leans back picking the pot up and dipping his fingers back into it, “Okay!”
Iwaizumi doesn’t know where he fucked up but he sighs and takes the pot from Tooru, sticking his thumb into it and smearing it down Tooru’s cheek.
“Even application, Iwa-chan,” Tooru gasps, nose scrunching. “Do it right.”
“Close your eyes,” Iwaizumi huffs.
Tooru does. And he looks really pretty, as usual. His eyelashes are long and they’re fluttering where he’s trying to keep from peeking as Iwaizumi lets his fingers wander over Tooru’s face. When he caps the pot again, Tooru’s eyes snap open and he pins Iwaizumi with the same look he pins people with on the court.
“What?” Iwaizumi says.
There’s a beat of impressive silence where Tooru’s fingers are clenching in the fabric of his sweatpants and then he’s getting up and scooting close to Iwaizumi, leaning his back against the bed next to him and tucking himself into Iwaizumi’s side. It’s familiar and comforting and Iwaizumi drapes his arm around Tooru’s shoulder but instead of lapsing into silence and watching what’s on the television, Tooru’s eyes are drilling holes in the side of his head. Iwaizumi lets him suffer for a few seconds before he turns to look at him and all of a sudden they’re too close. Tooru’s breath is warm and wet on the bottom half of his face and Iwaizumi might be stupid, but he’s not dumb and he knows when an opportunity is being handed to him on a silver platter. Tooru is doe-eyed and expectant looking. It’s now or never and Iwaizumi decides now. He leans in, letting their noses brush and ignoring the way his breath hitches when Tooru’s eyes slide closed and he whines through his teeth.
“Kiss me,” Tooru says, blunt and breathless. “Kiss me, kiss me.”
Iwaizumi tips his face and kisses Tooru once, soft and chaste and unbelievably warm. Then Tooru’s huffing and wrapping a hand around the back of Iwaizumi’s neck, pulling him back in and slotting their mouths together with a happy sigh. Iwaizumi’s nose ends up smashed into the side of Tooru’s nose and he gets tea-tree clay in his nostril, but Tooru is kissing him and his lungs aren’t working. He brings a hand up and presses his fingers under Tooru’s jaw, following Tooru’s lead and kissing him back.
Neither of them are very good at it. Tooru’s impatient on a good day and he surges forward, parting his lips and mumbling into Iwaizumi’s mouth as their kisses turn heavy and wet. His breath keeps hitching and his lips keep catching on Iwaizumi’s and Iwaizumi has never kissed anybody like this, hot and open-mouthed. Every time they pull back it makes an obscene sound and Tooru’s squirming, halfway in his lap, his clay-covered fingers nestled into Iwaizumi’s hair so he can tug on it while they make out and Iwaizumi doesn’t really know what he’s doing but he doesn’t ever want to stop. face masks are a good tradition, but if they can figure something out where they do face masks and this? Ideal situation.
Iwaizumi spreads his hands on Tooru’s back and wonders if he still has to confess after this or if this is sort of a tell-all.