You set your glass down on the table and turn to greet this person. Shit. You almost forgot about him also being a guest.
“Ah, hello Oikawa.”
He chuckles, “Since when do you call me Oikawa?”
If only you could have gone through the whole wedding ceremony without bumping into him.
“Since I became an ex? So since the second year of college.”
Your table is astonishingly empty and you suspect that your missing friends are responsible for the conga line that’s started on the dance floor.
“Wow, look at who’s conveniently forgetting years of young love before that.” He then gestures to the empty velvet-lined seat beside you. “May I?”
Doing a quick check of your surroundings, you whisper, “Are you sure? We don’t want to end up on the highschool gossip page.”
There’s no such thing to worry about. Oikawa is turning 29 next year. So are you.
Still, it’s only half a joke because his current dating life is plastered on ‘celebrity news’ websites instead.
He smiles, teeth and all. It’s so easy to fall back into old ways.
Somewhere in between speeches from drunk classmates and sobbing cousins, Oikawa’s hand finds itself on your knee.
“Ever wondered why champagne bubbles rise in that straight line?” you ask, tracing the neat trajectory along the glass with your finger .
He tilts his head like it would make more sense at a 45 degree angle. “This mystery, this elusive phenomenon keeps me up at night. Please go on.”
You laugh at his obvious teasing tone. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re making fun of me.”
“You know I could listen to you talk forever.”
The second he says it, you see it on his face. It flickers in his eyes, flecks of doubt among shards of guilt.
You stretch your legs out and the satin of your dress allows his hand to slip away.
He knows better than to suggest a future when you’ve both decided to leave each other in the past. The old you would’ve snapped at him for it.
“Want another drink?”
He nods.
His friends find their way to your table, bringing along rambunctious laughter followed by a polite murmuring of apologies. A junior, who you barely recognize, passes his phone number to your sister on a crumpled up napkin and Oikawa comments about the ‘audacity of these youngsters’.
You shrug. “It’s old fashioned but cute.” Your friends hum in agreement.
A former teammate reminds Oikawa that he himself tried a similar move on an actress last year and Oikawa vehemently denies it, with his hand on his heart and eyes on you. The warmth from your stomach rises to your cheeks, mirroring the pattern of the bubbling champagne.
Another hour goes by. The line for dessert seems infinitely long so you do everyone a favour by not joining and instead, sneaking away from the main hall.
“What are we doing?”
“Talking.” A beat. “We can just talk, can’t we?”
One of the little flower girls bumps into Oikawa, ice cream smeared all across her pretty dress, and her mother apologises hurriedly in her attempt to grab her. Oikawa puffs his cheeks out at the child and she returns the silly expression while being carried away.
The elevator doors open, revealing warm lights and corporate jazz.
Toeing the maroon carpet flooring, you finally ask, “What have you been up to, Tooru?”
“Well, I’m not seeing anyone.”
Of course, the love was hidden in the question. Of course, he easily peels away the layers of insecurity to reveal it .
You can’t help but notice that Oikawa’s hotel room is neat. It’s almost untouched with the exception of a carefully torn teabag sachet near the armchair.
Now, his tailored blazer lays discarded on that very chair as your fingers work his shirt buttons.
His lips meet yours, soft and pliant, until it breeds a sense of urgency. Pulling away, you murmur, “I missed you.”
He shudders against your body, like a fever that won’t die down.
There’s an exchange of kisses, traversing familiar territories of skin, until you’re lying bare under his frame. You’re wrapped around him, meeting him halfway with each thrust.
“I’m getting old,” he reminds you, or rather himself, as he pauses to rub his lower back.
“Tooru, you’re still the same.”
He’s too scared to ask what you mean by that.
He moves again before he can let himself go down that road.
In this world of winding lanes, is it not reasonable to find your way to a recognizable one when you’re lost?
Tomorrow, on the train back home, he’ll repeat that to himself. As for now, he’ll repeat your name with a stutter that runs from his mouth, down to the motion of his hips.
The sound of your erratic breathing perforates the silence. He’s wordlessly drawing circles on your back with a nail trimmed far too short, red blooming into pain beneath the bed.
He sits up and says, in a whisper, “I wish you would’ve said something. Or fought for us to-”
“To?”
“For us to- I don’t know. To stay together till we figured things out?”
“Why? You think it could’ve worked out?” It’s a rhetorical question, at this point.
You hear his head hit the pillow so you turn to face him.
He meets your gaze. “Probably not. You would’ve ended up hating me.”
“Yeah, and you wouldn’t have even put in the effort to hate me back.”
This is the end of the road. There is no way back.
A humourless laugh escapes his lips. “And you would’ve hated me for that too.”
SO i’m writing (i swear) but i’m not sure abt WHERE i actually want it to start in the scene,,,, like am i writing all this and dragging it out, or maybe i should just start from the middle-
(long-winded way of saying, keep an eye out for kuroo fic)
