haikyuu boys and “romance”
kyoutani was hunched over at the dining table when you came home, in his favourite crewneck that's stretched out and worn so it hangs off his neck. your eyes trace the smooth skin, a little possessive smile on your face when you catch site of the chain, your initial glinting in the lamplight. you slide off your shoes and murmur "i'm home," trying to peer round at what he's doing, pen carefully in hand, moving far faster than it usually does. kentarou and writing are two things that don't usually go well together- his essays are nearly always crumpled, littered with crossing outs and spelling mistakes and his handwriting is honestly the worst you’ve ever seen. he's humming slightly: a song you must have exposure-therapied him into liking.
you come up behind him, chin on his shoulder against his bleached hairline and peer down at the writing on the table, humming as he nuzzles against you, kind of like a dog, pressing his nose into the space where you neck meets your shoulder. you try and read what he’s written until your exhausted brain supplies you with the fact that it’s in another language. it looks like…arabic?
“what’s this?” you tap the page lightly, admiring how soft his hair feels under your nails while he hums and pulls back to follow your eyes. and then his whole posture instantly changes. you can feel him tense up, and see the blush on the tips of his ears. to anyone else he just looks like he always does, but you can read the blush down his neck, the way he blinks rapidly, his averted gaze.
you wonder if he realises that he tugs the little gold letter round his neck as he speaks, quietly.
“It’s-uh- it’s a poem. a love poem.” he smiles, and god he looks cute and determined and you briefly wonder if it’s possible to fall even harder. “It doesn't...work as well in japanese." he presses a quick kiss to where your head rests on his shoulder. "i'll tell you what it says.” he shifts purposefully, and reads. the undulating syllables are unfamiliar to you, but kyoutani speaks fast and sure, and there is a bigger meaning hidden in the trace of his hand on the paper, the warmth of his frame against yours, something that transcends language.
oikawa smiled as he handed you the last volleyball from the corner of the gym. "all done." he smiled, wide and triumphant and you huff a laugh in spite of yourself.
you wheel the bin into the equipment cupboard as he gathered your binders and notes into your bag, the two of you working in tandem: in sync in a way that felt warm and well-worn. sure tooru’s great on the court, when he’s all sharp edges and glinting, hard stares. but you love tooru in the slow dusk, when cicadas are singing in the humid air, and he exists in sweatpants and freshly showered hair that dries all over the place. “hey wait” he calls out as you make to pick up your bag, “give me a second.” his whole face cracks open into a smile, and suddenly he’s sweetly clumsy, sliding in his socks around the gym. he huffs a laugh, “I owe iwa-chan so bad for this.” you catch his hand as he hurries past, “tooru, what’re you doing?” but he brushes you off laughing, asking you to wait. “babe-” you stop. he’s switched off the gym lights, and- “wow.”
there are lights woven through the railings above you, glinting so everything is bathed in soft light. and it looks…beautiful. tooru looks beautiful, brown eyes reflecting the lights, looking a little out of it with a slightly doped up smile. he fiddles with something in the corner and the gym is filled, suddenly, with music. “happy anniversary.” you gasp, immediately shifting to worst case scenario, hand coming up to cover your mouth. “oh my god” you breathe, “I’m such a bad girlfriend.”
he rushes over and wraps his long arms around you, concern painting his features. “what? no babe. you’re the best. my best everything. best friend, best girlfriend.” he pulls you closer, and you start to slow dance to the music, swaying gently on the spot as you breathe it all in. the summer night, the way he smells sweet like the shampoo he steals from your bathroom. “you have other girlfriends?” you giggle against his chest and he rolls his eyes, swaying against the music. "i love you" he sighs, smiling as your hand snakes into his hair. "you're so sappy" you smile teasingly, and he does too, because tooru is indulgent like that. "this is me being romantic," he whines softly into your hair. "and this is me being really, really in love with you," you reply, "thank you."
iwaizumi is a very persuasive man when he wants to be. certainly now, as he smirks and unrolls yoga mats over your living room floor (coffee table paused back against the walls) you regret giving in. both to his rare dimples and the workout set he bought you. he knew what he was doing.
“please?”
it was a few nights ago, and hajime sat happily with you in his lap, cheek just brushing the tanned skin of his collarbone where his sweater hung loose. you smile sweetly.
“no.” he puts down his book and squishes your cheeks between his hands as, you can only suppose, a sign of affection. “I need to practice for class!” he continues, and he knows he’s already won and you know you are absolutely weak, but sometimes hajime just gets this look in his eye and he uses his I-am-holding-something-very-precious-right-now voice like he always does when it’s just the two of you and dammit if you aren’t a little bit weak. but if you think about it, neither of you has ever said no to the other. not really.
this is how you end up with Hajime smirking inches from your face, double helix in his ear glinting in the candlelight as he pushes your leg to your torso asking you to relax. you are not particularly relaxed. “come on” he coaxes, gently because now he’s using his I’m-looking-after-someone doctor voice and not his normal, slightly sullen, tsundere voice. “breathe into it.” he taps on your hip to distract you and you slowly exhale. you close your eyes, smiling at the feeling of your muscles relaxing, and the steady, careful hand of your lover. the stability that is iwaizumi adri hajime is something that has guided you for as long as you’ve known him.
you notice he’s stilled, and open your eyes to him sat back on his knees, just…looking. “argh!” he pulls you in to press kisses on your hairline in mock anger to avoid the seriousness of his expression. “you’re so pretty.” he does that sometimes: hajime is surprisingly frank and honest with what he thinks. you smile softly as he presses a cheek to your head, humming.
“मैं तुम से प्यार करता हूं, okay?" he whispers, "you understand? i love you. so much”
suna‘s breath fanned out across your face, intense concentration in the crease between his eyebrows, the way his hands held steady. the eyeliner wand stroked lightly against your skin and you fought the urge to blink.
“please don’t poke my eye out,” you say and feel satisfied when he huffs a laugh.
“shut up!” he wines, “I’m concentrating.” and he is. it’s adorable how careful he‘s being. suna’s eyes are right in front of yours and you take some time to look at the green in them, and the way black curved the cat like slope of his eyes so he looked older and sharper than he did without it. you looked at his skin, pale and translucent, and the concentrated look on his face as he bit his lip.
“there.” he drew back and looked at you intensely, hands tilting your chin to check the symmetry.
