it's when oikawa drags his feet into his tiny apartment after one of those all-day, brutally intensive josé blanco practices, when his whispered “i’m home” is met with a deep, cheerful “welcome back”.
when iwa-chan’s broad, tall figure, wearing that ridiculous apron with baby yoda printed over his tank shirt and black sweats, peeks out from the entrance, smiling with messy hair and says “i made torikatsu for dinner”.
when he sees the flat cleaner, tidier in the way tooru likes it, and iwa-chan’s shoes tucked near the door. when the smell of the first homemade japanese dish he’s had in more than half a year, one he didn’t have to cook himself in a rush barely tasting it, reaches him with the first deep breath.
when his shoulders drop, stripped of a tension he didn’t even know was there, and his backpack slips onto the floor with a hollow thud, when there’s an ah in his mind that’s too big, too full.
that’s when tooru doesn’t want tomorrow to come. he doesn’t want to know anything about a return flight ticket or that there’s a city beyond these walls or a country or continents or oceans or a world.
tooru just wants this. he just wants hajime at home, in their home. he wants him to cook his delicious dishes and teach him even if tooru doesn’t really love cooking. he wants their shoes side by side, maybe even grabbing the wrong pair someday and walking out wearing them.
he wants hajime to put his questionable face cleanser and his shaving foam and his shaver and his toothbrush in the bathroom instead of leaving them in the toiletry bag because “i don’t want to take up too much space and it’ll be easier to pack when i have to get ready to go back to irvine.”
tooru wants iwa-chan on the couch, holding him in his arms, letting him curl up and stroking his hair like he has been doing all his life. watching some movie or show until they fall asleep, then waking up in the middle of the night sore and grumbling, but warm and together.
“you have to marry me” oikawa murmurs, voice a little hoarse and shaky, eyes a bit glossy and lips trembling while iwaizumi freezes, eyes widening. “you can’t say no when i ask you properly.”
there’s silence. the kind that weighs, feeding that ugly feeling, somewhere between insecurity and fear, that lives like the tiniest stain in tooru’s heart but starts spreading with every awful thought beginning to echo.
until just three seconds later, hajime huffs, his eyes narrowing into half-moon slits full of tenderness, his lips stretching from ear to ear, dimples showing in a way they so rarely do on his flushed cheeks. and that ugly feeling pops like a balloon, those thoughts evaporating like water over lava.
“who says you’ll be the one to ask first?” he replies, and tooru wants to protest but all that comes out is a sob, and hajime is already there when he steps forward and throws himself into his arms, clinging tightly as if nothing could ever tear him away from hajime.
wanna write a PhD about iwaoi
u can find me on my ao3, my carrd and bluesky 🍉
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