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Oikawa takes a step forward, meeting the woman where she stands. He flashes a smile, and feels the smooth carpet beneath his heel – more slippery than he remembers. You’d think an event like this would’ve bought sturdier stuff.
Or maybe it’s his shoes. They’re awfully expensive, but like much of his wardrobe, they’re not particularly functional. No grip.
It seems he and the shoes have something in common.
The woman in front of him asks him something. He hopes he’s giving satisfactory answers, but to be honest, at this point in the proceedings – every interview, every question, every perky blonde woman whose heels bring her just a step closer to his height, while still maintaining the ever important interview rule: the star must be able to look down on you – everything blends together. Oikawa’s not looking in her eyes. It’s not like he’d find anything; not really. Instead, he’s scanning the crowd, trying his best not to linger on any particular flash of the cameras; he wouldn’t want to give anyone too much attention. He’s always been one for fairness .
He bites the inside of his cheek, and wonders if someone will post on Twitter about the way it accentuates his jaw . Whatever the fuck that means.
Oikawa-san, do you have any plans for your next film?
Oikawa notices a spot of lipstick on her incisor. He imagines for a moment it’s blood, that the woman before him is really some bloodsucking monster, hoping to lure him into a false sense of security before whisking him away to some dark corner after the show. That would make a good film, Oikawa thinks. A vampire who feeds on unsuspecting stars. She asks them for a private interview and the star suddenly disappears off the face of the earth.
Maybe they’d hire him to play some pitiful victim. He’d have sex in the first half of the movie then be the first one to die. He’s done worse.
I’m sure my agent has an idea or two. Maybe I’ll let my fans decide the next thing I do, hm?
Nah. His agent wanted him to branch out. He’d probably play the vampire. Fun, sexy vampire flick. He’s done it before, but he could do it again. People have always had a thing for his mouth.
While he thinks, the reporter flicks her eyes just over Oikawa’s shoulder. Oikawa knows better than to look. He’d hate to give the camera an unflattering shot.
Iwaizumi-san! We were just talking about you!
Were they? Oikawa can’t remember. Instead, he’s focused on the way Iwaizumi’s hand settles on the small of his back, thumb brushing over the smooth lining of his suit. They’re standing close enough that the camera wouldn’t notice Iwaizumi’s stray arm; he’s able to hide his gesture.
Oikawa wonders if the camera can tell how his muscles have relaxed; the slight lowering of his shoulders, the relief in his hands.
( I’m here, Iwaizumi’s touch says.)
An interview with the two leads, how lucky! Iwaizumi-san, what do you think of the film?
( Thank god, Oikawa’s hip responds, as he leans ever so slightly against him.)
The rest of the interview goes by in a blur. They talk nicely about the director, the writers. Iwaizumi talks about the weight of the armour. Oikawa talks about the swords. That’s a perk, he supposes, of sci-fi. An abundance of empty soundbites.
Iwaizumi manages to drag them away, promising another interview sometime soon; we’d like to get good seats, he says, I hope you enjoy the movie!
Oikawa’s known as the charismatic one, but on nights like these, Iwaizumi plays his role perfectly. Oikawa lightly, unnoticeably, tugs on the side of Iwaizumi’s suit.
“Everything okay?” Iwaizumi says softly. His lips hardly move. Oikawa sent him a video once, fans attempting to lip-read their conversations captured by some entertainment channel or another. Impressive? Of course. Terrifying? Invasive? Nerve-wracking? Even more so.
Oikawa nods. The cameras flicker like white noise, the shuffling directions from the carpet assistants humming like a well greased engine.
“I feel like I’m gonna-” throw up, scream, cry, punch the next person who asks me about my outfit. He decides to leave it up for interpretation.
Iwaizumi looks at him. He looks good, as always. Really good. It’s too bad really, that the itch of the crowd has already gotten under Oikawa’s skin. He’d much prefer to flit around the interviewers, tugging Iwaizumi along and cooing over his rugged good looks. Everyone’s used to it, at this point. They don’t realise how serious he is, or if they do, they keep it to themselves. Oikawa can almost respect it.
But, the itch is there. The thrum of the cameras, the fans, the television networks. Oikawa wants to bury himself against Iwaizumi’s chest, he wants to be pet, comforted. He wants Iwaizumi to push the over-gelled hair away from Oikawa’s face, to kiss him, to take him somewhere with less noise, less people, less heat.
He doesn’t of course. They stand a respectable distance apart, waiting for their turn along the designated walkway. They’ll each pose a few times ( independently, of course, what are they, dating? ), then make their way into the theatre. They’ll sit at the front and watch themselves, then thank the appropriate people, then leave, in separate cars.
That’s just how it goes.
Oikawa wonders what it would be like to walk down the camera procession together. He wants the magazines to post the watermarked, copyrighted photos of the pair, Iwaizumi’s hand on Oikawa’s waist, Oikawa’s eyes trained only on the man beside him. He can imagine the look on his agent’s face.
Iwaizumi squeezes Oikawa’s arm. It’s fond, it’s kind, it’s PG, it’s platonic. When someone posts the picture on the internet, tabloids will post about how friendly they are; such good pals.
Oikawa wonders if he could pull an Ozzy Osbourne; he wonders if he could bite the head off of a bat right on stage. Maybe then they’d care less about how long Iwaizumi’s eyes lingered on him, before walking towards the procession.
The photos go off without a hitch, as always. Oikawa knows he looks good, knows that the photographers don’t mean their praise they spit at him, the perfect s and great job s in their silly little bids to get a glance in their direction. Oikawa knows the routine, the choreography. Knows how to get his photo plastered over any magazine in or out of the country, onto tweets and Instagram posts he’ll get his assistant to like every once in a while.
He knows he’ll look at them himself once he’s back at Iwaizumi’s apartment. He’ll crinkle his nose and feel the same turbulence in his gut that he always feels; the discomfort that settles in his bones every time he spends too long looking at pictures of himself.
The procession is over sooner than Oikawa expects. His jaw hurts, just a little, where it meets his skull, at the hinge. He doesn’t smile, not really. Just shy of it. An almost smile. Enough to make him seem content, satisfied, but not enough to seem smug, or god forbid, over-enthusiastic.
How embarrassing.
The crowd pinches and swells, looping around the entrance to the theatre. He sees the director, the perky co-star whose given name he can’t remember and- ah. Iwaizumi.
Standing by the bathroom. Perfect.
The moment Oikawa catches his eye, Iwaizumi slinks off behind the pristine white doorway. Oikawa makes his way in that direction, carefully avoiding each glance thrown his way by some hungry early morning talk-show host. Eye contact is an invitation in this industry. An invitation to talk, to follow, to smile, to pose.
Oikawa keeps his eyes trained on the door ahead of him, his face neatly pinned with a contented expression. He feels the sting in the corners of his mouth; his face burns with the effort of extended, practiced neutrality.
Oikawa-san!
Oikawa bites his tongue, hard . He hopes for a moment that he’s broken the skin. He wonders if they would be able to tell, coppery blood blurring against the front of his pearly-white teeth while he smiles at the camera. His smiles always reach his eyes, despite the crawl beneath his skin – he’s perpetually warm and obliging as he obediently turns toward the interviewer. He is an award-winning actor, after all; he looks down on his peers whose smiles are hollow where they lie plastered against magazine covers. Oikawa’s smiles look real.
He can’t taste blood. Bummer.
The interview is over as soon as it begins, however Oikawa feels the time leaking away. The seconds bleed into minutes like spilled ink dragging over taut fabric; black tendrils pooling and spreading over silk. He hasn’t checked his watch since he’s arrived, so he doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been kept only a few short paces from the bathroom, from Iwaizumi. He doesn’t care for the exact number, no matter what, it’s been too long.
He says a pleasant goodbye and walks, slowly, casually , towards the bathroom. The door is light and yielding as he slips inside.
From there, amongst the unnecessarily gilded stalls and glittery light fixtures, he can see Iwaizumi leaning against the marble sinks. He looks up, and for a moment everything stills.
“Took you long enough,” Iwaizumi says, though his voice lacks any real bite. His eyes are warm when they meet Oikawa’s, and Oikawa finally understands the meaning of the phrase sight for sore eyes.
Oikawa doesn’t respond, not in any way that’s meaningful. Instead, he slides between Iwaizumi’s legs, parted just by virtue of his casual stance against the sinks, and collapses against a familiar chest. Iwaizumi smells like expensive cologne, but Oikawa can still catch the smell of the shampoo they both share. He smells like money and Old Spice .
Iwaizumi wraps his arms around him, and Oikawa knows with certainty that if Iwaizumi were to disappear this very moment, he’d collapse into a puddle against the tile, his muscles and bones immediately surrendering against his sturdy partner. Gentle fingers brush against the nape of Oikawa’s neck, careful not to mess with his artfully styled hair, but enough to send a message, all soft and reassuring.
“How are you so good at all this?” Oikawa mumbles into Iwaizumi’s lapel. There’s a drip, somewhere nearby. One of the faucets hasn’t been turned off completely, echoing into the nearly empty room.
Iwaizumi hums, and Oikawa can hear it come from the hollow of his chest. “I think I could ask you the same thing.”
Iwaizumi has asked Oikawa the same thing, if either of them are being honest. They take turns.
Iwaizumi tends to be more irritable in situations like this, all defense and curt responses. He’s never been one for charisma, and although that doesn’t stop him from being well-liked, it sets up the same barrier that Oikawa dutifully attempts to put up for himself. Oikawa, however, tends to use muscle memory, surface level glamour to keep interviewers at an arm’s length. Iwaizumi uses old fashioned emotional distance.
Either way, to most, they’re both talented interviewees – the perfect leading men along the red carpet. Well-spoken, friendly enough without coming across as embarrassing, handsome .
Oikawa can feel the stiffness along Iwaizumi’s spine. It echoes the sentiments Oikawa can feel buzzing along his hands, up his wrists and forearms.
The perfect leading men.
They both hate it, sometimes.
Perfect.
But that’s showbusiness, Oikawa supposes.
“The movie’s starting soon,” Iwaizumi murmurs, and Oikawa wonders if Iwaizumi’s psychic, or if he can just see his watch from where his wrist rests against Oikawa’s shoulder.
“Let it,” Oikawa grumbles. “I know how it ends.”
He feels Iwaizumi’s lips against the shell of his ear, and decides that perhaps they should both quit, forever and ever, and move to a small island that doesn’t have a movie theatre, or television, or the internet, where they can spend out their days as stupidly affectionate (but only to each other) hermits.
Iwaizumi pulls away, and Oikawa is helpless against the noise that escapes him.
After all of this, perhaps they’ll take a vacation. They’ve got nothing planned for a month or so, beyond posting trite pictures on social media to promote the film, thank you tweets when it goes well, or idle publicity stunts if it doesn’t. Who says they can’t do that on a private beach somewhere, tanned and covered in marks that don’t have to be covered up by makeup artists at five in the morning before a twelve hour shoot?
When Iwaizumi leans down to kiss him, Oikawa wonders if he’s thinking the same thing.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’ll leave first, then you follow?”
Oikawa nods. He feels the absence of Iwaizumi’s body heat like the loss of a limb. “Save me a seat?”
Iwaizumi smiles, and Oikawa tries to remember if the film features any good shots of Iwaizumi grinning. If it does, perhaps all of this is worth it.
Oikawa waits, dutifully, after Iwaizumi leaves. He scans the sinks in search of the leaky faucet, but is met only with quiet taps.
Alright, he sighs. Showtime.