Chapter Text
Something that always appealed to Iwaizumi had been watching performers when they didn’t know they were being watched. Something about the look of concentration they would get as the moved through motions that were meant to be seen… he wasn’t sure, but it was beautiful. And he wasn’t choosy--it could be actors running lines, singers running chords… or Ballerinas practicing choreography. Something about the quiet intimacy of watching her glide across the floor, reflected back on herself dozens of times by the wall of mirrors, when she didn’t realize she was being watched...it made him feel like he was in on a secret. It was something that wasn’t meant to be seen; the small mistakes, her grimace of concentration, and the soft sounds of her toe shoes hitting the floor were meant for that space only. He could watch her for hours… if she hadn’t caught his gaze in the mirror.
“Iwaizumi,” she said evenly, her soft smile brightening her sharp features. She was out of breath, and she was flushed. She’d been practicing for hours. “Don’t tell me; he’s staying late again?”
Iwaizumi put his hands up in mock defense; “For once, it was the coach. We have a new spiker, and he wanted them to get a feel for one another.”
“That’s good,” she said, going back to practicing her turns. “So long as he doesn’t overwork himself.”
“You’re one to talk, Haruhi,” he retorted. “How long have you been at this?”
“Oh, about two hours or so,” she answered, screwing up her face in concentration. Her turns were perfect. Controlled and elegant. Or maybe that was just her.
“So, six hours then,” he teased. “You two are perfect for each other, you know.”
“You know me so well, Iwa-chan,” she laughed, throwing a grin over her shoulder. Something intangible pulled tight behind his ribs, and he fought the urge to grasp the front of his shirt. “So I take it you’re here to take me home?”
“He asked me to walk you,” Iwaizumi said with a shrug, like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Did you cool down yet?”
“Not yet,” she answered, pulling into her form for turns again. “I can’t quite get this fouetté turn.”
He cocked his eyebrows at her; “I have no idea what that means.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she riposted, moving into the turns once more. They looked simple and flowing, but judging by the way her face was contorted in concentration and agony, they were not. She spun at a dizzying pace on the points of her toes, her head whipping in a smooth circle with her body. Her cat-like grey eyes were sharp and focused, her soft thighs twitched with exertion, and her long, dark hair had started to come out of its neat bun. It simultaneously looked effortless and exhausting, and yet she did it. Over and over again, until she got it perfect. Because that was the type of person she was.
Despite how impressive it looked, though, it didn’t take long for a sickening crack to echo through the studio, and she stumbled. Iwaizumi didn’t even think--he rushed forward across the polished floor, gripping her upper arm as she gingerly lowered herself to a seated position. She hissed with pain when she took her toe shoe off, and he winced with sympathy when he saw the dark spot of blood on her tights. He scowled when she rolled the foot off, exposing her bandaged and broken toes.
“That’s it,” he said firmly, sitting across from her. “You’re done for the day.”
“What? No, I can just tape it up,” she argued.
“The toenail is split, and it looks like half your toes are broken anyway, if all this tape is to be believed,” he observed, gesticulating firmly at her battered feet. “I know this is part of pointer dancing or whatever you call it--”
She snorted; “Do you mean pointe dancing?”
“Sure, why not,” he growled. “Either way, you’re done. We’re going to tape this up, and then I’m taking you home.”
“Ah. I see someone has gone into Mom-mode,” she opined dramatically. “Very well, Iwaizumi. Nurse me back to health and feed me pizza.”
“I said nothing about feeding you pizza,” he said, dabbing gently with the disinfectant. “So, the usual?”
“Sure,” she sighed, whimpering when he finally got around to bandaging her foot. “Ouch… I don’t know how I’m going to manage practice tomorrow.”
“You could always take a break,” Iwaizumi suggested, knowing it was in vain.
“Out of the question,” she said. “We have auditions for the first recital of the year coming up, and I’d like to try for a principal role this year.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” Iwaizumi sighed indulgently, helping her to her feet. “Get your shoes; I’ll call ahead for the pizza.”
“I’m paying this time!” Haruhi insisted, gingerly slipping her sneakers on and stashing her ballet slippers in her bag.
“Not a chance,” he laughed, gently slipping his arm around her waist. Ostensibly, it was to help her limp out of the studio. He convinced himself of that a long time ago--that he didn’t adore the way her soft body felt when it leaned into his side… it was the only way to make it through encounters like this. Still, it was hard to ignore the easy way banter came to the two of them; it was impossible not to notice how good she smelled, or how perfectly she fit in his arms, or how natural it felt to hold her…
And given the bright, beautiful smile she gave when she saw Oikawa waiting outside the studio, it was impossible to forget that she didn’t belong to him.
“Tooru!” She scrambled out of Iwaizumi’s arms, throwing herself into Oikawa’s embrace. He made a mock-indignant woof of exertion as he lifted her full off the ground, holding her tight. “I thought you were staying late.”
“I figured the new spiker was so talented, we only needed a little time together,” Oikawa insisted, squeezing Haruhi to his chest. “I wanted to spend some extra time with my Haru-chan.”
“So your coach made you leave?” Haruhi riposted, nuzzling her nose against his.
“Ah, you caught me, Haru-chan,” Oikawa sighed, leaning into her affectionate touch. “But it doesn’t matter, because I get to spend time with you anyway.”
“Don’t even pretend that you aren’t in an open relationship with me and volleyball, Tooru,” she said, putting her feet flat on the ground. She winced when her injured foot bore her weight, and she shifted. Iwaizumi didn’t think Oikawa would notice, but that was dumb. He noticed almost everything.
“You’re limping, Haru-chan,” Oikawa chastised. “What did you do this time?”
Iwaizumi knew she wouldn’t answer, so he did it for her; “Split her toenail doing these crazy turns.”
Oikawa clicked his tongue disapprovingly, tossing his arm around her shoulder; “I’ve warned you about that, Haru-chan. You work yourself too hard.”
“You’re one to talk, you hypocrite,” she exclaimed, jabbing him in the sides.
“So mean,” he whined with a bright smile, rubbing the offended spot. “You’ve been spending too much time with Iwa-chan!”
“Call me that again, and I won’t pay for your pizza,” Iwaizumi grumbled, despite his indulgent smile.
“You’re buying pizza?” Oikawa asked, raising his eyebrows. “What’s the occasion?”
“It only took me one try to get Haruhi out of the studio,” Iwaizumi replied, trying not to let his gaze wander to where Oikawa’s arm was tossed casually over her shoulders, or the place where his thumb brushed against her arm…
“That is a call for celebration!” Oikawa exclaimed. “So the usual, then?”
“Are you sure, Iwaizumi?” Haruhi asked.
“Let him spoil us, Haru-chan,” Oikawa insisted, earning a firm slap on the shoulder from Iwaizumi. “It doesn’t happen often!”
He was indignant; he threw out his standard, truncated insults and laughed with Haruhi when he seemed so offended. He intentionally ruffled that perfectly coiffed hair, despite it being sweat-damp and fresh from practice… he tried not to feel the keen sting of want when he felt how soft it was against his rough palm. It was because that was how it had always been, and to change it would be to lose them.
~~~
Loving Oikawa Tooru was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Part of him took great pleasure in the fact that so few people saw past the princely facade. Part of him felt privileged to know the silly, nerdy, alien-loving side of Oikawa. Another part of him--the more prevalent part--felt so helpless when he saw Oikawa work himself to exhaustion over and over again. He felt his heart break little by little when he saw his best friend desperately searching for something real--something good--showing himself little by little, and every time getting shut down. It hurt.
And yet, he hadn’t realized it was love until University, and he loved him with all his heart. But by the time Iwaizumi figured it out, Oikawa was in love with someone else.
Haruhi was a ballerina, and like Oikawa, she was dedicated, beautiful, and fiercely determined. It scared him; it sent him into his ‘Mom-mode,’ as Haruhi had taken to calling it. He found himself working overtime to stop those two from killing themselves with their chosen passions. It was terrifying to see, and yet he loved it about them. He loved their constant struggle for the stars, and to him, they deserved them. It didn’t take him long to realize he loved Haruhi, for all her blunt sarcasm and utter lack of people skills. He loved her with all his heart.
It was hard enough falling for his best friend, let alone his best friend’s girl. But what kind of monster fell in love with both? What kind of man was he that he could look at the two most beautiful people in the world, see how happy they were, and want to destroy it? Because that’s what he would do, if he ever let them see. He loved them fiercely, and he would burn their happiness to the ground. Because that was what he did.
Still, he didn’t mind spending time with them. He didn’t mind eating pizza with the toppings he hated, nor did he mind watching Oikawa fuss over Haruhi’s broken toes or move through her nightly stretches with her. He didn’t mind being in their presence when they were softened and casual and Oikawa was wearing that stupid sweatshirt he’d had since high school. What he did mind, though, was Oikawa’s insistence on an off-campus party.
“Tooru, how do you even know about an off-campus party?” Haruhi asked, burrowing deeper into Oikawa’s sweatshirt. She was swimming in the thing, and she looked adorable…
“I know a guy,” Oikawa answered with a flippant wave of his hand.
“I’m going to need more details than that,” Haruhi deadpanned, narrowing her eyes at him. Iwaizumi snorted under his breath.
“Fine, he is in my finite maths class,” Oikawa insisted. “Used to be a swimmer or something… anyway, his girlfriend is a DJ and she’s giving some performance at a club nearby. I had him put us on the list for tonight, in case we wanted to go.”
“Tonight? Tooru, we needed more notice than that!” Haruhi exclaimed, indicating her ragged sweatshirt for emphasis. “I mean, I’ll go, but I’m going to need some time.”
“Not interested,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. The last thing he wanted was to be crowded into a small, smoky club to listen to shitty, repetitive, pounding music. All that would accomplish was giving him a migraine.
“Come on, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa crooned. Iwaizumi rolled his eyes--he was starting to get that kicked-puppy look, complete with the pouty lips and tilted brows. Damn it, but he was good at that. “It’ll be fun! We don’t have practice tomorrow, and midterms are over!”
“You seem very insistent on going to a bar for a night,” Iwaizumi said, his eyes narrowing. “What’s your angle, Shittykawa?”
“Mean!” Oikawa whined, flopping his head into Haruhi’s lap. “I just want to go out on a free night with my girlfriend and my best friend; is that too much to ask?”
Haruhi shook her head, a permissive smile on her face, before she sank her hand into Oikawa’s hair, massaging gently. He made a weird purring sound, burrowing deeper into her embrace, and Iwaizumi felt a pang of jealousy. He wasn’t sure which of them he wanted to be in that situation, and that scared him. Thankfully, it was a familiar pang, and it barely registered on his features. Haruhi gave him a bit of a sideways look, narrowing her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.
“I suppose if you two are going, someone has to keep you out of trouble,” Iwaizumi conceded, knowing in his heart it was always an empty protest. When Oikawa cracked open a milk-chocolate eye and gave him a bright, happy grin, he knew he was never going to be able to say now.
~~~
He wished he’d said no.
It wasn’t that he was bored or anything--quite the contrary, he was having a blast. He’d had a few beers, which had loosened him up considerably, and Oikawa’s swimmer-friend’s girlfriend was surprisingly good. The club was pulsing with intense energy, the smell of sweat and bodies was as pervasive and intoxicating as the alcohol that throbbed in his head and bloodstream. The sense of claustrophobic bliss was heady and perfect, and he wanted nothing more than to press into mass and lose himself in the nearest soft body that was willing.
Unfortunately, he didn’t really have that option, because the nearest soft bodies belonged to Oikawa and Haruhi. They hadn’t let him out of their sight all night, keeping him near them, and as they descended further into their own intoxication, pressing in closer to him. He could barely control himself--he felt filthy just for putting his hands on her hips as she rolled against him--but she was so soft and warm and graceful. She smelled so good--a combination of her hair products, her perfume, and the clear alcohol she’d been drinking all night. Her skin was heated beneath his touch and he wanted her. He wanted her so badly, and she was flush against his chest. She was so beautiful…
And then, there was Oikawa, pressed in against Haruhi’s back, effectively sandwiching her between their bodies. She looked lost in bliss, and Oikawa had an almost reverent quality to his gaze. Iwaizumi didn’t exactly feel uncomfortable--he usually did when he felt appraised or watched--but he did feel… tight. He had to get away. He had to gain perspective and distance and get some air and…
He had to get away.
He rushed through the mass of bodies, making his way for the door. His blood rushed in his ears as he tried to shake the image of those two writhing against him like that. It brought up too many images of them moving with him in a more intimate setting. It gave his imagination too much fuel for conjuring fantasies of her pressed into Oikawa’s chest, gazing back at Iwaizumi with longing in her eyes; of Oikawa’s long, slender fingers brushing against the tight, corded muscles of Iwaizumi’s arms; of the two of them lavishing him with attention and affection and praise--
“Iwa-chan has a scary face!”
He sighed deeply; Haruhi was drunk if she was using Oikawa’s nickname for him. He turned on them with an easygoing smile, but he knew it was tinged with something when Haruhi and Oikawa shared a look.
“Uh-oh,” Oikawa said, crossing his arms. He was suddenly serious, and that never boded well for him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Iwaizumi answered. He clenched his fists hard; he hated lying to them. Then, he supposed he’d been lying to them since they’d started dating. “I just… needed some air, that’s all.”
“That’s all, hm?” Haruhi crossed her arms, looking up at him through her lashes. “Iwaizumi, you’ve been weird lately. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he repeated. He was starting to feel a bit like a cornered animal.
“Don’t lie to us, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa countered. Great. Now they were double-teaming him. “Haru-chan is right; and you’re not leaving until we know what’s up.”
“Nothing’s up, alright?” He hated snapping at them, especially when Haruhi visibly recoiled. “It’s just… nothing.”
He sounded too defeated at the end of his sentence. It was too close--they were too close. He hated losing control around them, because the tangible, palpable want he had for them was too visible. It was too easy to sink into their heat and their smell and their voices and just...pretend there was room for him, too.
Oikawa and Haruhi shared a loaded look, and it almost seemed they were having a silent conversation. They did that all the time, and Iwaizumi hated it, but his protests caught in his throat when they turned those gazes back on him. Oikawa leaned into Haruhi’s space, whispering something in her ear. Her eyes slid closed, and she leaned into him, letting out a soft sigh of bliss. When those long fingers came up to cup her jaw, Iwaizumi felt like a voyeur, and yet he didn’t hate it. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the space where they touched, where their bodies pressed together… he couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to be in that space. The haze of alcohol and adrenaline and lust was making him think crazy things… he’d gone so long waiting, wanting and pining, resolved to remain at a distance. Why couldn’t he keep up the facade in their presence? What was happening?
Suddenly, Haruhi pulled away from Oikawa, looking at him as if for confirmation, and when he pressed a soft kiss to her temple, she approached with new resolve. She put her small hands flat against Iwaizumi’s chest, pushing him until his back collided with the brick wall behind them. She rocked forward on her tiptoes until she was flush against him, her body pressed deliciously against his.
“Tell me to stop, and it stops,” she breathed against his lips, the brush of vodka-scented air against his skin raising goosebumps along his arms. “But you can be honest with us...Hajime.”
He wasn’t even able to fully register how his name sounded tumbling from her lips like that. He wasn’t even able to get his breathing under control, or regulate his heartbeat, or fully comprehend how completely she was pressed against him, before her lips crashed into his in a bruising kiss.