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“On your left, Iwaizumi!”
Hanamaki’s voice crackles in Hajime’s headset, and he yanks the joystick on his controller to see an approaching enemy, clothed in black and wielding an AK-47 in gloved hands. Frantically, he fiddles with the buttons to dodge incoming gunshots and draw his own gun, fully prepared to kick some ass. Unfortunately, the firefight ends pathetically, with Matsukawa howling and Hanamaki cursing, the audio going in and out thanks to shitty connection from Hajime’s apartment.
“How did you not see that? Man, you suck so fucking bad!”
“Damnit, Matsukawa! Pay attention, we’re a man down now!”
The urge to rip apart his controller with his bare hands has never been more prominent than it is now, with the huge text of, “You died! Press B to spectate,” taunting him, but he presses B nonetheless to continue. It’s a miracle, honestly, that he hasn’t dismantled the controller yet, what with all of his losses tonight and Matsukawa’s constant quips that are really just thinly-veiled insults.
He leans back on the couch, sinking into the stained cushions and glancing sidelong out the window. Not even the moon is out tonight, covered by darkened clouds—Oikawa will be disappointed, it was supposed to be a full moon tonight. Speaking of Oikawa, he should be home soon. His lecture must have run late again, but he still refuses to drop it despite it being completely unnecessary for his graduation. Stubborn fucking idiot.
A glance at the clock tells him midnight is nearing, and he yawns, stretching his arms along the top of the couch. His eyelids are drooping, the drone of muffled gunshots and yells of outrage over his headset fading to white noise. “Oye, Iwaizumi, you still alive?” Hanamaki asks sarcastically, and Hajime grunts, clearing his throat to respond.
“Yeah, yeah, just tired. I had an early class,” he grumbles, discarding his controller on the opposite side of the couch with a gentle toss.
“Then go to sleep, dumbass. You’re playing like shit, anyway.”
“He’s right, go to bed. Don’t log out though, we have to have three to play. You can just sit there and look pretty while we carry the team, Sleeping Beauty.”
Hajime says, “You guys are going to get your asses handed to you without me.” The two of them versus countless three-person teams seems like a broken controller waiting to happen.
Matsukawa snorts, and even Hanamaki snickers, much to both Hajime’s annoyance and amusement. Snide grin clear even through the headset, Matsukawa asks amusedly, “Have you even had any kills the entire night?”
He ponders that for less than a second before arriving at a conclusion and promptly scowls.
“One,” he mutters. To his friend’s credit, they don’t laugh at him—Hajime certainly would have if he was on the receiving end of such pitiful news.
“I think we’ll be okay. Get some sleep, or in your dearest, loveliest, most-annoying Oikawa’s words, ‘You’ll get ugly bags, Iwa-chan!’”
Matsukawa chuckles at Hanamaki’s antics, and Iwaizumi groans miserably, “Never try to do an Oikawa impression again, or I’ll have to beat you how I beat Oikawa.”
There are some coos from the both of them, insisting he enjoys the nickname (which, maybe he doesn’t mind it as much as he says), and he yanks the headset off and tosses it next to the controller to avoid responding. Already, sleep tugs at the edges of his vision, pulling him to bonelessly drape over the couch.
Forgetting a blanket, he’s out within a minute, lulled to sleep by the distant noise of his friends shouting and gameplay from his headset.
“...bad! Learn some manners, and while you're at it, how to use one of those big guns. What are they called, Mattsun? Oh, right, an AR!”
Hajime’s eyes crack open, stuck together with fresh sleep and crust. The light from the TV is still as bright as ever, and he blinks a few times to adjust. And then he blinks a few more times because he must still be dreaming.
Oikawa is on his stomach in front of the sofa, a half-smile illuminating the room more than any television could, a controller in his delicate hands. But that’s not what’s strange.
What bothers him is the kill-count that reads ‘9’ in the corner, the deadly accuracy that Oikawa aims at a nearby player and slaughters them with a shot to the head. Even from his vantage point on the couch, Hajime can hear Matsukawa’s obnoxious laughter.
Shocked into silence, Hajime can do nothing but watch as Oikawa absolutely dominates the competition. It’s sad, honestly, watching player after player get gunned down while Oikawa absently hums an off-key tune, legs swinging behind him like a five-year-old watching Hello Kitty.
The game ends swiftly, Oikawa’s team placing first, and there are multiple whoops of excitement. Muffled talking follows, then a deadly smile overtakes Oikawa’s face, eyes narrowing with a mischievous glint that'd be easy to miss were he anybody but Iwaizumi Hajime, an Oikawa Expert. Normally, this is where Hajime would step in and talk him down from whatever heartless thing he’s about to do, but his curiosity is piqued, so he let's it slide.
“Yeah, sure, add the kid in,” Oikawa practically purrs in pleasure, propping himself up on his elbows. There’s a moment of silence, then furious screaming. Ah, they added one of those enraged little kids. Should he step in? Oikawa gets offended by Takeru’s insults, and the children online are ruthless in their verbal assaults.
“Well, Chibi-chan, you can try to track my location all you like, but before you show up here, I’d like to tell you that you’re remarkably bad! I thought you had to try to be that terrible, but here you are—trying your best and still not succeeding. Honestly, you’re probably the reason your mom gets bullied at parent-teacher meetings. I know I certainly would—hey, why’d he leave? Guys, answer me! I don’t like being ignored by my mean friends.”
Hajime guesses that the strangled sounds he hears are some broken forms of howling laughter, and he finally finds his voice. “Oikawa, what the fuck?”
He groggily sits up, a blanket tumbling from his shoulders, and Oikawa whips to face him with wide eyes and feigned innocence. A deer in headlights.
“The beast awakens!” he says, and Hajime rolls his eyes, feeling a pout settle in place to disguise the wave of affection that nearly drowns him.
“Who taught you how to play?” Hajime asks, rubbing his eyes with wobbly hands, and Oikawa lights up at the prospect of simply speaking . Does he know how to exist in silence? Hajime suspects not.
“Nobody, really. I just saw the controller and headset on the couch and thought it looked fun. Mattsun made fun of me at first, but I’m actually kind of good at it.” There’s muffled chatter, then Oikawa breaks into a sly grin. “They say I’m better than Iwa-chan.”
“Well, yeah, you’re better than them too,” Iwaizumi says, putting his hands on his lower back and stretching. He slides from the couch and crawls over to Oikawa, ruffling his greasy brown hair and cringing. “Did you even shower yet? You smell disgusting.”
Oikawa feigns offense, and there are snickers from Matsukawa and Hanamaki. “Iwa-chan, so brutally honest! I came home, saw you frowning in your sleep, and was about to wake you up to save you from aging early when I saw how desperately Mattsun and Makki needed my help.”
“Oh, your help specifically?”
“Obviously. Didn’t you just say I’m better than them? Wait a second, they’re adding another kid in!” Logically, Hajime knows he should take the headset now and prevent another child’s innocence from being stripped away, but the sight of Oikawa playing video games is just too weird for him to end to just yet.
Once again, some kid begins yelling, voice cracking from strain and puberty, and Oikawa must be a sadist because he looks both thrilled and bored, picking at his cuticles and listening to the raging child. Once there’s a pause that Hajime assumes is the kid catching his breath, Oikawa pounces on it like a predator stalking his prey, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike.
“For someone so confident in his playing abilities, you seem to lack confidence in yourself as a whole. Once you stop stuttering and we can have an actual conversation, come and play me again, Kiddie-chan.”
With that, the call ends, and Hajime’s senses come back to him.
“Give that back to me!” Hajime demands, ripping the headset from Oikawa, who squawks in outrage.
“Not fair, Iwa-chan, first come first serve!”
“That doesn’t apply when it’s my shit, Trashykawa, now let go of the controller!”
After a short wrestling match, Hajime (unsurprisingly) emerges victorious, sitting on Oikawa’s back triumphantly and ignoring his protests.
“You’re crushing me, I can’t breathe!” Oikawa screeches and flails beneath him, legs kicking uselessly. Hajime dutifully ignores him in favor of sliding his headset over his ears.
“Hey, guys. Sorry about that,” he says, and he can basically hear the shit-eating grins from the pair.
“So, when are you gonna give the controller back to Oikawa?”
“Yeah, we don’t want to play with you anymore. You suck.”
“Are they talking bad about me, Iwa-chan? Defend my honor!”
Hajime smiles, a cocky half-pull of his lips, and retorts, “Yeah, they said you’re terrible. Now go shower, Smellykawa.” He scooches off of Oikawa’s back, plopping on the carpet and allowing Oikawa to breathe once more.
Oikawa groans and braces his hands on the carpet to sit up, movements sluggish now that the thrill of the video game has worn off. He stretches his arms, joints popping, then drapes the long limbs around Hajime’s chest from behind, burrowing his face into the the crook of Hajime's shoulder. The contact nearly has Hajime shuddering—with how the breath tickles the crease of his jaw and neck, goosebumps rise on his arms within seconds.
“I love you, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa chirps tiredly, exhaustion appearing in sleepy, drawn-out words.
Hajime feels a heated blush crawl up his neck and settle on his face while Hanamaki chokes on something. “Say it back,” Oikawa murmurs, lips brushing sensitive skin.
“Yeah, Iwa-chan, say it back.”
“Go on Iwa-chan.”
“Shut the fuck up, guys!” Hajime says, and Oikawa stiffens. “No, not you Oikawa. These two idiots. I love you too, good night.”
Ignoring the laughter from Matsukawa and Hanamaki, Hajime brings a hand up to muss Oikawa’s hair affectionately, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of his head. Oikawa hums contentedly before withdrawing his face and arms from Hajime’s personal space, the warmth of skin-on-skin contact instantly missed. Retreating footsteps, then a door creaks shut.
A beat of silence. Then, “Hey, Iwaizumi, can you go get him back now? We can’t win now that he’s not carrying us.”
“Agreed, Makki. Iwaizumi, go play with dolls or something. Nobody emotionally damages kids quite like Oikawa.”
“Fuck off, both of you.”