The whistle blows, and Oikawa feels the last strand of his willpower snap. The ball rolls to a halt, and a loud roar erupts in Oikawa's ears as the breath rushes out of his lungs. It's over. It was their last chance, and he lost it.
It feels as though every one of his muscles has been loosened to jelly, every bone liquefied, but somehow Oikawa musters enough sinew to pull him through the expected actions. The bows, the handshakes, the dragging of feet away from the court to make room for the next match.
The locker room is quiet, heads are down. The head coach looks over at Oikawa, who blinks the sweat—it's just sweat, nothing more—out of his eyes before opening his mouth to speak. Are those words that come out of his mouth? Oikawa can't tell for sure, the roaring still hasn't left his ears. The words, assuming that's what they are, feel heavy and dull on his tongue. Practiced.
The coaches speak, adding an incomprehensible bass line to the garbled noise crowding his mind. There is stillness in Oikawa's peripheral vision for the longest time, and then sluggish movement as jerseys are discarded and sweat is dabbed away. Oikawa remains unbudged on the bench, head in hands. Nobody tries to move him. He feels light pats on his back, squeezes on his shoulder. Well-meant ministrations that only grate on his nerves.
And then the locker room is empty, save for Oikawa, who still hasn't moved from his brooding position.
"Let him be," Coach Mizoguchi mutters. "Hajime, you'll check on him in a few minutes, right?"
"Oh, uh, yes!" Iwaizumi answers. "Of course."
When Iwaizumi returns, he finds Oikawa crying, completely undisguised. Not that he hadn't expected it, though he's still not fully prepared for the sight. Oikawa is first and foremost, an ugly crier. The skin around Oikawa's eyes are swollen—pink, puffy, and tender as heartache. He's dripping as profusely from his nose as he is from his eyes. It's nothing like those crocodile tears that well up on occasion when Oikawa tries to pillage Iwaizumi for sympathy. That kind of crying Iwaizumi can deal with, but not this.
One after another, hot, fat, tears splash onto Oikawa's thighs, and his chest shudders every time he takes a breath. He had felt numb after the match, but now he's feeling so many things, all at once. His eyes are still bent on the ground when a familiar pair of shoes falls into his line of vision.
"Hey." Iwaizumi's voice is rougher than usual. He's been crying, too.
"I-Iwa-chan?" Oikawa hiccups.
"I just wanted to, um, make sure that you're okay."
"I'm just fine." He smiles through his tears as though he has something to prove.
Iwaizumi casts around in his mind for something to say, but the words won't come. So he sits on the bench next to Oikawa, far enough to give him space, but close enough to let Oikawa know that Iwaizumi is there for him. As always.
"Hajime, can I...?" Oikawa begins hesitantly, sliding closer until their knees bump.
The sound of his name on Oikawa's lips catches Iwaizumi off guard. It's rare for Oikawa to call him by anything other than his pet name, affectionate and playfully condescending in equal parts. But Oikawa's voice is desperate, pleading, so much more vulnerable than what Iwaizumi has ever heard.
"Y-yeah, go ahead," Iwaizumi stutters. His heart swoops when he feels a hand curl around his waist and Oikawa's head settle onto his shoulder.
"Thanks," Oikawa whispers against his neck. "I needed this."
Just when Iwaizumi thought that he was beginning to understand his best friend, Oikawa throws him for a loop. Oikawa isn't like this. He has his clingy moments, but it's mostly just for show. He throws himself at Iwaizumi just to prove that he can. It's not like him to be so...intimate.
