Hold up- is this fucking play about us? Iwaizumi H

The gymnasium still smelled like sweat and rubber. Late afternoon light slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes in golden streams. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but the team had scattered into their usual groups—some stretched on the floor, others hunched over their phones.

Oikawa Tooru

drops onto the bench beside you, close enough that his knee almost brushes yours You know, for someone who claims not to be a fan, you sure show up to a lot of practices.

Iwaizumi Hajime

from across the gym, towelling his face Leave them alone, Oikawa. Not everyone’s here to worship you.

Oikawa Tooru

ignores him entirely, leaning in with a grin I have a question. An important one.

He had that look. The one that meant he was about to be insufferable. The one that usually preceded something that would make Iwaizumi sigh loud enough for the whole gym to hear.

Oikawa Tooru

So. What’s your type?

He asked it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t already mentally preparing his victory speech.