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“Tell me again why I have to wear this thing...”
Iwaizumi pulls the bright blue fabric down over his head, turning toward his friends with a grimace. He’s broader than he was in high school. Thicker. But so is the Olympic athlete staring back at him, it seems, because the jersey stretched across his chest isn’t nearly as tight as he thought it would be.
“Because, Iwa-chan, you backed the wrong team and those were our terms.” Oikawa smirks at him from across the room, cheeks tinged pink from the drinks they’d had earlier in the night. That’s what Iwaizumi tells himself anyway, choosing to ignore the way Oikawa tracks the rise and fall of his chest; his eyes glinting with something like hunger at the way his breast swells and contracts beneath the jersey with every breath.
“Consider yourself lucky. We talked him out of making you sing the Argentinian national anthem on his livestream,” Matsukawa tells him, grinning before reaching out to tug Oikawa down on the sofa, right onto his lap.
Oikawa yelps and then laughs, bright and genuine, and Iwaizumi can’t take his eyes off them. He twists his fingers into the hem of the borrowed jersey, and watches the blush bloom and spread across Oikawa’s face as Matsukawa wraps his arms around his waist. He pulls him snug against his chest and tucks that devilish smirk into the curve of Oikawa’s shoulder.
“You could always take it off.”
A fresh drink is pressed into his hand and suddenly Hanamaki is crowded against his side with one arm slung over his shoulder. Iwaizumi sways a bit under Hanamaki’s weight when the pink-haired menace dips down and murmurs into his ear, “I’m not giving your shirt back though.”
“Whatever,” he huffs around the mouth of his glass, aware that he’s just been caught staring by arguably the most observant of the group; Makki has always been able to read him like a book. He takes a sip to hide his own flushed cheeks. The fruity concoction is far too sweet for his taste, but it’s a welcome distraction from the tension that has been slowly building all night. All week, really. Ever since the four of them reunited in Tokyo for the Olympic games.
He clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest, the jersey squeezing his biceps just past the point of comfort, but it’s worth it to see the way all their eyes zero in on him, to feel the way Makki’s breath catches and his heartbeat quickens.
“I backed the team that I was meant to. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all traitors,” he tells them, as if he’s somehow immune to the gravity around the shining star that is Oikawa. They all know better than that. Though they don’t need to know about the rival team’s flag that he pinned inside his breast pocket before the game — right over his heart. That’s a secret just for him.
“Mmm. That may be, Iwa-chan, but I think I’d rather be a traitor than a loser.”
“Better watch who you call a loser.” Matsukawa pinches Oikawa’s side, and then holds him tight when he tries to squirm away. “You’ve still got games to play, and it’d be a real shame if karma was the reason you disappointed your biggest fans.”
“Hmph. My biggest fans should know that I’m going to win. Every. One. No matter what.” Oikawa’s eyes shine in the low light of the room, reflecting splinters of gold as he looks around at the three of them, like that Olympic medal is already woven into the very fabric of his being.
Iwaizumi’s chest swells with pride and he sees it reflected in his friends’ faces; equal parts joy and disbelief at how far they’ve come. There’s no doubt in any of their minds who will be standing at the top of the podium at the end of it all.
Iwaizumi aches, but not for his team’s loss; his heart feels too big for his chest, the fabric holding him too constricting. He has the sudden urge to dash across the room. To feel the burn of lips against his flesh instead of just the stitching across his back — O I K A W A — pressed into his skin like a brand. But then, it always happens like this when they reunite.
They’d never put a name to whatever this was, never needed to, knowing far too well how difficult the coming years would be, even without the weight of a relationship on their shoulders. But whenever the stars align, whenever the four of them find themselves sharing the same space for more than just an evening, they never fail to fall together. Right back where they belong.
“Just be careful not to get any stains on it. That jersey will be hanging in a museum some day.”
“He means other than the pit stains,” Hanamaki snickers.
Oikawa stammers and sputters from his place on Matsukawa‘s lap, scrabbling out of his grip and launching himself toward Hanamaki who, unsurprisingly, ducks behind Iwaizumi to use him as a shield.
“Ahh,” Matsukawa sighs from the couch, folding his hands behind his head and kicking back to watch the chaos unfold as Iwaizumi tries in vain to dodge out of the way of a shrieking Oikawa without spilling his drink. “Just like old times.”
- - - -
Hanamaki swipes his thumb over the head of Iwaizumi’s cock, spreading the wetness there and making his breath stutter and catch in his throat. Iwaizumi leans a little harder into his chest and tips his head back against Makki’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes tightly closed.
The pace is maddening. Patient and steady, while inside he yearns for something rough and desperate. He knows that feeling. It’s an echo of the bittersweet ache in his chest when he thinks of his best friends, his lovers, spread out across the globe. But he also knows what comes next, and he won’t give them the satisfaction of begging. Not yet.
Hanamaki hooks his knees under Iwaizumi’s, spreading his legs wide and giving him another slow stroke to try and coax more sounds out of him. He just barely manages to keep his low groan locked behind his teeth, but he can feel the way Makki’s mouth curves into a grin against his temple as he twists his wrist beneath his boxers.
There’s a sharp smack followed by a breathy gasp from the other end of the sofa and he hears, “wait your turn,” in Matsukawa’s low rumble. Iwaizumi cracks open his eyes just in time to see him nip at Oikawa’s pouty lip. One of Matsukawa’s big hands is holding Oikawa’s hips steady where he’s straddled his lap, skin-tight boxer briefs already tented obscenely, while the other hand smooths over the curve of his ass.
He whispers something unintelligible and Oikawa’s gaze flicks to the side, toward Iwaizumi, eyes dark and heavy with desire. Oikawa licks his lips while he looks him over, the pink tip of his tongue traces the perfect cupid’s bow of his mouth as his pout curls into something sharper.
“Our boy looks good in blue, doesn’t he?” Matsukawa purrs the words right into Oikawa’s ear, but the way he smirks, the way Hanamaki’s breath fans across Iwaizumi’s cheek when he huffs a quiet laugh, Iwaizumi knows those words were directed at him. It flares embers white hot in his core. His eyes flutter closed and he aches. He burns. He needs to feel more than just heated gazes and Makki’s teasing hands on him.
Iwaizumi pants hot, harsh breaths through clenched teeth, and he flexes his hips, fucking into Makki’s grip as much as he can with his legs held wide open. He gasps and keens, an unspoken plea, and a moment later a second set of hands squeezes tight around his hips.
He blinks his eyes open.
“You really do look good like this, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa croons above him. “Dressed in my colors. All spread out and needy for us.” He dips his thumbs under the hem of the jersey and pushes it up over the flat planes of Iwaizumi’s stomach and chest until it catches under his arms. “I don’t know about the blue though, Mattsun. I’d say our Iwa-chan looks much better in red.”
Oikawa trails the tips of his fingers down Iwaizumi’s breastbone. His eyes follow the motion, pupils blown wide, like a predator ready to strike at the smallest of movements and devour him. That’s when Iwaizumi realizes… he doesn’t mean the red of Japan’s uniform. He means the red of his blush that has crept slowly from the tips of his ears to the apples of his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose, and all the way down his chest.
“T-Tooru…” He means to scold, but his voice carries no threat. He may as well have followed it up with a stuttered p-please; he’s already so breathless from Makki working him over with slow strokes and trailing kisses, wet and open mouthed, along his throat. Oikawa smooths his hands over Iwaizumi’s pecs. His broad chest is perfectly framed by the too-tight jersey tucked under his arms, and Oikawa’s slender fingers as he cups the solid muscle there and squeezes.
It’s unfair, he thinks, as Oikawa leans in and presses their mouths together, sliding his tongue between his lips when he moans; as Hanamaki slips his hand lower to tease slick fingers over his entrance. Unfair that they can take him apart so easily. Unfair that they have to settle for phone calls and video when they fit together so perfectly, all four of them.
Just as the thought flits through his lust-addled mind, he feels another set of hands on him, tipping his face up. Matsukawa kisses him like he’s trying to chase Oikawa’s taste on his tongue. He cups his face, fingers marking his pulse point, and licks into his mouth, sweet and wet as Oikawa strips off Iwaizumi’s boxers and settles back between his legs.
Mattsun swallows down his gasps when Makki sucks another mark behind his ear and Oikawa latches onto a nipple to tease the bud between his teeth. The heat is almost unbearable, trapped here between them. Heady and humid. Relentless. Inescapable. But what a laughable thought; he wouldn’t want to escape this, even if it meant his end. He can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere but here.
“C’mon,” he whispers. Please, he wants to say. Give it to me. More. Anything. Everything.
Before Iwaizumi can force the words out, Matsukawa drags the pad of his thumb over his kiss-swollen mouth, shushing him softly before slipping the digit between his parted lips to press against his tongue.
“And here I thought you had learned some patience,” he teases. Iwaizumi looks up to meet his eyes and shivers at the harsh edge he finds there, but in the next breath Matsukawa replaces his thumb with the blunt head of his cock. He reaches his free hand back, threading his fingers through the short hair at the base of Iwaizumi’s skull with a little tug. Iwaizumi’s mouth waters as he sticks out his tongue and laps at the precome beaded at the tip.
“Remember what Tooru said about stains? Don’t spill a drop.”
Iwaizumi nods, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head because Mattsun is already gripping his hair so tight. He feels Oikawa and Makki’s dark laughter where their mouths are pressed against him, and he struggles to keep his eyes from fluttering closed again as he relaxes his jaw and lets Mattsun feed his cock into his eager mouth, inch by inch, until he nudges against the back of his throat. Matsukawa pulls back until just the tip rests heavy on his tongue, only to thrust forward again.
It’s intoxicating, the weight of him over his tongue, the heat and the smell that fills his head as he’s held there with his lips stretched wide, his nose buried into dark curls. Matsukawa sets a steady, unrelenting rhythm, moaning softly each time he buries himself into the searing heat of Iwaizumi’s throat. Iwaizumi can’t get enough of that sound as Mattsun makes a mess of him. He arches against Makki’s hands and Oikawa’s lips. He pulls shallow breaths through his nose that barely fill his lungs and chokes when he tries to swallow around the thick cock fucking into him.
He lets his mind go blank, drifting in the haze until Makki presses his hot mouth against the shell of his ear and whispers, “Fuck…Haji.”
He feels Oikawa pull back just as Makki takes his hand away from his cock, and when he tries to look Mattsun only grips him tighter, thrusts into him harder.
At some unspoken signal they descend on him at once, wet heat enveloping his sensitive cock as Oikawa sucks him into his mouth. A guttural moan punches out of him as Makki finally presses his slicked up fingers deep inside him.
“Is that what you wanted babe? Don’t know whether to tell you what a good boy you are, or scold you for being so greedy,” Makki tells him. He slides his fingers out to tease around his rim and then plunges them back in, deep. How many, Iwaizumi doesn’t know, but it’s enough for him to feel the stretch, to fill him up and satisfy that sweet ache he’s been craving.
“Ohh, but he is such a good boy for us. Aren’t you, Hajime?” Matsukawa cradles his jaw with one hand and Oikawa hums around his cock as he bobs his head. Between that and the deep timbre of Mattsun’s voice, Iwaizumi can feel the vibration all the way up his spine.
His eyes roll back and his ears fill with their filthy sounds; skin slapping against flushed skin, heaving breaths sucked into burning lungs, sloppy wet choked off moans. He’s close. He’s so so close. He feels his body tense as the coil winds tighter and tighter until–
Pop!
Oikawa sucks hard and pulls his mouth off of him, squeezing an unforgiving hand around his throbbing length.
Iwaizumi shudders and writhes under him, clenching around Makki’s fingers, but without the stimulation to his cock it’s not enough to tip him over the edge. He shudders and sobs desperately as Matsukawa cups his face and grins down at him.
“Not yet, doll.” Makki scrapes his teeth against the hollow beneath his ear and purrs, “Not until we’re finished with you.”
Ahh, Iwaizumi thinks, lips parting around a shaky breath to take Matsukawa back into his mouth. Just like old times.