nice receive•haikyuu oneshots

iwaizumi hajime•male reader

as far as the eye can see

It was a foolish thing, really, that you thought that being an artist would give you all of the freedom in the world. All you had really amounted to was gigs in shitty bars, cafes, an occasional wedding, and sometimes even a funeral, for some reason. What did you have to show for it? A small apartment, a bit of credit card debt, an old well-loved guitar, and a couple of dying houseplants on the windowsill. Still, it was the life you chose, it wasn't all bad. You were getting more and more inquiries, and you looked forward to one day being able to get jobs that would foot the bill and you could quit your part time job.

Still, you sighed as you looked at the clock and put away your broom and apron, you weren't unhappy. It was cold out. You pulled on your jacket and zipped it up, pulling up the hood, your breath clouded immediately. You shivered involuntarily as you stuffed your hands in your pockets, looking around the street outside of your workplace. You began walking home, looking a bit disappointed. You checked your phone once your hands had warmed up a bit and saw a few notifications from social media, but otherwise, radio silence. You sighed again. If you kept scowling, you worried you would get wrinkles, you continued scowling anyways.

A car pulled up beside you and stopped, you kept walking. You heard the window roll down while you continued on your way. "Hey, you look nice, I might want to take you home." You looked back with a glare, preparing to come up with some quip. However, it melted when you saw who it was. You responded with a toothy grin and came back to open the door.

"You shouldn't shout stuff like that." You scolded, getting situated in the car. "People will get the wrong idea."

He leaned in for a kiss. A stocky man, sharp gaze and hair like a hedgehog. He looked nice, but he looked even better under his suit. You reciprocated the quick peck and Iwaizumi Hajime began driving. You made small talk about how your day went. Of course, you had your fair share of stresses, but you still found a way to relate even the most dismal work situations and come out feeling better. Your anxiety over money and success seemed to alleviate itself the moment you let words fall over your mouth.

Getting home was nice. A drafty apartment, a negligible dusty floor, a kitchen with a fridge stocked with (regrettably) healthy leftovers. It wasn't luxurious by any means, but at least you had someone to share it with. The two of you ate with minimal conversation. After three years, there wasn't much you had to say out loud that couldn't be otherwise communicated. Still, there was love in the way his fingers brushed yours as you did the dishes together, how you looked at him on afternoons on the weekend as he ritualistically dozed off on the living room sofa, and in the way he made sure there was coffee for you in the pot when he left for work so early in the morning. The most mundane chores became comforting when done together.

You snuggled up on the couch, him laying his head in your lap as he laid on his side. Your eyes lingered anywhere but the television. You let your fingers trace the contours of his face, the moments your nails met his scalp, he groaned appreciatively. Nothing felt complicated when it came to the two of you. He kissed the other hand that was laying flat on your lap and you moved the other one to trace his lips. Maybe it was weird, but neither of you cared.

You were young for now, you were poor, for now, you had worries for now, but you were in love with each other, for as far as the eye could see, and nothing else mattered more.