The promise • matsuhana

2

Issei is fifteen, the second time.

They're in their second year, and it turns out he doesn't hate Oikawa as much as he thought he would. The setter has grown on him; the moment he steps onto the court all the fake smiles are replaced by determined confidence - both in himself and in the members of his team. Whenever he tosses to you it is with the utmost care, as though you've been chosen from the maelstrom and handed a lantern to bring you out of the storm. Even his attitude - sometimes haughty, sometimes playful, sometimes downright stupid - has started to worm its way into Issei's heart, and he finds himself ruffling the other boy's hair and slapping his back in a show of good faith more often than not. If Issei's hand lingers a little longer on Oikawa's shoulder, if he looks a little longer than he should... well.

Issei tells himself it's fine, that everyone looks at Oikawa like this. At least, he and Iwaizumi do, and that's mostly everyone, so it's something completely normal.

Absolutely, 100%, not-a-problem normal.

Or, it would be, if only Hanamaki didn't have such stupidly observant eagle eyes.

They're sitting on the floor of Issei's room one summer afternoon, shortly before term ends for break. Piles of notes are spread out on the floor around them, pinned down beneath books as an oscillating fan blows warm air into Issei and Hanamaki's faces. It's early for it to be this hot, and Issei dreads what that implies for the rest of the summer. Coach had called practice early that day, citing fears of heat exhaustion, and the boys had tumbled gratefully out of the hot gym while the sun was still above the horizon.

"Hey, Mattsun."

Issei turns his head lazily to look at his friend, feeling his cheek stick to a piece of notebook paper. There will probably be an ink stain on his face later. He can't bring himself to care. "Mm?"

Hanamaki's looking at him, narrowing his eyes in that way that suggests he's thinking hard about something. Usually it means he's about to say something very insightful or very stupid; Issei hopes it's the latter this time. Thinking is hard right now.

"You have a crush on Oikawa, don't you?"

Issei sits up so fast that the notebook nearly comes with him; there's a quiet ripping sound as part of the page tears from the wire binding. "What?!"

Hanamaki smirks, raising an eyebrow at him. "You have 'stupid' stuck on your face," he snickers, and Issei rubs furiously at the ink on his cheek with the palm of his hand. "Anyways," Hanamaki continues, as if he hadn't just flipped Issei's world upside down, "I get it. He's got nice hair. And those setter hands, all long fingers and everything. I see you looking."

Issei gapes at him. Absolutely not, he wants to yell. He does not have a crush on Oikawa Tooru.

(Except he does, and he knows he does, and the way his cheeks are flaring red right now is like a billboard sign advertising how stupid he is.)

It's not hard to have a crush on Oikawa Tooru. Once Oikawa allows someone in beneath that polished outer shell, it's much easier to see him as the high school boy he is. He's dorky and stupid and clumsy off the court, tripping over the too-long hems of his uniform pants half the time and shouting teasing jibes about Issei's eyebrows or Iwaizumi's (lack of) good looks across the heads of their classmates that make Issei want to punch him. Iwaizumi does, sometimes, but it's the type of punch that has the weight of nearly a decade and a half of friendship behind it and Oikawa will squeal and hide behind Issei and Hanamaki, claiming abuse. It always gives Issei a little flicker of something in his chest when Oikawa does that, the way he clings onto Issei's blazer and his hands press just a little closer to Issei's waist.