Wish You Were Sober

.

"Don't take a hit, don't kiss my lips - and please don't drink more beer"

-

It wasn't that Oikawa couldn't hold his liquor - anyone had to have some tolerance by now - it was just that he drunk so much. Sometimes, after seeing him with a hangover the next day, Hajime wondered why. This wasn't the kind of drunk you got for fun, not when the night almost always ended with blurry vision and a good deal of retching. Not when the morning after only yielded the most blurry of memories, or in some cases, none at all.

God, he hoped there were none.

Iwaizumi only really came to parties to keep an eye on his friend. Such a task should turn the night into some benign, repetitive event, except instead his stomach writhed with jealousy and self-pity every time Oikawa found a girl to talk up, and then some sense of anticipation as he walked them home.

A pitiful kind of anticipation which he hated feeling but was fast becoming accustomed to.

He knew Oikawa would cling to his arm as they walked, knew that he'd lean close when he spoke and that he would beg him to stay over when they reached his front door.

And sometimes, sometimes, Oikawa would try kissing him before he fell to sleep.

It would be a hurried brush of lips, with Hajime would wish that he could lean in for longer than he did, wish he could respond in some meaningful way, but Oikawa's eyes would never focus on him and Hajime was sober enough to know that to Oikawa, he was just a person-shaped blank slate. So Hajime would pull away and walk home savoring the taste of Oikawa on his lips; for now, the tang of alcohol reminded him of his friend, his love, more than anything.

He wasn't one to dwell on anything, and so for the most part he was Oikawa's friend, his teammate, his wingman. The wingman part never went well, but Hajime figured that at least his reluctance was in character.

The reluctance, however, was a byproduct of the envy he felt whenever someone approached Oikawa. A kind of anger directed at everything and nothing all at once; he knew that he had no right to dislike his friend's relationship, but that, hard, truth, did nothing to stop the emotions boiling in his stomach.

Now he'd had a drink or two, enough to be a little tipsy but nothing dramatic, and he was watching Oikawa down a shot halfway across the room, the center of attention as per usual. People around him were cheering, a few matching him drink for drink. Hajime had his arms crossed, his fingers digging into his skin so hard they hurt.

Tipsy meant he had slightly less self-control than needed, and in a situation like this, where Oikawa had his hand high on a girl's leg and was only a breath away, that was all that was needed for his balance to teeter.

That wandering hand began to stroke at the skin just under the hem of the girl's skirt, and her hands splayed across his chest. Usually, now they might disappear but the LED-light strips which were laid out around them flickered and changed color and they were still there.

She'd coaxed him back onto the table now, her hair pulled out of the way over one shoulder and her mouth very firmly on his. Hajime's imagination did the rest; the sound of Oikawa's breath on hers, the feel of his hands on her skin. He wished it were the drink making him feel sick, but no, god no, it was Oikawa.

It was the lack of Oikawa.

Sometimes Hajime reminded himself that this girl, a girl who'd met with Oikawa a handful of times, would never know Oikawa as well as he did. Tonight even that thought soured as he wondered if it would be worth it, to trade that stability for a night of the feel of Oikawa's body on his.