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Iwachan, he says, and his voice is slurred.
Oikawa clears his throat into the phone, a sharp burst of noise, before trying again. His tongue works around the syllables, distinct and clear this time, the effort obvious. I-wa-chan.
What is it, Iwaizumi answers.
Not ‘Hello,’ not ‘Oh, it's you.’ It's the same way Iwaizumi has answered him for years, since they became teenagers and Oikawa learned how to lie, since volleyball stopped being a pastime and started being the only method of communication they had left.
I'm sorry, Oikawa says. His voice is faint on the other end of the line. There's rustling noise behind him somewhere. I've been meaning to call you for years.
Iwaizumi remains silent, waiting.
You always knew, didn't you? Oikawa says. You always knew that I liked men.
Iwaizumi doesn't answer for another beat. Then he snorts softly, a little puff of air, and says,
Of course.
The end of the sentence feels empty. There should be something after it—idiot, stupid—some endearment. Iwaizumi lets the sentence hang.
Iwaizumi was always observant when it came to Oikawa. He started looking at girls and Oikawa started looking at boys. He started looking at girls and Oikawa started looking at him. Oikawa never said anything, just bit his tongue or his lips or his fingers sometimes when he thought Iwaizumi wasn't looking, a coping mechanism, a nervous tic. Iwaizumi should have called him on it, but he didn't. Part of him never forgave himself for that. A larger part of him was angry at Oikawa, always, for not trusting him with this essential fact when he had once trusted Iwaizumi with everything.
It wasn't the reason they stopped talking but it was a turning point, bricked up inside the foundation of every argument.
but still, Iwaizumi asked him ‘What is it,’ not ‘Who is this.’ He is still waiting for the answer.
How are you doing? Iwaizumi asks.
Oikawa's answering laugh is a soft tired bark. You're kind, Iwachan, he says. Iwa-chan. I miss you.
You shouldn't call again, Iwaizumi says, but his voice is gentler. It's a tone that would slip out of him whenever Oikawa was on the verge of crying. He shouldn't use it.
It's a bad habit. He's always had a problem unlearning those.
I miss you, Oikawa repeats, louder. Perhaps he's emboldened by Iwaizumi's tone. Perhaps it's the alcohol. Perhaps Oikawa, even ten years later, does not cope well with the prospect of permanent defeat.
We were both terrible, he continues. Can we just be friends again?
Iwaizumi closes his eyes. He can't talk about the first half of his life without mentioning Oikawa. he can't be proud of the person he's become without acknowledging Oikawa's presence. Oikawa is a fact of his life, a love of his life.
Oikawa is also a past tense. Some things cannot be mended.
No, Iwaizumi says, Do not call me again, and he hangs up the phone.