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11. things you said when you were drunk

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“oikawa? oikawa?

he is pale and on the floor and his eyes are still closed. you squat next to him and wrangle his limbs into a sitting position. his bones are sharp and stretch his skin. he looks like a bird, you think, before you continue to panic.

"oikawa, please. please wake up. oikawaplease. fuck, can you hear me? i’m going to call—we can’t—stay with me—”

"kuroo?” his eyes are cracked, lashes fanning over his cheeks. when he smiles, you can see a small piece of partially digested soba noodle clinging to his left front tooth.

“oh my god. oh my god, i thought you’d died, you—”

"i drank like a real champ. a national champion,” oikawa slurs with a giggle. he lists to the left and you catch him, hand on his side.

“mmm. you sure know how to manhandle a guy, huh?” he looks at you through lidded eyes, and you wonder how he can be so beautiful despite his barfy breath. it puffs across your face, and it should be gross—it is gross—but you kind of don’t mind. besides, god knows you’ve been this wasted before.

“you can do that some more, if you want.” he looks over your left shoulder and leans in close, his hand spread over your thigh.

“not tonight. another night for sure, though." 

"but, i’ve waited so long! been so patient… iwa-chan said. to be patient. and i did.” he prods your chest with a long finger. you’re glad he’s at least too far gone to feel your heart slamming against your chest, about to tear it open like in that alien movie he showed you.

"here it comes. get ready, kuroo-chan. wait for it,” he’d said through a mouthful of popcorn.

“here it is! the best part! kuroo-chan, what’s—oh, don’t puke here, let’s—yeah, okay, go to the bathroom. that’s good.”

when you came back, a boy with a big-fingered alien was on the screen. oikawa didn’t say anything, and neither did you. if your fingers rested in his hair while he slept, well, he did fall asleep curled up next to you.

now, his arms are around your neck, and he’s actually found your eyes. 

“alright, oikawa the patient. let’s get you to bed.” lifting him is a little awkward—it’s like trying to gain purchase on a giant wet noodle—but you eventually get his arm over your shoulder and pull him up. he’s a little taller than you are.

“patient. cleaning up. are you… are you my doctor?”

“no, i’m—”

“because i’d totally bang my doctor. if you were my doctor.” his bedroom is ten feet away. 

"i have to say, i’m flattered,” you say as you lug his ass into his room. his shoe squeaks across the floor. “i like to think i’m pretty bangable, but coming from you—”

pretty bangable? nah, you’re like. ultra bangable. and the hair, i just wanna—”

“oh, we’re here! look, your bed! you must be tired.” your efforts to gently place oikawa on his bed are in vain. he clings to you like a wet t-shirt.

“‘m not tired. promise.”

“i know.” he looks at you, brown eyes glazed, and you realize that he’s going green, and you lunge for the wastebasket as fast as you would one of his serves. you’re just fast enough. he doesn’t have enough hair to hold out of the way, so you trace circles on his back with your fingertips.


“yeah,” he croaks. his lips are chapped.

“more sober?”

“yeah,” he says, voice like chunky gravel. you keep rubbing his back for a minute, and he leans into your touch.

“think you can stay awake long enough for me to get you some water?” he does look more sober, now. taketora was like that, too; he’d puke once or twice and (sort of, mostly) snap out of it. 

oikawa leans against your side.

“yeah. some water’d be great.”


“so. about last night…"