The billboards on the highway's and sloped streets were nothing unerring to Tooru. They were plastered all along the avenue that Tooru passed by every day to and from work. Sometimes, on Tuesdays, and Thursdays the jumbotrons changed from their neon flashy advertising of the daily million dollar lottery that people were so addicted to, he never understood that. The population of New York seemed to be addicted to spending up to twenty dollars every day towards a machine that gobbles up their money, with an only a slim chance that they'll ever get their money back. It was another of society's cruel and tantalizing schemes to steal all of their fortunes.
In Times Square at night, the fluorescent colors flickered on the blacked paved concrete that vehicles drove over every day, and advertised Burberry watches that were too expensive for his wallet. The gold bezel exterior of the wristwatch danced along the large open-boutique shops with wide glass panels. The mannequins of paled inside, reflecting on the transparent wall. Tooru could never imagine wearing the lavish clothing, tugging on his dark grey overcoat, that was given to him by a friend a while ago. His black semi-rimmed glasses obscured on his face, balanced on his nose. New York in the winter was the coldest temperatures in the seasons, Tooru shivers. He pulls on the collar of the coat, hugging his chin down to relish the heat from the soft material of his jacket.
The streets at this time were busy, it was well after New Year's, remaining snow from nights previously still persistent on sticking to the roads. The salt from the snowplows clogging on the bottom of his faux leather suede boots. Unfortunately, the ones he had decided to wear, had zero friction, and Tooru happens to be on the icy parts of the sidewalks. The lens hovering over his eyes was freezing up, and his eyesight was growing foggy. He huffs in annoyance, stopping to wipe off the fog, staring up at the crowded sight. Taxi's hooted, swerving into lanes, the stoplights turning red. His cheeks pinkened at the chilled air, and Tooru walks with the herd of chattering people along the crosswalk to the intersection of the busy roads. He followed them, shoving his hands in his coat pockets, fingers staying toasty.
The jumbotrons flashed a new advertisement in the blink of an eye, a Ralph Lauren commercial shows, and Tooru has to blink twice before his eyes can adjust to the sudden brightness. The picture switched to LG ad, but the man on the largest screen in New York City was familiar to Tooru. Not like a friend exactly, but if you didn't know who Iwaizumi Hajime was, you'd have to be living underneath a rock.
The son of the founder of the empire 'Iwaizumi Industries', they have sites all over central New York, sky-high buildings that were almost as tall as the empire state building, with almost fifty floors and not that Tooru hasn't passed by them on the way to the university, they're everywhere. Iwaizumi Daisuke, the man behind the reason why the stock market is always high, companies crave to buy from his companies, maybe even make a business deal while they're at it. Everyone knows the Iwaizumi family, Iwaizumi Kaede, the foreign model on all the covers of Vanity Fair(so what, maybe Tooru had a few laying magazines in his apartment.) Her caramel skin, and luscious brown hair, he remembered reading in an interview that she was half Latina, and her father was Japanese, that would explain her slim feminine features.
Then the Iwaizumi playboy brothers were all the city could ever waste their breath talking about. It aggravated Tooru to hear of their precious fortunes on the morning news, on the large jumbotrons that he never fails to see, on the subway to the upper east side, where all the snob crowd at Saks fifth avenue hang out at . Their painfully irresistible faces winking at the partygoers on the screens that were displayed as you took the escalators up and down the third floor. A five-year difference, the eldest, alumni from Harvard Law school, engaged to a famous model from Britain. Their similarities were clear, when they were featured in photo shoots together, the same height, and it brings Tooru joy to know that he's taller than them both. emerald eyes, though the younger of Iwaizumi brothers had more hazel than green eyes, marking the distinct difference. And it Tooru didn't go around reading every magazine or article that the Wall Street Journal and New York Times liked to highlight the family in.
Tooru despised them, for their overwhelming wealth, and crappy attitude to their status. Or he was just biased to the father, he snapped away from the tearing lights around the corner. His eyes were beginning to weigh, the illumination around him tiring him out. With eyes torn away from the screens, he makes his way to his final destination. When he enters, the small jingle of the door raises no alerts of his entrance, and he continues to the counter, where his boss sats, legs crossed over the other, smoking a cigarette as if there's no restriction policy.
"Sorry, I'm late." Tooru burst out, and Ukai stares at him from his week-old newspaper and laughs with the end of the cigar sticking out of his mouth.
"You're twenty minutes early kid, business doesn't start until 9." Ukai says, flickering the light to the butt of his cigarette, as the smoke weaves into Tooru's face and he tries his best not to cough.
"Let me at least start wiping down tables," he begs, face distorted into hope. And the old man sighs, throwing him an apron.
"Get to work, those tables won't clean with Clorox themselves." he quickly changes into the standard uniform- white button down, and black slacks.
Tooru snatches the bucket from the corner of the storage room, and starts scrubbing the tables with the soapy water in the bucket. Soon enough, customers pour through, tables are cleaned as fast as people take their seat in them. It was intriguing to observe the customers that Ukai gets, he sees the usuals. The one man who comes in wearing the same armani wristwatch and blue suit. Tooru's served him a couple time when he's on the bar shift. A rusty nail on these nights, and the occasional martini when he has company. The couple sitting in the wide booth he had recently wiped down, sat dangerously close, in their hands were a Gin and tonic, and Tooru sniffled at their bold choice in beverage.
His co-workers shift is over, as he takes over the counter. Giving a flirtatious smile to a nearby customer, he shakes the ice in stainless cocktail shaker, pouring out the Sangria in the signature mason jars stored above the champagne glasses. With his best smile, he slides the alcoholic drink towards the woman, as she lends her prettiest smile. When she leaves, she slips a gracious tip underneath the pleather coaster, and Tooru stuffs it into the front pocket of his apron.
"Have a good evening!" he chirps out, sweeping the floor with the nearest broom.
The sound of the jingle of the front door, alerts of a new customer, and Tooru doesn't take his eyes off the floor. He hears the heavy footsteps, as they seat themselves right where Tooru was sweeping. The speaker system above his head, and the t.v panels in every corner of the restaurant. The atmosphere was loud, and he forces himself to stand up and take the next customer. Tooru's confused to why the bar is hushed, no sudden movement mad, everyone focused on the sight in front of him, and he understands why. He's what they say in the interviews, considering he's currently sitting, his broad shoulders accented by the evening suit that he wears. Tooru knows its Valentino, the beige lapels crisp, he recognizes the Burberry cufflinks, their everywhere in downtown Manhattan. The midnight Stefano Ricci silk tie is worth thousands of dollars, and Tooru wants to rip it right off his neck.
"What can I get for you?" he says icily, breaking the silence in the room, and the clamorous buzz carries on.
Hajime takes off the Tom Ford tinted sunglasses, what kind of person wears those out at night? Iwaizumi Hajime. He carefully folds them delicately, placing them in the crease of his button up. The first two buttons are open, teasing a measurable quantity of exposed skin, a pretty dark tan shade. He lives up to his reputation, his rugged chin, small stubbles faded along the strong jaw that spotted along the jawbone, the silver stud earrings were worn in each earlobe were true. They weren't overly obvious, or snobby-looking and fitted his complex well, only one stud resided in his ear. Tooru noticed the ongoing stares that approached them, as Hajime scrunches his eyes, heedless to ogling of his presence.
"A whiskey sour." his tone expressionless, undeterred by Tooru's cold tone.
"Sure you want that? You don't seem like the type," he taunts, unable to contain the bitterness in his pseudo humor regarding the opulent man.
Hajime grins, unfazed by Tooru's baiting, "and what is my type?" his elbows dipping onto the counter, seated pulled closer.
Taking the tall glass of whiskey stored behind him, where the base alcoholic liquid stand, he pours into an old-fashioned clear glass without any intricately carved patterns. The sour mix goes in, with the sugar, colder tap water, and lemon juice into the other refreshments, dumping the ice cubes gently into the whiskey. Tooru stirs, letting the silence between them settle in slowly. He bends over to take out the cherries from the closest mini refrigerator, ripping the fruit off from the joined stems, and it plops into the drink. He pushes it until it's directly preceding Iwaizumi. He takes out a 1950's antique coaster that Ukai lies around the counter, lifting the whiskey sour to slide it underneath the sweating beverage.
"A godfather cocktail if you're feeling bold, but a Corona is definitely what you would order," he says, locking eyes into Hajime's amused ones.
"Your knowledge of alcoholic drinks is credible." he hums, taking a sip at his drink, his face untwisted at the extra sour mix he'd added to the drink.
"I am a bartender." Tooru snorts, rubbing the rim of the highball glass he's holding a bit too hard.
"Credibility is important, especially when serving customers." he wanted to smother the teasing businessmen.
"Don't you have papers to sign or something?" Tooru utters, blowing the hair that fell into his face out his vision.
He shrugs, swirling his index finger into the now empty glass, "it's a Friday night."
"Or ladies waiting to get a taste of Iwaizumi Hajime?" he says with disgust and doesn't attempt to hide the anger in his voice.
He knows that Hajime heard the distaste in his mouth, but like a gentleman, only nonchalantly laughs.
"So you do know who I am." and Tooru rolls his eyes, ignoring the comment.
While Tooru quietly makes him a second round, knowing that he's probably got a lot of cash stacked in that Bottega Veneta wallet of his, so he prepares him another drink without asking. He spys on him, while mixing the contents. He can't help but stare at his eyes. Their just like the magazine had informed, his eyes were more of a hazel, darker than his brother's. With the moody fixture above Iwaizumi, they look like the rich whiskey color that fills his glass. Lustered dimming opaque lighting dancing on his pupils, and Tooru can't help but study his exotic semblance. the lights playing tricks on his eyes, his gaze wanders down following the fitted suit that blatantly preserves the better edge of his appearance. He seems remotely unguarded by his background, he was expecting a gaudier, less respectful. He also can't help but think about how like every other woman in the city, how much he wanted to sleep with him. The thought strikes him suddenly, and Tooru buries the idea and beats it with a stick. However, the broad smile on Hajime's face entails that he's thinking along the same lines.
"What makes you assume that I'm looking to mess around?" his brows raise, thick and arched, clearly questioning him.
Airly, Tooru offers a simple answer, "no one orders a whiskey on a Friday night unless they're looking to get laid."
Iwaizumi barks out a laugh, leaning close, hands splayed on the counter and he leans in close. Tooru is compelled to point his chin up, and face him, he locks his hard gaze, unable to turn away, if he does then he loses. It was a little bet their gambling, as Hajime nears him, Clive Christian coats his neck. Tooru could smell the orange and cardamom scent of the expensive fragrance, it's a musty, earthy and amorous, as he inhales the aroma. His hands linger around the cuff of Hajime's collar, fingers grazing the upper collarbone. It's a war, and so far Tooru is winning. He gets dangerously close to his face, wrist expertly flicking the next button, stopping at the start of his chest.
"Is that an offer?" Hajime asks lowly, the tension in the air could cut like a knife.
Tooru blinks, once, then twice, before filling in space between them. He's contiguously close to him, and he could hear the steady breathing adjacent of him. Smelling like Colgate toothpaste and whiskey, with just a tint of the residual lemon that's faded long ago. He's in too deep, and Iwaizumi knows it too, as he smiles his widest. Eventually, he gives Tooru some room, as his cheeks embellish into a nice rosy pink color. The moment is over, as Hajime takes a sip of the now sweating, and possibly watered down drink as if nothing had happened just seconds ago.
"My shift ends at ten, I can get off in twenty minutes." Tooru managed to croak out, clearing his voice. Hajime straightens out his tie, smoothing out the creases that Tooru had made.
He returns to his surly, unperturbed self, taking another sip of the alcohol. The water leaks down to the bottom of the glass, dribbling onto the coaster, and Tooru forces his eyes to divert from Iwaizumi.
"Perfect." he says, teeth widen open, and Tooru regrets what he's about to get himself into.
Sitting at the bar of a well-crowded part in New York City this late in the nighttime was not one of the ideas Iwaizumi had in mind when his brother told him to 'live a little'. He had no mask, no bodyguards at his side, he was out in the throng of people who damn right knew who the hell he was. His face on the cover of the jumbotron screen right across from Times Square, right where he sat. The Burberry ad popping up every so often. God, he really hated that photoshoot, and much like the rest, while the pay was well but it only made the Iwaizumi name more illustrious. Kaito loved the fame, the fortune, being deluged by his family's wealth. It was nice, the Dolce and Gabbana, the Armani, Burberry, all of it. And he wore it well, clearly if the brand companies are making millions off of the suits that he stiffly donned. Iwaizumi drowned in his family's fame and desperately wanted to seek out of it. The subject was untouchable to speak of, though he believed that father had some sense of what Hajime coveted.
The bar was adequately subtle, task lighting rounded in a circle aloft. The eccentric lights giving off just the right dosage luminosity in the dark background. In every bar, accompanied to the built-in shelves are rows and rows of alcoholic drinks in their own individual bottle, with ornate patterns. The valuable antique framed on the wall, black and white photographs, balanced symmetrical along all of the panels separating each enclosed space. The busy waiters hustled as people filled the leather seats, and soon the counter bar stools were occupied. His eyes steer away from his surroundings and focus on the man in front of him.
Only minutes ago had they flirted shamelessly, and had promised him an offer that he couldn't resist. Hajime detects that Tooru's aware of contemplating at the miniscule observations Hajime's making in his head as the brunette turns his head in his direction. His eyes were a heavy chocolate color, similar to the Teuscher chocolates that his mother sets out for guests at housewarming parties. Tender, gooey, with a hard melting shell. Flicks of amber in the outer pupils, and he can admire the fire in his eyes as the light frolic around the caramel irises. From the rosy dimples that inhabit the corner of his cheeks dip into the soft curves of his face. He wasn't petite, regardless of the willowy-like frame, concave shoulders fitted into the plain evening shirt, tucked into chinos. His smile was genuine, considering the horrendous attitude that he gave to Hajime. It seemed that the bartender was popular with the customers, making small talk, laughing as one of the clients makes a joke. His slender face compresses, eyes brightening, sweat peeking from the hairline. To Hajime, he looks incredulously attractive, and he discovers that he's pitifully staring at him like an owner to a dog. God, he's so screwed, isn't he?
Usually, Hajime's type ranged. Being a well-known playboy, while being respectful and the best gentleman he could be, he liked petite girls, the ones with pretty smiles, and dimples in their cheeks. Has the ability to cook would be a good addition, but hell, he's been with so many girls, and guys to sort out and finally unearth what his type was. Lately, he's been seeking out the ones that make him leave the next morning. Now, it wasn't that they were bad, but lately all the people he's slept with he's sick of. Kaito was the same, a ladies-man in high school, up until college. Then when he met Megan, the American blonde with extensions and a bust, he stopped. Hajime's met her a couple times when he's dragged to the annual family gathering. She's nice enough, makes a lot of money, and fake almost like the rest of them.
It happens that the bartender in front of him is everything he wants, maybe he's just desperate for a good meaningless one-night stand, but he didn't give a shit as of right now. He hasn't asked for his name, but from the stormy grey plastic name tag on his apron that read Oikawa Tooru on the badge, he doesn't ask. Oikawa does look about his age, a college student at one of the nearby campuses? The strange curiosity appeals towards the flirty stranger whose only known for less than an hour.
Hajime sits, as he converses with the crowd. How didn't his appearance affect the boy at all? Most would be jumping at the opportunity to meet or even be in be in the sights of someone like Iwaizumi Hajime, not to sound too rich. Only, nor did he offer the opinion that Iwaizumi was too weak for the alcoholic beverage that he chose, but that believed what all the stories say, but then that only could mean that Oikawa actually did know who he was.
At ten, precisely on the dot, Tooru's shift is over. He disappears to the back of the bar, returning into casual clothes that he must've come in. He's quiet after waves to the waiter who takes over his shift, following him out of the bar. When he exits out, Tooru grins, breathing deeply, exhaling all air from his lungs. His hair twinkles in the night, glitter at the tips of his coiffed curls on his head. The wind takes a hit of the brown corkscrews, as Tooru squawks, smoothing down the evasive curls.
"Where's the limo?" Tooru spins around, quizzically. Baiting him into humility, but Hajime only laughs.
"Were already here." and across the street was one of the empire hotels that his father spent years and years piling all the savings to build.
And it paid off, the crystal windows, in rows like a box around the whole exterior. Gray concrete holding the foundation, a presentable view from here. The illuminated rounded lights made it behold as a majestic castle. The top roof with a full patio, the upstairs and downstairs accessible pool. The moon descending on the foreground behind the hotel, outlining the whole building. Tooru's wide speechless gaze told that he was impressed.
They walk across the street, as the doorman greets him, and Hajime firmly shakes the man's hand. Mr. Kobayashi was a good friend of his mothers, working at the hotel for years now. Walking past the receptionist, with a nod, they take the elevator, as Tooru fails to catch up. Clearly, he's never been surrounded in the atmosphere, the smell of the grill cooking from the snack bar, sizzling near them. Below them, everything's small. Ladies in Saint Laurent's dress gowns and Cartier bracelets, like the silver, dazzles against the glass elevator.
"This is all too much." he hears Tooru mutters, as the bypassing men check out in the reception desk, wearing the replica of the Burberry blue suit that Hajime had modeled for days back.
At the comment, Hajime chuckles, "if you think this is bad, the hotel in Manhattan is a disaster. The number of calls they receive for lost items is priceless." and Tooru cracks a smile.
At the top floor, minutes later they arrive. The whole floor belonged to Iwaizumi, designated to him and his family whenever they visited the specific location. He stops at the last door at the end of the hall, pulling out the keycard, swiping it. The lock clicks and he swings the door open. The size of a studio apartment, the kitchenette a decent size. The tile surrounds the marble island, leading into the living room. It's been recently clean, he remembers leaving the room with a bigger mess. The 60-inch flat screen hangs shiny facing all angles of the room. The huge chandelier is a bit too much, and Iwaizumi has tried to get it removed, reflecting small candles on the tall ceilings. His tie limply hangs around his neck, and he throws it at the couch, slugging off the suit jacket nearby.
"Make yourself at home." he says, and Tooru relaxes, awing at the hotel room.
"Is this where you take them all? To impress and make them all fall in love you?" Tooru suddenly askes, and Iwaizumi turns from wrestling with the buttons on his shirt.
He combs through his hair, the short stubbles brushing against his fingers, Tooru's challenging him, and he knows just how to rile him up. He walks toward, mid-pause. The shirt creases on his chest, hem untucked out of his pants halfway.
"Is it working?" he asks in a low voice.
Wedged between him, Tooru pulls Hajime in with the nape of his hair, nuzzling the bottom of his hairline, "only if I can get a kiss." he whispers, hands on his chest, flicking on more button coyly, lips in a tight-lipped smirk.
"Guess we'll find out." His lips touch his ear gently.
The first kiss is explosive, like magma rubbing off a volcano, ready to explode. His mouth was incredibly soft, tasting like cherry chapstick and champagne. Hajime immediately grasps his hips, steering him to come closer. His tongue worms it's way into his mouth, darting against the roof of his mouth. He could hear Oikawa inwardly groan, melting like putty in his hands. His hands clutch his face, snagging the bottom lip with his teeth. Hajime's never gotten so hard that he is now.
"Eager are we?" Oikawa chortles, noticing the sudden bulge in his pants.
To avoid the obvious, he plays with his tongue, exploring the roof, sliding around the walls of his mouth. They start to grind against each other, catching frigid air. He can feel the smile on lips as he tugs harder on his hair, and Tooru beneath him. The friction that solidifies between them increases, as he desperately grabs his hair, threading his hair multiple times. It feels satiny in his palm, as Hajime tries to find the best angle. He slots his tongue into his mouth roughly, licking the rim of his lips. Tooru lips gradually move away from his mouth, the strand of saliva parting them. Lightly, his lip moves upward, licking his earlobe.
"Fuck me so hard that I wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow." Tooru purrs, rolling his words slowly.
At that, Hajime snaps. He lifts Oikawa up, hoisting him to wrap his slender legs around his waist, securing his weight. It's only a few steps to the next door master bedroom. The clothes that were thrown on the carpet earlier this morning, now rearranged in the master closet. High vaulted ivory ceilings, the insulated gas fireplace at the foot of the bed next to the coffee table. Scattered leftover papers left astray, and he shoves them away. The king bed lays ahead, as he leads them to the edge of the bed, never letting go. He drops him, as Hajime dips into the covers, messing up the fresh grey sheets. The coverlet slides against his knees, and Hajime crawls over Tooru. Oikawa grabs his shirt, fisting it hard. Impatient it looked like. He licks his lips, going in for the kiss. It messy, faster and harder to breathe than the last time.
When he parts for air, brown hazy eyes stare back him. It makes want to fuck him into oblivion, and Oikawa knows it because he tugs on the hem of Hajime's button-down. Hajime swiftly finishes unbuttoning the remaining clasped buttons, pushing it off his shoulders. It lands on the ground, probably will crumble sooner or later. Oikawa's cuffed polo feels soft in his hands, as he grazes the skin below. He helps him lift it over his head, as he admires the flawless smooth skin. Small unseen freckles litter his chest, one above the pink nipple, as his fingers caress the bumpy texture. The other's spotted around his hips, the curve of where his collarbone meets his shoulder bone. His hips whither at the mere contact of Hajime's chest bumping his, and he groans, sweet and low. Rippling through Hajime, he bounds Oikawa's wrists over the top of his head.
"Don't even think about touching yourself." he growls into his ear, mimicking him. His teeth nibble the top of his earlobe.
"Don't play with me like that." Oikawa moans, hips bucking urgently.
Nimbly, Hajime unzips his jeans, lingering for a sec, before pulled into a bruising kiss. He chuckles chucking his own trousers and slipping off Oikawa's. His hands slink to the waistband of the red boxers that hug his milky legs. Oikawa looked gigglish, as his hands stroke his pecs, hands falling to his side helplessly. He pulls him into another skirmished lip-lock, biting hard on his lip, tasting blood, with satisfaction, he rocks back. Seeing him extremely and aroused below him, bowing to his knees like this, it only angers more. He pushes the last article of clothing done his thighs, thumbing the sliver of his cock. Oikawa falls back in the sheets, shivering at the sudden touch.
"You brute." Oikawa whimpers, Iwaizumi blows at laugh. They haven't started and he's already calling him a brute.
I'll show you how much of a brute I am, until your begging for mercy, and at my complete submission. I'll make you mine.
In between his creamy thighs, he tenderly kisses the flesh above his hip, trailing down to his inner legs. Purple shaped bruises that he knows will leave a mark. His lips near his entrance and his reflexes go to trace the outer flesh circling around it. All this teasing riles Oikawa up. His hands find its way into Iwaizumi's hair. (he must like that a lot.) he decides to save that for another time, as much as he liked foreplay, he actually had something to do. And it was right in front of him. He comes back up, grinning as Oikawa's captivating face is about to be ruined. He ducks back down, licking a good proportion of his side of his cock. Pre-cum leaking from the top as he licks that up too. Oikawa's hand grip the sheet, and his knees come up, holding down Hajime.
"Shi-..." he mumbles, hands covering his mouth, words of pleasure spurting from his raw lips.
"You like that?" he asks from licking his cock. Oikawa nods greedily, eyes wide.
Usually, Iwaizumi never liked giving head, blow jobs, hand jobs once in a blood moon if he was in a good mood. But in the heat of the moment, he enjoyed watching Oikawa crumple, transforming from the gaudy, inviting bartender, to the man here pleading him for more. Funny how things worked out. He kisses his cock, saliva drooling uncontrollably. He bobs his head slowly, not fully sucking it yet. He wants him to beg for it. He blows on the tip, playing with it with his tongue.
"Iwa-.." Oikawa trips on his words, "hurry up, what kind of gentleman are you?" he quirks a smile, and it instantly turns him on. His own cock is pulsing, aching actually.
"Tell me what you want." he says, lips removing from his cock.
He mewls, howl's almost. A loud moan that goes down to his own cock. Sweaty palms, reaching for something to hold on to. Hair ruined, matted in sweaty clumps. Nipples glistening in the pale night.
"Fuck you." he growls, but his anger demolishes when Iwaizumi ducks down, taking all of his cock in his mouth.
There it is, the beautiful noise that left from his lips, lasting for a good second. His hands come to grind on his hair, combing through Iwaizumi's once gelled spikes, also plastered to his head.
He's big, but not as giant as some of the ones he's encountered in the past, and Oikawa grips his head, pulling him harder. The back of the throat of his throat hitting the tip, luckily he doesn't cum, and he moves at a faster pace. Oikawa's hip jerk and his voices go weak.
"...Iwa-chan, don't-" Oikawa moans, beating his pace, skin meeting his mouth.
He can feel him on the verge of losing himself. He keeps it going, hands at either side of Oikawa's waist pining him to the bed. He can taste the squirmish taste in his mouth, as he and Oikawa cums at the same time, he doesn't like the taste of white sticky finish on the tongue but forces himself to swallow. Oikawa drops, groaning with one last grin. His hands are sweaty, and he's currently a full-fledged mess. He rolls over, facing the other way. They lay there, post-orgasm, and smelly. His fragranced room smelling of sweat and dirty sheets.
He stands up, turning to Oikawa, "do you want the shower first?" he asks. But Oikawa's already fast asleep, cradled and bundled in the covers.
The only thing Tooru appreciates after a good blowjob is a good nights rest. He slept like the dead and sleeps through his five o'clock alarm. When he wakes, his eyes open to an unfamiliar place. He freezes, surveys the warm bed, sticky dry liquid on his legs. Naked, and an empty spot beside him. Then he recalls last night, the brooding green-eyed man on top of him, and memories come pooling in. last night had happened and with Iwaizumi Hajime. Not exactly something he could brag to all of his friends.
But the view from outside was gorgeous, the sun spilling from the large glass windows, the view of the city ahead of him. The sunset rising from the west, shades of lazy pink, and orange hidden behind the building. Even from the highest floor, Tooru was able to hear the living world around him. Cars, buses honking, screeches among the streets. It was lucid from his view. And he looks around him, Hajime was loaded, that's for sure. Even the curtains that hung at the end of the windows were from Wayfair, even as a broke college student he could never afford.
The clock above the unlightened fireplace reads eight-thirty. He knows he overstayed his welcome. Thankfully his morning class doesn't start until for another hour. He slips out of the fluffy mattress, possibly calling out to him. He finds a silky dress shirt from one of the open dressers, only buttoning it halfway. He pads through the bedroom, the smell of bacon and, coffee? He opens the door, revealing the t.v on the local new on low, and the steam from the cooking pan, extinguishing in the air.
Sadly, he's wearing clothes, Iwaizumi already dressed. In more what he'd call casual clothes, a short-sleeved button-down ironed and tucked into those strong hips that been destroying him. He feels like a jerk for falling asleep on him before they could finally reach the whole 'one-night stand' part. Legs dresses in skinny business pants, oxfords on his feet. What time does he wake up at? He smooths down his hair, approaching Iwaizumi. Tooru walks up to him, peering over his shoulder.
"Slept well I assume?" Iwaizumi flips the spinach omelet in the pan, butter teases his nostrils.
"Like a baby. Is that coffee?" he goes to the steaming coffee maker, hot and ready. A mug is already waiting for him, and he helps himself.
It's strong, with a spoonful of milk previously added and only five packets of equal, it's perfect. It glides down his dry throat, the sugar hitting his taste buds, and he coos in delight. Tooru examines the area, finding no maids, no cooks to attend for the food that Iwaizumi is currently cooking. He slides himself into a bar stool, that happens to be facing the enormous windows, cracking width of sunlight, highlighting the contours on the dark-haired man. Setting down the plate of crispy bacon, and the cooked omelet in front of Oikawa, he looks up in surprise.
"Serving breakfast to a hook-up? You truly are a gentleman Iwa-chan." he giggles, and Iwaizumi's left twitches at the unaccustomed nickname.
"I give them the weekend off, it's only me today." Iwaizumi answers, turning around to wash the pan, and Oikawa's cheeks heat up at the embarrassing question.
He takes a bite, and then a second. It was tasty, or maybe he was a hungry twenty-year-old. Furthermore, he digs in, finishing the breakfast in a fast amount of time, toast served on the side. He crunches on the bacon as Iwaizumi sneaks one into his mouth with a loose grin. Staying, was a first. Eating the delicious food they make is an additional score that Tooru didn't think he'd experience.
He waves the remaining piece of bacon at Hajime, "what's the meaning of this?" he threatens, genuinely curious. "What's the catch?"
Confused, he shrugs, and returns to washing the dishes, "meaning of what?"
And Tooru, pointing at the bacon, the empty plate, basically everything. Iwaizumi was playing coy, and he knew it.
"Even after passing out on you last night, you make me breakfast, aren't you doing to kick me out?" he demanded.
"You're interesting, and good company, why kick you out?" he says, and Tooru can't reply back. So instead, he 'humphs', kicking back his chair, while Iwaizumi disappears back into the bedroom.
Returning, a clean shirt in hand, he chucks it at Tooru, "as much as I like to see you half-dressed, put some clothes on." cracking a grin, Tooru sticks his legs out defeated.
After taking a shower for as long as possible, who knows how much the water bill might cost, it was hot and steamy and better than the crabby water he gets at his own dorm. Once he finishes, the pants he wears of Iwaizumi are cut right, expect to be a little short length-wise. The shirt is lavender, with stupid sleeve designs on the elbow, but pretty material. He slips on his shoes, and Iwaizumi waits for him, wallet in hand. He's talking on the phone quietly, murmuring into the screen. When he glances up, he smiles, and says, 'talk to you later Makki' before hanging up, stuffing the phone in his pocket.
"I like it." is all Iwaizumi replies.
"So what are, my sugar daddy?" he teases, and the coffee cup in Iwaizumi hands slips and he nearly chokes. Oops.
"We'll see." what an ass, acting all cool and calm. They leave off in silence, an awkward pause and he decides to make the move first
"Good-bye Iwa-chan." he waves as Tooru goes to open the door.
"I can drive you, you have classes right?" his voice almost hopefully, and as tempting as it is, to drive in a red jaguar along 23th street with the man on the Burberry ad, he declines.
"I think I'll walk." he insists, shutting the door behind him.
Not even twenty minutes later when Oikawa texts him, asking to meet him up for lunch later in the afternoon, he responds quickly after.
Tooru: Iwa-chan, it's Oikawa. Wanna meet up at the campuses cafe around 1?
Iwa-chan: why so aggressive? Fine, whatever.
Happily, skips down the sidewalk when another tweet alerts him in his pocket and he opens the notification.
Iwa-chan: don't even think that I'm buying, you can pay for your own shitty drink.