Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4457873.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Kyoutani_Kentarou/Yahaba_Shigeru
  Character:
      Kyoutani_Kentarou, Yahaba_Shigeru
  Additional Tags:
      Fluff, Awkward_First_Times, awkward_second_times_for_that_matter, just
      awkward_sex, Awkward_Kissing, awkward_teenage_boys???
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-30 Words: 3230
****** An Informal Declaration of Like ******
by squidmemesinc
Summary
     After the spring games, something in you breaks (maybe as a result of
     the loss), and you feel yourself caring less about the composure you
     used to hold on to. So you lose a temper at him you didn’t even know
     you had. It's all downhill from there.
Notes
     Crawls out of my 2+ week old grave
     Hello,
     This is officially not for anyone and unofficially for Danielle,
     Reffie, and everyone who was like "WTF?" at my last KyouYaha. I
     promised requited and here it is.
You shoved him up against a wall during the spring tournament, and in another
month, after five or six more occurrences, he's gotten used to your scolding.
The shock value has worn off. You know he probably thought you were just some
quiet little second year. Most of the time you are, but his blatant disrespect
for his teammates, his senpai, and life in general ticks you off. After the
spring games, something in you breaks (maybe as a result of the loss), and you
feel yourself caring less about the composure you used to hold on to. So you
lose a temper at him you didn’t even know you had. Now most of the time he just
stands and stares at you, dead-eyed and irate, waits for you to stop talking
(or yelling, if the situation calls for it), then mutters something like "Fuck
off" or "Whatever." It takes you a while to realize why he leaves it at that,
but you start to think it’s because Oikawa's had named you as next year's
captain. 
It's not that he respects you. He doesn't fear you either, but that might be
closer. For all his complaining and fighting of the established system you have
in place, he doesn't want you to kick him off the team. 
This is your theory, and one day he suddenly dismantles it, replacing it with
another one. He'd skipped out on practice and you'd seen him on your way home,
loitering behind a nearby convince store, looking at his phone. 
You consider walking past him, but you’ve stopped in the middle of deciding,
and he looks up and sees you, and now you’re stuck with another confrontation
that wasn’t even necessarily your idea.
You stare at each other for a few seconds before he growls out a “What.”
You realize you’ve been grinding your teeth for the last minute or so. “You
didn’t come to practice,” you say, crossing the remaining distance between you.
If you’re going to do this, you might as well do it completely.
“I didn’t feel like it.”
“You know, the year is almost over.” You feel like it’s possible this might
have actually escaped his notice. “We’re going to be in charge of the club next
year, and we should try to set an example for the younger members by being at
our best.”
He blows a bubble with the gum he’d been chewing and pops it before replying.
“I’m already at my best.”
Your eyes narrow in irritation. “I’m sure you think so, but there are other
players on other teams training much harder than you are, and when you bring
your best to the court, it won’t be as good as theirs, and that’s all that
matters.”
He pulls a receipt out of his pocket and spits the gum into it as you’re
talking, scowl not so much deepening as growing more set in his face. “Since
when do you care so fucking much about winning?”
“It’s not about winning, it’s about pride in your team and—” You cut yourself
off, feeling exasperated. “I don’t know why I should even try explaining this
to you, clearly you don’t care about anything except beating Iwaizumi at arm—”
In the middle of your sentence, he roughly grabs the front of your shirt, and
for half a second you are a little afraid, because you know he's stronger than
you. If he's finally gotten tired of you lecturing him and decided to hit you,
you're going down. But his other arm stays at his side, and he just pulls you
forward and tilts his head to match his lips with yours. 
You shove him off instantly, reflexively, and he doesn't stop you. You stare at
him with anger and horror, and meanwhile his expression hasn't changed from the
irritated boredom it had spoken of before the kiss (maybe it’s a bit more
irritated and a bit less boredom). He clearly didn’t think about what he just
did at all; it didn’t change his mind in any direction. 
It changes yours. Before you've even consciously accepted the decision to do
so, you now grab his shirt, with both hands, and bite at his lips, drinking in
his taste—cherry soda and cinnamon gum. The instant your mouth opens, his
tongue finds yours, and his hands are in the back of your jacket, lifting you
toward his chest.
You last a minute before what you're doing catches up to you and you jerk away
again and power walk in the opposite direction towards the farther train
station with your fists clenched so he can't see how red your face is. 
X
“What?” he spits at you at practice, catching you watching him when you hadn’t
even been aware of it yourself.
“What?” you bite back, moving along so he can’t even answer. Or point out that
you responded to his question with the same question. Smooth going, you.
“Did you guys have a fight or something?” Iwaizumi asks, coming up next to you.
“More than usual, I mean.”
Your stare straight ahead. You can feel the ghost of his teeth against your
lip, the heat from his hands and chest sinking through your clothes to light up
your skin. “No.”
X
"I want to talk to you." Maybe the words would sound more convincing if you
could say them without clenching your hands into fists at your sides, though
you do your best to discretely hide them behind the extra fabric of your
pants. 
You expect him to tell you to fuck off like he usually does, but he just grunts
out, "When?" The question seems loaded with expectation somehow, like you've
already missed the boat. It's been a week since you kissed behind that
convenience store, but significantly less than that since you last relived it.
Maybe that's the schedule you're operating on. 
"Now."
He gives a little huff. "So talk."
You engage in one of your usual staring contests and force yourself to blink
first. "Why did you kiss me?"
He throws up his hands. "Why does anyone do anything? Because I wanted to. Why
are you always asking me questions and yelling at me and shit?"
Perhaps unwisely, you skip over the second thing he said, even though the rest
of your body is stuck on it. He gave your mouth an out, and it takes it. "I
don't know, why don't you ever answer them? I'm just trying to figure you out!"
Is that true? Have you been trying to figure him out? You think maybe you have.
All this confrontation between you is just your way of sorting out the fact
that he doesn't make any sense. 
"Why do you want to figure me out?" His voice doesn't have the same edge to it
that it usually does; it's tinted with something you haven't usually seen him
wear: curiosity. His expression, however, stays the same. The thought occurs to
you that he could play poker. 
"Because I like you!" Even though you said that without really meaning to, and
you know the way you meant it, you're tempted to tack on a 'Not like that.' But
you don't. It's not true, after all. You dig your fingernails into your palm
and grit your teeth to keep all the addendums inside. 
"Okay?" He says, shrugging with his hands in his pockets. Like it's a question.
"You..." You swallow. "You like me too." You make yourself say it not as a
question. He already kind of admitted it. 'Because I wanted to.' Unless there's
another interpretation to wanting to kiss someone that you're not aware of. You
choose to rule out the 'adolescence' that your mom will sometimes attribute
your actions to. 
"What, do I need to prove it to you?" You feel like this is him embarrassed.
You're jealous that his face doesn't redden at all. 
"How would you prove it to me?" you dare to ask. You're not exactly expecting a
formal Declaration of Like from him in writing. 
You swear you see his muscles jump like he's going to step forward and then
decides against it, almost beating his body's instinctive reaction. And then he
makes the decision again, more completely this time, because the movement
follows through and he's right in front of you, kissing you again. This time
you can actually feel the texture of his lips—slightly rough, but not
unpleasantly so. His hand is in your hair at the base of your skull, asking you
not to pull away this time. You don't. 
X
You're sinking your hips down over his cock, biting down a sound so you can
watch him struggle to contain his own. It escapes, barely, as a short huff when
you roll your nails down into his ribs. It’s a little rougher than you
expected, and you’re going slow; too slow, probably. You close your eyes and
breathe deep.
You pause and after a minute he nudges at you with his hips, and you open your
eyes to glare at him. “Stop it,” you snap. Your heart isn’t really in it.
He scowls. “You’re shaking,” he points out. His hands are on your upper thighs,
gently cupping the bulk of them above your bent knees, and he can definitely
feel it. You don’t know why it didn’t occur to you that he’d notice.
“I’m fine,” you say. You’re easing your muscles around him, slowly. It’s
working, it’ll just take a bit.
“Get off.”
“Fuck y—”
“Get off, Shigeru.” He’s maybe used your name one other time in the last month,
but you might have actually dreamt that. Usually you’re referred to as ‘Oi’ or
‘Hey,’ which you’ve come to recognize and accept as terms of endearment. So
it’s that that gets you, you think. You lift yourself up and roll off to the
side of him, feeling embarrassed, as he wads up the condom in a tissue. You
were the one that said you were prepped enough, rushed him along, but you were
just overeager, and this is the consequence. You curl your hand under the
pillow and squeeze it with the tips of your fingers, frowning at the ceiling.
He moves over you, forcing you to meet his eyes with his demanding stare. “You
have something to say?” you prod, rudely.
“Well excuse me for expressing concern, I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Sorry.” You’re struck by a strong urge to kiss him. Even though you resist it,
he’s run out of words, and he leans down and does it for you.
X
He finds you on your way to school the next day. This isn’t unusual; after
getting together you more or less made an agreement to walk together and hang
out more in general.
“Good morning,” you say.
“Morning.”
He falls into step with you without saying anything else, and you for some
reason feel too nervous to say anything back to him because of the hostility
emanating from him. But then, you can only last for so long. You wait about
five minutes before it gets to be too much pressure, and you know if you wait
any longer you won’t be able to overcome it. “Are you okay?”
“Are you fucking okay?” he snaps back.
You scowl to hide that you suddenly feel hurt. “What’s your problem? You just
seemed pissed off for some reason and I was going to try to help.” You have a
brief flashback to yesterday when he said something similar to you and suddenly
feel like a hypocrite.
“I am pissed off!”
You throw your hands out to the side, the ridiculousness of the situation
prohibiting you from lifting them all the way up. “Okay, do you want to share
with the class?”
He stops walking and turns toward you. You do the same. “Do you not trust me or
something?”
You draw your eyebrows down and narrow your eyes at him. “What? What are you
talking about?”
“Yesterday?” he intones, as if it’s obvious.
Maybe it was. You play with the bottom of your jacket. “It’s not about not
trusting you,” you say slowly.
“Then what is it about? Why don’t you explain it to me, since I’m obviously too
stupid to figure it out?”
There’s a thread coming loose on the lowest button. You grab it and make an
attempt to wrap it around your finger and snap it off, but it’s too short. “I
just got excited, okay? And I wasn’t thinking right about stuff and I thought
it would be okay but I guess it wasn’t. It was probably good that you stopped
me.” Your face is red again. You notice his hands are clenched by his sides.
“Don’t do anything like that on account of me, is all I’m trying to say,” he
says quietly.
You snort. “I wasn’t.” He looks embarrassed again. “Sorry.” You smile and take
his hand, gently uncurling it. You push your fingers through the gaps between
his and gently headbutt him. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he says.
X
You watch him with something akin to glee as you curl your fingers against his
prostate. The reaction meets your expectations: he groans and pushes back
against your hand, gripping the sheets beneath him. It may be say that it in
fact surpasses it, just because of the way he looks when he does it.
"Why do you look so fucking happy?" he pants out, with considerably less bite
than usual. 
"Because I feed off your distress and it's delicious." You press into him deep
and hard and spread your fingers apart. He swallows down another noise. 
"You're such a fucking prick."
You draw your fingers out and rest the tip of one lightly on his hole, applying
just the lightest amount of pressure. "That's not very nice, Ken-chan."
"Don't talk like Oikawa if you want to fuck me."
You don’t stop smirking as you lean down to kiss his cheek. That doesn’t stop
him from grabbing you around the neck and stealing fierce, wet kisses from you.
You press your fingers back into him and fuck him open with them and your
tongue, loving the taste of the noises he lets escape between the two of you.
He seems less shy now that you’re not directly watching him, just on him. He’s
always been a physical person, but he gets shy as soon as his clothes come off.
You, on the other hand, may be the opposite. You have a different kind of
confidence with him in the bedroom, even though it came as kind of a surprise
to you.
You’re more careful this time with him than either of you were with you (not
that that was his fault at all). You thrust your fingers gently in and out of
him, every so often going a little harder, a little deeper, pressing up a
little. The way they feel sliding in and out of his heat, wet and slick with
lube, you can almost imagine the same feeling on your cock, and it twitches.
He pulls back from your lips after a while but holds you down to him, breathing
hot against your lips for a second. “That’s good,” he says.
You spent about twice as long (if not longer) on him than you spent on yourself
the last time, and you’ve been working harder at him, so he’s probably right,
but you’re still nervous. “You’re sure?” you ask, watching his eyes.
He nods. You pull your fingers out and kiss him one more time, pressing your
lips firmly against his before sitting up.
You lost track of the condom that you had put on the bed and end up rummaging
through your bag for another one. The lube, thankfully, is visible on the bed
next to him. The whole mishap lasts about a minute, but he looks impatient and
frustrated by the time you’re back kneeling in front of him. “Do you want to do
this?” you ask skeptically, even daring to check if he’s still hard. He is, so
it must just be that he’s embarrassed.
“Yes,” he huffs, the situation worsened by the fact that you asked. He looks up
towards the window when he says it. He finally drops his eyes back to you and
rolls his eyes because you still look like you don’t believe him. “Yes, okay?”
You shift closer to him between his legs. “Then don’t act like you’re afraid of
me,” you complain. “I’m not going to bite you.”
He flat-out grins at you now, looking more at ease than he has for pretty much
this whole experience. “I want you to bite me.”
You roll your eyes and smile. “Well, yeah. It’s a figure of speech.” You grab
one of the pillows lying smushed against the side of the bed and lift him to
slip it under his hips. He spreads his legs a little more, watching you line up
to him and start pushing in slowly before he tightens them back up to clamp at
your sides. You lean down over him and hang your head down as you keep sliding
your hips forward. It occurs to you that you should watch him, so you look up.
His mouth is slightly open, but his breathing is regular and he looks a
little…blissed out, to be perfectly honest. You’re kind of surprised, but more
than that you’re glad, because it feels amazing for you. “Good?” you ask,
wanting to make sure you have all your communication bases covered even though
you can see it plainly.
“Yeah,” he says, shifting experimentally back against your cock. You both make
a small noise at the deepened feeling between you. You look at each other and
laugh, quiet and genuine.
X
His alarm goes off before the sun even comes up. He reaches over you for it,
and you groan as you sleepily try to move out of the way. The street lamps are
still on outside, bleeding orange through his blinds into the room. If he had
actually made a move to get up, you would have kicked him, but he settles back
down under the covers.
“What time is it?” you mutter with a deep crease between your eyebrows, drawn
down over your pinched shut eyes. You can feel the orange outside your eyelids
now, more vivid than whatever dream you were having. It’s offensive to your
short list of things you’d like to wake up to on a Sunday morning.
“Five,” he grunts back. “I usually go for a run now.”
“Don’t,” you say.
He turns towards you and snaps, “Does it look like I’m getting up?”
“Shut up.” You snake your arm around his shoulders and shuffle into him,
burying your face in his shoulder. He’s dry and warm and smells mostly like
deodorant, but a little bit like sex, which is unsurprising, given what you
were doing five or six hours ago. He curls his arm under yours, tentatively
combing his fingers through your hair.
You sigh and move closer, throwing one leg over his and pressing the rest of
your bodies together, from your hips up to your chests. The heat from him and
the warm, secure comfort of the blanket, duvet, and sheet on top of them
(however tangled and rumpled) ease you back into a comfortable sleep.
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