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It’s infuriating, really, how often Oikawa seems to do the opposite of everything he’s asked. He asks for simple things, like for Oikawa to chew with his mouth closed, for Oikawa to not breathe so hard, it’s just a movie, or for Oikawa to wear decent shorts to practice. Everyone remembers The Spandex Incident, and while Iwaizumi has dilligently worked to make sure spandex was banned forever in the gym, Oikawa seems to be infuriatingly pleasant at doing everything but wearing spandex.

They’re the regular shorts, some sort of Tiffany blue and white, hardly a decent contrast between the paleness of Oikawa’s thighs, but they’re off, like they’ve been shrunk down fifteen sizes because there’s absolutely no way those are the shorts they paid for at the beginning of the year. Oikawa hasn’t grown. Iwaizumi has been paying close attention to that, hating his size, hating Oikawa’s lank.

“Tooru,” he says tightly, voice clamped, impossible to control because Oikawa is beaming at him like the exact opposite is about to happen, like the storage room isn’t for meetings, isn’t for supplies, almost like he’s been trained to expect something entirely different whenever they walk into it, “Please, pretend to know the rules.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong,” Oikawa whines loudly, glancing at his fingers, the curl of them, instead of being honest. “I’m behaving.”

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi says again, this time more strict. “Your ass is practically hanging out of your shorts. Do something about it.”

Oikawa fans his fingers innocently against his sweaty tee, and does that annoying thing where he glances upwards from beneath his lashes. “I don’t have a single idea what you’re talking about.”

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