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The air was suffocating.

The applause was deafening.

Oikawa stood frozen in the middle of a grand hall, surrounded by faceless people draped in the finest silks and tailored suits. Chandeliers hung above him, their golden light casting an artificial warmth over everything, over him—a warmth that didn’t reach his bones. The air was thick with expensive perfume, a suffocating blend of roses and power, coating his throat like poison.

His hands felt unbearably heavy.

His left ring finger felt like it was burning.

He forced himself to look down, dreading what he already knew he would find.

A gleaming gold band sat snug around his finger, the weight of it unbearable, suffocating. His breath caught in his throat, and suddenly, the suit he was wearing felt too tight—pristine white, perfectly fitted, and all wrong. No leather. No scuffed sneakers. No scent of gasoline and burnt rubber clinging to his skin.

Someone held his hand.

His stomach lurched.

When he turned, he was met with an unfamiliar face.

No—not unfamiliar.

A face he had spent his whole life avoiding.

Dark, piercing eyes. A sharp, knowing smirk. A presence so overwhelming that it threatened to consume everything in its path.

His fiancé.

No—his husband.

The air around him thickened, the noise of the crowd swelling in his ears, a cacophony of cheers and congratulations that rang hollow in his chest. The world tilted violently beneath his feet. His lungs burned as he tried to breathe, but the walls were closing in, trapping him, caging him in gold and silk and a future he had never wanted.

He yanked his hand back, but the grip tightened.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The voice was smooth, steady, in control—a voice that promised no escape.

Oikawa’s chest heaved as his eyes darted desperately around the room.

There had to be a way out.

There had to be someone—anyone.

His stomach twisted as he scanned the sea of faceless people, looking for something familiar, for someone who could pull him out of this nightmare.

No Matsukawa. No Hanamaki. No Suna. No Sakusa.

No Iwaizumi.

His heart clenched violently in his chest, breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. Where was he?

The world blurred at the edges.

The golden walls stretched higher, the chandeliers grew brighter, the faceless guests closed in.

No, no, no.

This isn’t real.

This isn’t real.

This isn’t—

His body jolted awake, a choked sob catching in his throat as he shot up from the bed. For a moment, he wasn’t in Iwaizumi’s vacant room. He was still trapped in that grand hall, drowning in gold, surrounded by strangers, shackled to a future he couldn’t escape.

His chest heaved violently as he sucked in ragged breaths, the ghost of the dream clinging to his skin. His hands trembled as he reached up, pressing them to his face—wet.

He was crying.

His breath hitched, throat tight as the weight of the nightmare pressed down on him. His entire body was shaking, trembling so hard that the sheets pooled around his waist crumpled under his grip.

His fingers curled into the fabric, knuckles turning white. He couldn’t stop shaking. His mind was racing, still trapped in the dream, still feeling the weight of the ring on his finger, still hearing the phantom applause ringing in his ears.

He forced himself to breathe, to remind himself—

It wasn’t real.

But it felt real.

And that was enough to send another tear slipping down his cheek.

Enough to shatter him.

The room felt too small.

Oikawa sat frozen on the bed, his pulse still hammering in his ears, his breathing uneven. The nightmare clung to his skin, a lingering ghost of something that wasn’t real but felt too close to reality. His throat was dry—achingly so, as if he had been screaming in his sleep, though no sound had left his lips.

He swallowed thickly, wincing at the rough scrape in his throat. Water. He needed water.

With a shaky breath, he pushed the covers off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. Carefully, he padded toward the door, the dim lighting making everything feel surreal—as if he were still caught between the dream and reality.

As he stepped into the hallway, something flickered in the corner of his vision.

A shadow.

His breath caught, body tensing instinctively. For a split second, his mind screamed at him—run, hide, don’t get caught—

But then, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw him.

Iwaizumi.

The living room was dimly lit, the glow of the city bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Iwaizumi stood near the glass, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other bringing a cigarette to his lips. His posture was relaxed, but there was something about the way he stood—the slight furrow of his brows, the distant look in his eyes—that told Oikawa he was lost in thought.

The soft glow of the burning cigarette flickered, illuminating the sharp angles of Iwaizumi’s face. Smoke curled lazily in the air, dissipating into the night as he exhaled. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular—just staring down at the city below, its lights stretching endlessly beneath them.

Oikawa stayed frozen in the shadows of the hallway, watching him.

For a moment, he forgot about the nightmare.

Forgot about the suffocating weight of gold, the burning ring on his finger, the sound of forced applause.

All he could see was Iwaizumi, standing there, lost in his own world.

And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Oikawa felt his chest tighten.

"You’re up.”

Oikawa flinched.

The sudden sound of Iwaizumi’s voice cut through the silence, deep and steady, but laced with something unreadable. For someone who had just been lost in thought, he had noticed Oikawa instantly.

Oikawa exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to his chest as if that would slow the frantic beating of his heart. Had Iwaizumi always been this perceptive?

“I had…” His voice came out hoarse, the lingering effects of his dream still clawing at his throat. He swallowed, his fingers clenching slightly at his sides. “I had a terrible nightmare.”

For a second, Iwaizumi didn’t respond.

He just watched him.

The soft glow from the cigarette highlighted the way his sharp eyes flickered over Oikawa’s face—taking in the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his breathing hadn’t quite evened out yet.

Then, with a quiet sigh, Iwaizumi reached out, curling two fingers in a beckoning motion.

“C’mere, doll.”

Oikawa hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, drawn to Iwaizumi like gravity itself was pulling him in. The warmth of his presence, the steadiness of his voice—it was enough to ground him, even just a little.

Iwaizumi sat comfortably on the couch, one arm resting against the back while the other lazily held his cigarette between his fingers. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the cool night breeze slipping in through the open window. His eyes, dark and unwavering, met Oikawa’s as he lifted his chin slightly.

Then, he patted his lap.

Oikawa blinked.

There was no verbal instruction, just that small, confident gesture that left no room for questioning.

For a moment, Oikawa considered rolling his eyes, scoffing at the audacity of it all. But the exhaustion from his nightmare still clung to his skin, and he couldn’t deny that he needed something—someone—to hold onto right now. So, without a word, he slowly lowered himself onto Iwaizumi’s lap, feeling the warmth of his body seep through the fabric of their clothes.

Iwaizumi’s arms automatically wrapped around his waist, securing him in place. The touch was firm but unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to hold him.

“Tell me about your nightmare,” he murmured, his voice quieter this time—not demanding, just steady.

Oikawa exhaled shakily, his fingers clutching at the front of Iwaizumi’s shirt.

“…I don’t even know where to start.”

Oikawa took a deep breath, his fingers still clutching at Iwaizumi’s shirt as he tried to gather his thoughts. The nightmare still lingered, its presence clinging to the edges of his mind like a shadow refusing to fade.

“I… I dreamt that they found me,” he finally murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “That they dragged me back.” His throat tightened, but he forced himself to continue. “I was wearing a suit—one of those stiff, suffocating ones they always made me wear. Cameras were flashing everywhere, people were smiling, clapping. And then—” He swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. “Then I looked down, and I was wearing a ring. A wedding ring.”

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything, but his grip on Oikawa’s waist tightened ever so slightly.

“I tried to run,” Oikawa admitted, his breathing uneven. “Tried to call out, tried to find you, but no matter how hard I searched, you weren’t there. It was like you had never existed.”

His voice wavered at the last part, and before he even realized it, his vision was blurring again.

A shaky breath escaped him, and he hated how vulnerable he sounded, how weak his voice was. But Iwaizumi never let go.

Instead, Oikawa felt the subtle shift in his movements—the way he leaned forward just enough to set his cigarette down into the ashtray, freeing his hands. But his hold on Oikawa never wavered, one hand still securely resting on his waist.

For a moment, Iwaizumi said nothing.

Then, a warm touch against his cheek.

Oikawa stilled as Iwaizumi’s thumb brushed against his skin, gently wiping away a tear he hadn’t even realized had fallen.

Dark eyes met his—steady, unreadable, but somehow grounding.

“…You’re awake now,” Iwaizumi murmured, his voice softer than before. “And I’m right here.”