Lace and Liberties

The first day of the new semester at Aoba Josai, the volleyball team gathered in the gymnasium, buzzing with summer stories and banter. Iwaizumi Hajime stood by the net, arms crossed, waiting for his best friend and captain, Oikawa Tooru, who was notoriously late. When the door slid open, a hush fell over the room.

Oikawa stepped in, and for a moment, Iwaizumi forgot to breathe. The familiar tall figure was clad in a tiny pleated skirt that barely reached mid-thigh, a loose jersey that hung off one shoulder, and delicate sandals that revealed pedicured toes. But it was his face that arrested attention—eyeliner that made his amber eyes smolder, a sweep of blush across his cheekbones, and lips glossy as if kissed by morning dew. Long, acrylic nails tapped against his phone case, painted a pale pink.

“Good morning, everyone,” Oikawa said, his voice soft, lilting. He smiled, and it was different—less sharp, more open.

“Oikawa-san?” one of the first-years whispered.

Iwaizumi’s jaw tightened. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“A new style,” Oikawa replied, tilting his head. “Do you like it?”

“Practice starts in five minutes. Change.”

“But I’m comfortable.” Oikawa walked past him, hips swaying, and Iwaizumi caught a glimpse of lace at the hem of his skirt—the edge of a thong. He looked away, heat creeping up his neck.

Over the next weeks, Oikawa’s transformation deepened. He grew softer, more affectionate, touching shoulders and laughing easily. He flirted openly with boys from other classes—a wink at a third-year in the hallway, a playful nudge to a basketball player at lunch. The attention seemed to delight him. But not all attention was welcome.

One afternoon, after school, Oikawa found himself cornered by a group of older boys near the storage sheds. They had been watching him, making comments, and now they pressed close.

“Hey, pretty thing,” one said, grabbing his wrist. “You like showing off, right? Let us see more.”

Oikawa’s heart hammered. “Please, I have practice.”

“We’ll be quick.” Hands slid up his thigh, under his skirt. Fingers dug into his waist, his chest. He tried to pull away, but they laughed, holding him tighter.

“Stop,” he said, voice breaking. “Stop!”

He twisted free and ran, feet pounding the pavement until he collided with a solid chest. Strong arms caught him.

“Oikawa?” Iwaizumi’s voice, sharp and concerned.

“They—they touched me,” Oikawa gasped, tears blurring his vision. “I didn’t want it.”

Iwaizumi’s face darkened. He looked past Oikawa to the group now lingering at the corner. “Stay here.” He strode toward them, voice low and dangerous. “You ever come near him again, I’ll break every finger you have.”

The boys scattered.

Iwaizumi returned, cupping Oikawa’s face. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“No. You came.” Oikawa leaned into his touch, trembling.

“Let’s get you home.”

But Oikawa shook his head. “I want to practice. I need to feel normal.”

Iwaizumi sighed. “Fine. But you’re not wearing that.”

“I only have this.”

So Iwaizumi watched as Oikawa changed into even bolder attire—shorts so short they barely covered the curve of his ass, the lacy edge of a thong visible with every movement. His jersey clung to his skin, damp from earlier sweat. During drills, Oikawa served and spiked with ferocity, but his body was on display: the dip of his spine, the flex of his thighs. Iwaizumi couldn’t look away.

After practice, Oikawa sat on the bench, catching his breath. Iwaizumi sat beside him.

“You don’t have to dress like this,” Iwaizumi said quietly. “You know that, right?”

Oikawa looked at him, eyes soft. “I like it. It feels like me. But I don’t want others to touch me without asking.”

“Then tell me. I’ll always protect you.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Oikawa smiled, slow and sweet. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Iwaizumi’s cheek. “Thank you, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi’s hand found his, fingers lacing together. “Don’t thank me. Just stay safe.”

And in the fading light of the gymnasium, they sat together, the lace and the toughness, finally understanding each other.