Chapter Text
The shackles were too tight.
Oikawa’s wrists ached, his skin rubbed raw, but he didn’t complain. He kept his eyes ahead, chin slightly lifted, pretending he wasn’t scared. He had to. The uniform they gave him was stiff, too orange, and far too unflattering for someone used to silk shirts and tinted moisturizer.
The prison gates yawned open ahead of him. The sun was already starting to fade behind the concrete.
He stepped through.
And the world changed.
The first thing that hit him wasn’t the cold or the metal detectors. It was the eyes.
Staring. Tracking.
Predatory.
Oikawa didn’t flinch. He knew how to be looked at. People had always stared—on the court, on his feed, on the street. He’d built his entire life on being beautiful.
But this wasn’t admiration.
This was hunger.
“This one’s trouble,” one guard muttered behind him. “Pretty boys never last long.”
“Gonna be someone’s princess by morning,” another joked.
Oikawa didn’t turn around. He focused on the hallway, the pale overhead lights, the polished floor. He told himself this wasn’t that different from high school. A place full of testosterone, hierarchies, fights over territory.
He could handle this.
Right?
He hadn’t hurt anyone.
He hadn’t even needed the things he took.
Beauty had always been a form of currency. And when it started slipping, he’d done what he had to do. Breaking into boutique storage rooms. Swiping designer concealer, thousand-dollar eye creams, vintage cologne from locked museum displays. A little lipstick. A little glitter. A little fantasy.
They called him vain.
He called it survival.
Now he was here.
⸻
They processed him fast. Photos, fingerprints, clothes stripped, hair buzzed short (he almost cried), and then—
“Cellblock E,” the guard grunted. “Throw him in with Iwaizumi.”
Oikawa blinked. “Sorry, who?”
The guard smirked. “You’ll see.”
⸻
The walk to E-block was longer than it should’ve been.
On either side of him, inmates leaned against bars, some catcalling, some just watching. Their eyes followed him like they’d already peeled the uniform off in their heads.
“Look at this one.”
“Model type.”
“I bet he screams nice.”
He kept walking, fists clenched, jaw tight.
No one touched him, but it was close. Close enough to feel the heat of breath behind bars.
He didn’t look up at the gangs clustered in the rec yard.
Didn’t see Ushijima.
Didn’t notice Kita’s people.
He didn’t know who they were.
Not yet.
He thought he’d be fine.
⸻
The cell door creaked open.
“Your new roommate,” the guard said with a chuckle.
Oikawa stepped inside.
And stopped.
The man sitting on the lower bunk didn’t look up right away. He was doing pull-ups on the edge of the bedframe, muscles flexed, shirt discarded, covered in tattoos that didn’t look decorative.
When he finally did glance over, his eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, unimpressed.
“You’re kidding,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Oikawa tried to smile. “I’m not exactly thrilled either.”
The cell door clanged shut.
Oikawa flinched at the sound.
The man—Iwaizumi, apparently—watched him for a long moment.
Then went back to his workout.
Oikawa climbed awkwardly onto the top bunk, his duffel still clutched against his chest like a shield. The mattress smelled like sweat and metal. The room was too small, too cold. Too quiet.
This wasn’t what he imagined.
He thought prison would be boring.
Maybe mean. Maybe a little dirty.
But he didn’t think he’d feel prey-like.
Didn’t think everyone would look at him like they were deciding where to sink their teeth in first.
Didn’t think he’d be trapped in a cage with a man whose arms looked like they could crush his ribs without effort.
⸻
That night, lying wide awake, Oikawa stared at the ceiling.
There was shouting outside the cell. Laughter. Something slammed against a wall.
“Hey, princess!” someone howled from down the block. “You got a boyfriend yet?”
Oikawa froze.
Then—
A bang.
A hard, echoing crack.
Oikawa sat up.
Iwaizumi was standing at the bars, hands on the frame, voice low and even.
“Say another word and I’ll take your tongue.”
Silence.
Total silence.
Oikawa’s heart thudded in his chest.
Iwaizumi didn’t look at him when he returned to the bunk. Just lay down again, arms crossed over his chest, eyes already closing.
Oikawa whispered, “Why’d you do that?”
Iwaizumi didn’t answer.
But Oikawa understood.
Whatever this place was… however bad it got…
He’d just been claimed.
And he didn’t even know what that meant yet.
———
The prison alarm buzzed at 6:00 a.m., dragging Oikawa out of a light, miserable sleep. His neck ached from the stiff pillow. His back hurt from the concrete slab pretending to be a mattress. And worst of all—his hair was flat.
He groaned and rolled onto his back, eyes drifting down to the bottom bunk.
Iwaizumi was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed, staring at the door like it had personally insulted him.
Oikawa rubbed his face. “Do you ever sleep? Or do you just sit there and glower at the wall all night?”
Iwaizumi didn’t look at him. “You talk too much.”
Oikawa stretched dramatically, arms above his head. “Oh, come on. We’re cellmates. That means bonding, doesn’t it? Secrets, dreams, skincare routines…”
“Shut up.”
Oikawa peered over the edge of the bunk, his chin resting on the metal frame. “Do you even have a name, or should I keep calling you Tall, Dark, and Murderous?”
“Iwaizumi,” he said flatly.
Oikawa perked up. “Iwaizumi. Huh. You look more like a… Tetsu, honestly. But whatever, I can work with that.”
Iwaizumi glanced up, and his stare was exactly the kind of stare that made grown men flinch.
Oikawa grinned wider.
“Let me guess,” he said. “In for tax fraud?”
Iwaizumi said nothing.
Oikawa raised an eyebrow. “Insurance scam? No? Embezzlement? Identity theft? Just give me a hint.”
There was a long pause.
Then, without inflection, Iwaizumi said, “Murder.”
Oikawa blinked.
“Oh.”
Silence.
Oikawa cleared his throat. “Well. That’s… less fun.”
Iwaizumi shrugged.
“Like, actual murder?” Oikawa asked, eyebrows raised. “With blood and screaming and dramatic last words?”
“Yes.”
“…Cool.”
More silence.
Oikawa dropped back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. “You know, this is why people don’t make friends in prison. You try to be friendly, and the next thing you know your cellmate’s hiding bodies in the vent.”
“No one’s stopping you from requesting a transfer,” Iwaizumi muttered.
“Too late,” Oikawa said. “I already feel emotionally attached.”
Iwaizumi sighed. “Do you ever shut up?”
Oikawa smirked. “I have selective silence. It activates when people give me compliments.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Oikawa replied. “Not until I get out of here and into a proper skincare regime again. I’m suffering, Iwa-chan.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But it suits you.”
“Don’t.”
“Fine. Killjoy.”
Iwaizumi shot him another glare, but it had less heat than the last one. Maybe just a flicker of reluctant tolerance.
Oikawa took that as a win.