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It starts right after the crowd disperses. Oikawa knows this song and dance:
He’s sitting on the edge of the bench, towel on his head, Spanish curses on the tip of his tongue. Ushijima is lingering—the way he always does: eyes on Oikawa from across the court, like a starving predator coming across prey for the first time in months.
“You played well,” he says, and because the stadium is empty, it comes all the way to Oikawa clear as day.
He scoffs. “We lost again. What does it matter?”
The response doesn’t come after that. Ushijima doesn’t move from his spot.
Oikawa snaps, “Stop looking at me like that!”
“Like what?” Ushijima asks.
“Like— like you’re waiting for me to break!”
In an instant, Ushijima closes the distance between them. He doesn’t rush (as if Ushijima was even capable of rushing), he moves deliberately, as if he knows Oikawa will wait for him no matter how long it takes—because that’s exactly what Oikawa does.
“You’re not broken,” Ushijima says, and infuriatingly, Oikawa's heart stammers.
“That’s not the point!” Oikawa’s voice shakes, “You keep coming at me after every game, like I’m— like—”
Ushijima leans in without warning. Suddenly they’re breathing the same cloying air. It smells like sweat and cleaning solution. “Like you’re what, Oikawa?”
It takes a long moment for Oikawa’s brain to produce the words he’s looking for, and another one for his voice box to function. They’re so close right now—closer than Oikawa’s ever allowed them to be—and he’s angry, yes. Tired and frustrated. Rubbed raw with the sting of losing for the fifth time in a row to someone who’s always been an unmovable object in Oikawa’s career. But at the same time, something inside him is trembling with pent up anticipation.
His voice is small when it finally comes.
“Like I matter.”
The confession does something to Ushijima. His stalwart expression changes; it softens just the slightest around the edges, like he’s contemplating Oikawa’s vulnerable words.
His body twitches a gesture similar to a caress on Oikawa’s wrist, then he hesitates.
Something inside Oikawa snaps.
If Ushijima won’t touch him, he’ll do it himself.
Oikawa’s hands land clumsily on the front of Ushijima’s jersey. Not a violent gesture or a playful act, but one of deep desperation spilling over the boiling point.
For a moment they’re both stiff, startled at Oikawa’s bold actions. Shaken, their breaths echo in the quiet building. Oikawa’s heart hammers tirelessly in his ears, half a beat behind Ushijima's under his fists. The towel slides all the way to the floor. Neither of them acknowledges it.
“Say it again,” Oikawa demands, voice wavering with every word.
“Say what?”
“That I’m… not broken.”
Ushijima’s eyes are searching, and gentle—far too gentle for someone who hits like a moving train.
“You’re not broken, Oikawa.”
Something inside him collapses. Oikawa’s grip tightens, his hands tremble with how strong he’s gripping. His forehead almost bumps Ushijima’s chin.
He doesn’t mean to lean in, he really doesn’t, but then Ushijima’s breath tickles against his lips—
And he does nothing.
Oikawa snaps. To hell with Ushijima’s respectful composure! To hell with his restraint and the years they’ve both spent playing chicken with each other’s feelings! Oikawa can’t take respectful right now.
He glares at Ushijima. “Do you, or do you not want me?”
Ushijima’s breath shakes. Visibly: the way it never does after a tiresome game. A tremor rolls through his chest underneath Oikawa’s hands. His lips part like he’s about to deny it, to apologize, something. But nothing comes out. His hand comes up to Oikawa’s face, reverent. Oikawa shoves his face into the touch like an animal, glaring at Ushijima even as he does so.
Ushijima stares at him for a long moment. He doesn’t lean in; Oikawa has to pull him closer. Their noses almost touch, their breaths mingle, and he growls: “You’re gonna have to show me.”
The sentence destroys every last brick of Ushijima’s carefully composed restraint. He inhales sharply, the sound raw and broken as he presses his forehead against Oikawa’s and closes the scarce distance between their chapped lips.
The pressure is gentle, measured, but Oikawa can tell Ushijima's whole body is reacting to it—from the way his hands clutch around Oikawa’s forearms to keep them both steady, to the slight trembling of his lips. Oikawa responds in kind, leaning into the kiss enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around Ushijima’s neck and pulling him to where he’s sitting.
It doesn’t take that much for Oikawa to realize it—that Ushijima has been holding himself back for all those years. Wanting quietly, thinking he doesn’t have the right to touch Oikawa unless he’s asked to.
But now Oikawa is asking—demanding—and Ushijima doesn’t have any more excuses to hold himself back.
The second kiss is every moment more devastating than the first.
Ushijima tilts Oikawa’s face up, catches his lip between his teeth, parts his lips just slightly. Oikawa gasps into it, relief and shock and hunger mixing into a storm inside his chest. He digs his fingers into Ushijima’s shoulders: don’t you dare go slow now. Ushijima’s fingers tangle in Oikawa’s hair: I wouldn’t think to do so.
Oikawa feels it the instant Ushijima responds: the line is gone. Burned to the ground. Pulverized under his budging feet.
If he weren’t sitting, Oikawa’s knees would’ve gone weak already. Oikawa understands, he does.
Ushijima isn’t just kissing him: he’s claiming the years they lost.
Oikawa breaks for air—barely, because Ushijima has him pressed close enough that their hearts thud against each other. Ushijima keeps their foreheads together; his breath is rough, uneven, nothing like the composed athlete Oikawa knows.
Oikawa tries to regain control, to say something flippantly sarcastic to break the tension, but Ushijima doesn’t let him. He claims Oikawa lips again, fiercely kissing the air right out of his lungs. Like he needs Oikawa’s lips on his or he’ll be the one to break. And Oikawa knew, he knew this would happen. He knew, the moment he said “show me”, that there would be no turning back around, no shutting it back in a box. He knew that if Ushijima were to let himself want, truly want—openly, honestly, fully—that it would be overwhelmingly brutal.
And the worst part? Oikawa doesn’t want it to stop.
But Oikawa pulls back again, the kiss slows down to Ushijima nuzzling his neck. And Oikawa, with that familiar mix of bravado and fear that he hides behind a mocking smile, brushes his thumb against Ushijima's lower lip, deliberately playful.
“Wow,” he says lightly, trying his best to sound breezy. “You’re really going all out, huh? Did you practice with your pillow, or—” But he doesn’t finish his sentence. Ushijima’s hand closes firmly against his wrist, the touch firm enough—not rough—to make Oikawa’s breath stutter. He swallows and tries again. “Well, don’t get cocky, or I might just—”
Ushijima surges forward, towering over Oikawa and forcing his center of gravity to float behind the bench. The embers of his eyes stare right through Oikawa’s façade.
“If you’re afraid, say so.” He waits while Oikawa’s lips silently part. He doesn’t rebuke. “But don’t play games with me.”
Oikawa’s heart kicks hard. His hands, which had been resting on Ushijima's chest to aid with balance, tangle tightly onto the fabric. His lips and jawline tense, eyes burning with the embarrassment of someone who’s been read like an open book. Ushijima bumps their foreheads together once again, rubbing against him like an affectionate cat.
“I’m not letting you push me away. Not again.”
Oikawa laughs shakily. “You really aren’t backing off, huh?”
“No,” Ushijima answers simply. “As long as you want me.”
Oikawa breathes in. Ushijima isn’t scared of his emotions or their intensity, or the whirlwind that Oikawa makes of them. He just stays. Valiantly, like one who’s ready to weather any storm for what he wants.
Oikawa knows that want.
“I do, that’s the problem.”
Ushijima’s lips brush tenderly against Oikawa’s temple.
“Then it’s not a problem.”
And he kisses him again. Slowly, with a certainty that can’t be argued against.
Oikawa melts into it for a moment, but he can’t help but notice—notice Ushijima’s cutthroat precision. The way he doesn’t waste a single word, a single move. Ushijima already gets everything he wants on the court, how can he be efficient at wanting Oikawa too?
“God, you—you’re so… unfair.”
Ushijima blinks slowly. “Unfair?” His voice is slow, intent.
Oikawa glares at him though flushed cheeks. “Yes, unfair!” He hates how breathless he sounds. “Everything you do, every move you make, it’s like— like you know exactly what you should be doing!”
“I do.”
Oikawa scoffs under his breath. Of course he says that. Of course he doesn’t realize how infuriating that is.
“You don’t stumble, you don’t hesitate, you don’t—”
Ushijima leans in. “I don’t waste what matters.” He brushes against Oikawa’s cheek, tickling him with his eyelashes. “You matter.”
It breaks Oikawa’s composure all over again. He shoves against Ushijima's chest. Not because he wants to push him away, but because there’s nowhere else to put this ugly feeling inside his body. “Don’t say things like that so easily.” He crosses his arms, shoulders tense, eyes flashing, almost as if hiding behind himself.
Ushijima’s gaze drifts down to Oikawa’s protective stance. Suddenly his pupils aren’t blown out and unfocused. He straightens up and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “We shouldn’t talk about it here…”
Oikawa’s spine tenses. Now that he’s not lost in Ushijima’s warmth anymore, he’s painfully aware of how exposed they are—in the middle of the arena, after a public game—anyone could walk in on them: a coach, a teammate, a fan.
“You’re… yeah, fine, good point,” he mutters, flustered. “Where—”
“My room is on the fifteenth floor,” Ushijima’s answer is certain, straight to the point. Oikawa’s mouth hangs open without a sound.
“... your— your room?”
Ushijima’s eyes land on Oikawa, those infuriating green eyes that he’s always been jealous of.
“You told me to show you what I want. I’d prefer privacy,” he says, calm, confident, absolutely unshakable.
Oikawa feels faint. “...fine,” he says, trying his damndest to sound dismissive, and yet failing most miserably. “Lead the way.”
They walk side by side down the quiet corridors and then out through the cold streets. The fans have already dispersed by the time they come out, and their teammates have left to celebrate or commiserate. The space between their bodies is alive with wanting.
Their steps echo steadily—too loud for Oikawa’s heightened senses, too fast for his aching legs.
The elevator doors slide shut behind them. Oikawa stares at the changing numbers. Ushijima stands beside him, posture as perfect as always, arms hanging patiently at his sides, and yet the air feels more charged with every passing floor.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Oikawa mumbles.
“I’m not looking at you.”
Oikawa turns his head. Ushijima is watching his reflection on the polished mirror instead.
He doesn't know if that's better or worse.
Oikawa swallows hard. The chime interrupts whatever he was about to say, so he settles for a soft, “you’re impossible.”
He steps out first. Ushijima walks right behind, far enough to make Oikawa feel hunted.
They stand outside room 1509. On the peephole, Oikawa can faintly make out what a mess he looks like: hair mussed up, cheeks flushed red. He looks like someone about to make a bad decision.
A good, bad decision.
The door clicks after Ushijima slides the keycard in. He looks at Oikawa one last time—one last chance to turn around, to walk away, to pretend like none of this ever happened.
Oikawa bites his lip. “Well?” he whispers, “You just gonna leave the door open?”
And that’s it. Ushijima’s eyes darken. The final thread snaps.
Ushijima steps in, holding the door open for him. “Oikawa,” he says, voice low enough to make him shiver. “Come in.”
The door shuts with a soft click. Oikawa braces himself. Ushijima doesn’t pounce.
The room is dark, silent except for the hum of the air conditioner. The lights of the city burn in the distance, casting weak shadows on the walls. The bed is freshly done. Ushijima’s luggage sits tidily next to it. Oikawa turns around, puts his hands on his hips. “After all that, you’re just not gonna do anything?”
Ushijima closes the distance, presses his arm next to Oikawa’s head and leans in. “I am waiting until you are sure.”
“I didn’t ask you to baby me,” Oikawa whispers, breath faltering. But even then, his eyes fall shut.
“I won’t rush you, either.” His lips pose over Oikawa’s.
Oikawa whispers against him, “You’re supposed to show me what you want.”
“I want you,” he says firmly, “But not as a mistake you might regret.”
Oikawa turns his head, wounded. “... you think I’d regret you?”
“No. But perhaps you think so?”
Oikawa hates that he’s right—of course he’s right—hates the way his hand slides over Oikawa’s and the way his thumb rubs reassuringly over his knuckles. It’s as if Ushijima has peeled back layers upon layers of Oikawa’s deflections and denials, leaving him open and vulnerable and exposed. And he hates the way he cradles Oikawa’s head, kisses his jawline, and makes the tangle of overthinking melt away.
“I’m a lot to handle,” Oikawa whispers absently. He can’t believe it, but Ushijima’s lips curl against his neck.
“I know,” he says simply. “And yet I came to you.”
Oikawa can’t take it anymore. He pulls back and thugs on his jersey, pulling it swiftly over his head and dropping it on a heap on the floor. “Then stop wanting.”
Ushijima’s hands settle on Oikawa’s hips. He kisses with certainty, unrushed, savouring Oikawa’s lips like a gourmand. Slowly, they trace their way to the bed. Slowly, Oikawa sinks into the linens. Ushijima hovers over him.
“You’re looking at me weird.” Oikawa hates the way it makes his cheeks burn, his chest ache.
“I’m looking at you,” he says, right before taking off his jersey.
They’re quiet for a long moment, both of them staring in disbelief.
Oikawa speaks first.
“I guess… I’ll—”
“I don’t mind either way.”
“No! … no… it’s fine. I’ll do it.”
Ushijima dips into a kiss, pulling Oikawa’s hips close against his. Oiwaka’s hands trace the bumps of Ushijima’s muscular back. He shivers, Oikawa laughs softly.
“Sensitive much?”
Ushijima sighs against his jaw. “Dunno.”
Oikawa kicks his pants off first, rolling over the bed and waiting.
He looks over his shoulder, raises his brow.
“I… want to see you,” Ushijima admits. Oikawa’s cheeks burn. He drops his head into the pillow and shakes his head. “I’m serious.”
“Not like that, I’ll… I can’t. It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s only embarrassing if you don’t look at me.”
Oikawa sputters. He turns around, grabbing the pillow on the way and tossing it at him. Ushijima catches it easily. “Don’t say things like that at night! It makes them sound—”
Ushijima’s hand wraps around his wrist. He leans in. “True?”
Oikawa pouts. He realises too late that there’s no hiding things from Ushijima.
“You don’t have to hide from me.” Oikawa turns his head, but Ushijima nudges it back. “You don’t have to be perfect either. You just have to be here.”
“I told you not to say things like that,” Oikawa mumbles.
Ushijima kisses him again, and Oikawa melts into it like it’s the first time and not the hundredth, cradling Ushijima’s face between his hands and leaning back onto the bedframe. “It’s not fair that I’m the only one naked.”
Pulling back to take one good look, Ushijima presses his hand on Oikawa’s body, running it down his side all the way to his hipbone. “I’m not complaining.”
“I am.”
Ushijima smiles. He stands up to take off his pants, then his underwear. He settles between Oikawa’s legs and takes hold of one of them, slowly caressing the inside of his thigh. His fingers inch their way to his core, then stop.
“I don’t have any lube.”
“I’ll be fine,” Oikawa admits, cheeks warming up. “That’s why I said I’d do it.”
Ushijima nods slowly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. But he finally prods into him, and Oikawa bites his lip.
Ushijima’s fingers, like everything about him, are massive. They bully their way into Oikawa like there’s nowhere else they could possibly be, and when Ushijima bends them, Oikawa chokes on a gasp.
Of course he’s accurate like no one else can be.
Ushijima studies Oikawa’s reactions, carefully moving according to the ones he likes the most. He pulls sighs and gasps out of Oikawa like it’s second nature, makes him writhe and arch on the bed until there’s sweat beading on his brow. Oikawa’s vision goes dark around the edges, his abs tense and he gasps for air.
“Wakatoshi!” He shrieks, and just like that, Ushijima’s fingers retreat.
Oikawa’s chest rises and falls heavily. He glares at Ushijima.
The corners of Ushijima’s lips curl just slightly. “I never thought I’d hear you call me by my first name.”
“You’re awfully chatty today, you know that?”
Ushijima laughs under his breath. He pulls Oikawa in by the hips and braces himself on the headboard, then pushes into him.
It punches the air clean out of his lungs. Oikawa stares into the ceiling, wondering if maybe he bit more than he could chew, but Ushijima doesn’t move. He lets Oikawa pulse around him until he’s comfortable enough, and when the tension dissipates from his face, Ushijima rolls his hips tentatively.
A hum rumbles through both of their chests. Oikawa covers his mouth and bites his lip, breathing deeply through his nose. He’s embarrassed by the noise that escaped out of him without permission, but Ushijima grabs his hand and kisses his knuckles, then his lips. He bucks his hips into Oikawa again, then again, slowly easing into a pace that makes the bed creak against the wall. Oikawa tries to find purchase on the bedsheets, gasping with every thrust, meeting him halfway.
Ushijima’s fingers dig deeply into Oikawa’s flesh. He stares intently at his face, alert to every micro expression. It’s embarrassing, but Oikawa can’t make himself look away. He’s pinned under Ushijima’s gaze like a cornered rodent. Even the sound of the neighbors knocking on the wall doesn’t startle him.
Ushijima laughs breathlessly, thrusting in way harder just to spite them, making the bedframe ricochet off the wall with a loud thud.
Honestly? Who knew this guy could be such an asshole?
Oikawa wraps a hand around himself, pumping in time with Ushijima’s tempo, but Ushijima nudges his hand away and does it himself. Oikawa’s head spins when his lips land on his throat, teeth scraping against his adam’s apple.
It’s overwhelming. Ushijima’s imposing presence swallows him whole, burning him from the inside out. His gut tightens into a burning hot coil, Ushijima’s breath pulses deeply throughout his bones like a live wire. And then he hears it.
Ushijima moans. Honest to god, openly moans. He tilts his head towards the ceiling, hands gripping Oikawa’s body like he’s clinging to life itself, and lets the sound spill from his lips.
Oikawa can’t take it anymore. He arches into the bed and spills on Ushijima’s hand.
When he opens his eyes, he finds Ushijima’s hazy eyes staring directly at him.
Their lips crash once again, clumsier than they’ve been all night long. Their bodies stick where they press together, sweat mingling, and their hearts hammer in unison.
Ushijima’s pace doesn't falter.
Oikawa learns that night just how deeply Ushijima’s wanting runs, and when they wake up the next morning, legs tangled and bodies aching, he finds out just how tender Ushijima can be too.