It's funny how many of the best and worst moments of their lives start with the sneaking suspicion that somewhere, Oikawa Tooru is Up To Something.
At least, that's what Iwaizumi tells him that morning, squinting at him over his cup of coffee. He'd gotten a taste for it during the constantly sleep-deprived last years of med school, and now he doesn't drink tea unless he's stressed. Oikawa noticed a few months ago, and started stocking up on french roast coffee and herbal teas, the kind you can have before bed. Iwaizumi's grumpy enough without losing any more sleep!
"I'm offended, and frankly, I'm hurt," Oikawa says, "that you would say something like that. I'm the most transparent, straightforward—"
He ducks as Iwaizumi throws the empty milk carton at him. "Iwa-chan!" he yelps. "I could have died."
"Shut up, asshole," Iwaizumi says, rubbing his temples. "Just—whatever you're up to, don't do anything stupid, okay?"
Oikawa winks and gives him a thumbs-up. "O-kay!" he says. "I never do anything stupid."
Wow, he can practically see the veins pulsing in Iwaizumi's temple.
"I'm leaving," Iwaizumi growls, grabbing his bag and heading for the door.
"Hey, wait!" Oikawa stands up quickly. "Wakkun told me to remind you to take your lunch."
He watches, fascinated, as Iwaizumi's face softens instantaneously.
"Oh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He's embarrassed, Oikawa realizes, and feels a pang of affection. "Thanks, Tooru."
"Mmhmm," Oikawa replies. "I just know he'd be a grouch all day if you forgot it again." He forces a stern mask onto his face and says in a deep voice, "'But I cooked it. Myself.'"
"Shut up," Iwaizumi laughs, closing the fridge after retrieving his bento. "At least he does things for me, unlike you."
Oikawa gasps. "I do things! In fact," he smirks, "the thing that I'm 'up to', as you so suspiciously put, is a gift for you two."
Iwaizumi raises his eyebrows. "Oh, really."
"We-eeell," Oikawa hesitates. "Mostly for Wakkun, but I think you'll enjoy it too." He smiles, and Iwaizumi must recognize the sincerity in it, because he smiles back.
"Hmm. Okay," he says, and then looks at his phone, making a face. "I gotta get to the hospital now, I'm gonna be late." He looks up at Oikawa expectantly.
Oikawa sighs, put-upon as he wanders closer. "Fine," he says despondently. "Another day, stuck in an empty apartment, nothing to do but—"
"Come here, idiot," Iwaizumi snorts, and cups his cheek, drawing him into a kiss. He rubs his thumb along Oikawa's cheekbone and Oikawa sighs, trying to get closer. "Oh no," Iwaizumi says, extricating himself hastily. "I said I'm going to be late."
"Fine," Oikawa says, pouting.
Iwaizumi glances up at him, face serious. "Don't walk around too much, okay? You still gotta rest that ankle."
Oikawa rolls his eyes. "Yes, mom."
Iwaizumi slaps him on the head lightly. "I'm serious, Trashykawa. Don't be stupid."
"It's basically healed," Oikawa whines. "You know this is just a formality—"
"I don't care," Iwaizumi says, unamused. He kisses him quickly again. "Just be careful. I love you."
Oikawa sighs. "Love you too."
He hates being alone. But more than that, he hates the reason that he's alone: that he went and broke his fucking ankle and went a month without being able to play, or even stand reliably. And meanwhile, Ushijima still went to practice every day, excelling and improving and evolving and doing it all without Oikawa. Getting tossed to by someone, partnering with someone who isn't him.
"It's not fair," Oikawa groans, flopping back onto the bed. It's a thought he's had many times since he got injured, but he can't escape it.
So he breaks out his most used coping mechanism, and reviews his Plan.
Living with people, you start to notice little things about them--habits, nervous tics, likes and dislikes. Oikawa's made it his business since middle school to know his teammates like the back of his hand, to understand them better than they even understand themselves. It's his job, and he's always taken it seriously.
Dating Iwaizumi and Ushijima isn't so different, really. They'll always be his aces, both of them, no matter what, and that carries over into every aspect of their lives. It means that no matter where they are, Oikawa's always got at least a third of his brain dedicated solely to them.
So he notices things: Iwaizumi forgets to drink water if he's busy or stressed enough; Ushijima gets antsy if they're even the slightest bit delayed in the mornings; Iwaizumi won't complain either way, but he likes sleeping in the middle best.
Ushijima has A Thing for either of them wearing his clothes.
It had taken embarrassingly long (months of cohabitation!) for Oikawa to realize. Stealing Ushijima's shirt and watching his eyes go dark--but that could be explained by the fact they'd just had sex. The time Oikawa had left Iwaizumi sleeping soundly in a pair of Ushijima's old sweatpants before his morning run, and come back to find him awake and moaning as Ushijima fucked into him--but he'd been shirtless too, the smooth planes of his back and shoulders catching the morning sunlight like living art.
Oikawa finally caught on when he and Ushijima were headed for a photo op with the team, and Oikawa had slipped into Ushijima's sweatshirt because it was the closest at hand. There was nothing sexual about the moment, but Ushijima had taken one look at him and pinned him to the door, kissing him hard until they were both panting. Then he dropped to his knees and blew Oikawa right there in the entryway, ignoring Oikawa's breathless reminder that they were going to be late—notable in and of itself--to get them both off.
Ushijima had been distracted the rest of the day, staring at Oikawa with the kind of confused longing Oikawa hadn't seen on him since they started dating.
And Oikawa had planned to do something about it, but then he'd gotten injured and...well. His body wasn't up for the kind of thing he had planned. He wasn't going to delay his recovery by even a second, not for something like sex.
But he received an email from his trainer this morning saying that as long as his ankle felt fine, he was good to go—something he hasn't shared with Iwaizumi or Ushijima yet. Oikawa likes the idea of surprising them.
Hence the Plan, which is finally ready to be executed.
Whistling, Oikawa finishes up a few chores (he's an adult now, which means he sometimes deigns to do the laundry himself) and then heads for the bathroom. He strips off and gets in the shower, where he cleans himself thoroughly and efficiently. Then he dries off and goes, naked, into the guest room.
They keep extra clothes in there, because with three people, space in the master gets limited. Oikawa knows exactly where to find what he wants: in the chest in the corner, folded neatly. Freshly washed, in anticipation.
Ushijima's Team Japan jersey from the 2021 Asian Championship, the first championship they'd won together, looks so much like Oikawa's, except for the number, and the size, and--well, actually, to the trained eye they don't look very much alike after all. Add to that the name emblazoned on the back, and there's no doubt as to who it belongs too.
Oikawa bites his lip and pulls the jersey over his head. Ushijima isn't too much taller than him, but enough that the jersey hem falls at the middle of his ass instead of the top of his hips. And it's bigger, too, loose around the shoulders and ribs. It makes Oikawa oddly sensitized to the brush of fabric on his skin, and he shivers. He can feel himself starting to get hard, and takes in a juddering breath, smoothing the fabric down over his abdomen. Maybe it's not just Ushijima who's into this, or maybe it's just the anticipation of getting properly fucked for the first time in a month. Or maybe it's both.
But Oikawa can't do anything about it, not until later. He stares at his cock in dismay. "Stop that," he whispers, and then makes a disgusted noise at himself. Maybe watching something will distract him.
Oikawa puts on some boxers, but leaves the jersey on, hoping it'll desensitize him to it a little, help him last. Then he sits on the couch with his laptop and pulls up a documentary he's seen a dozen times, and which never fails to hold his attention. Sure enough, the next time he checks the clock, it's been five episodes—two and a half hours. Ushijima won't be home for another hour at least, and Iwaizumi's shift could go even longer—
His phone buzzes.
(2:05) headed home early, guess one of the doctors came in for an extra shift
(2:06) be there in twenty
Oikawa inhales sharply, and hastily shuts down his laptop, setting it on the floor before scrambling for the bathroom. He gives into vanity and washes his face, combs his hair, before going back to their bedroom. He sits on the bed and then, after a moment of indecision, takes off his boxers. It's not like him to be self-conscious, but something about the situation leaves Oikawa feeling exposed. He squirms against the bedspread for a long minute before turning down the covers and lying down against the pillows.
His hands hover in the air uncertainly before Oikawa rolls his eyes at himself and touches his cock.
"Ohhh," he moans, stroking lightly with his fingers until he's half-hard, then wraps his hand around his cock. "Ah, fuck—"
This was Oikawa's Plan:
1. Be waiting in bed wearing nothing but the jersey when Ushijima came home
2. Get fucked
But then a couple key things changed. First, Iwaizumi's coming home early, which pretty much renders moot the tenuous choreography Oikawa had
fantasized planned. And worse, Oikawa himself is way, way more into this than he'd expected, shivering at the sensation of the jersey brushing against his nipples, his ticklish sides, the top of his cock. He feels like a horny teenager again, can't keep his thoughts straight, can't keep his hands off himself, and he doesn't want to come yet, but—
"Fuck," Oikawa hisses through his teeth, tearing his hand away from his cock. His hips jerk against the air for a second, before he desperately claws back some control over his own body.
His phone buzzes.
(2:18) just got off the train, be home soon
Oikawa bites his lip and sets the phone down, hands trembling lightly with the effort of not just putting them back on his cock, jerking off until he comes. He has A Plan, damn it.
He's maybe starting to hate the Plan, a little. God, he needs it so badly.
Thinking starts to get a little hard, and before he knows it, Oikawa's touching himself again, back to just two fingers, skimming lightly over his length. He shudders, body thrumming with electricity, and his mouth drops open when he brushes over the head inadvertently.
"Nnnn," Oikawa whines, jaw clenched with the effort of holding himself back. Everything is so much, too much, the sheets against his bare thighs, the sound of his own breathing, the bedroom door ajar, just waiting for someone to walk in and see him like this. He can't focus on anything, so he feels everything, trembling with oversensitivity. He's losing himself. How much time has he wasted like this?
Get it together, he orders himself, and slaps his hand against the mattress, hips jerking uselessly against the air. Afraid it's not enough, Oikawa grabs his cock with his left hand, tight beneath the balls, staving off his orgasm. It works, but oh, just barely.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to get off the bed to find the lube, because he's not sure his shaky legs will hold him. He stretches to reach the nightstand drawer and retrieves the tube, then falls again onto his back, legs spread wide.
The lube is cold on his fingers, but Oikawa can't wait, so he braces himself and puts one in. "Oh," he gasps, as it goes in, smooth. Impatient, he adds another, hoping the burn will help clear his head.
It doesn't. Instead, it makes him spiral higher, his cock jerking hard against his stomach. Oikawa moans, tries to shift his fingers, and brushes over his prostate. "Shit," and he's leaking precome, slick and copious, telling. He's burning up, suffocating. "No, no, nnn—" he moans, because he's supposed to be waiting, though he doesn't remember why anymore.
But it doesn't matter, because the next thing he hears, past the wet sounds of him fucking himself, his roaring pulse and ragged breathing, is:
"Holy fuck, Tooru."
Oikawa gasps, his eyes flying open (when had they closed?), his heart stuttering.
Iwaizumi's staring at him from the open doorway, his mouth agape, a plastic convenience store bag clutched in his left hand. "I brought you some milk bread," he croaks.
Oikawa lets out a trembling, incredulous laugh. "Thanks, Iwa-chan. I, um." He swallows. "I got cleared by the trainer?"
Iwaizumi drops the bag. "Can I—"
"Please," Oikawa begs, and then Iwaizumi's scrambling onto the bed, slicking up his fingers before pushing one of them in alongside Oikawa's. "Ah, fuck, fuck, please—"
"Shit," Iwaizumi says, and pulls Oikawa's fingers roughly out of his ass by the wrist.
Oikawa tosses his head back, crying out. "What are you doing," he yells, but Iwaizumi ignores him to stuff three of his own fingers inside him.
"There," Iwaizumi says, trying for exasperation, but Oikawa hears the heat in his voice. "Happy now, shithead?"
"Ecstatic," Oikawa says breathlessly. Iwaizumi's fingers are so thick. "Would be even better if you'd fuck me."
Iwaizumi freezes and then drops his head to Oikawa's thigh, groaning. "I want to," he says, "but—"
"But what?" Oikawa says indignantly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can glare at Iwaizumi better. "What could possibly be keeping you from—"
"Shut up for a second," Iwaizumi snaps. He looks Oikawa in the eye and tugs at the hem of the jersey pointedly. "I'm pretty sure," he says meaningully, "that you're not wearing this for me."
Oikawa's cheeks burn. "Ah," he says. "I—forgot." Not about Ushijima, never that, but he'd forgotten about the jersey, and the Plan. He should really stop making plans.
"I know," Iwaizumi says roughly. "Here, I'll help you." He kneels up, pulling off his shirt, and Oikawa's mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Iwaizumi shifts up the bed, throwing aside pillows until he's sitting beside Oikawa, against the headboard. "Come here," he beckons.
Oikawa tilts his head at him. "Okay..." he says uncertainly, turning over onto his knees and then crawling into Iwaizumi's lap.
"I think," Iwaizumi murmurs thoughtfully, "I want the first thing he sees when he walks in to be his name, on your body."
Oikawa shudders, mouth falling open. "Fuck," he says. "Fuck, Hajime, please."
"Hold on," Iwaizumi says, and grabs Oikawa's thigh, pulling him closer and spreading him open further in the process. Oikawa arches up, instinctive, his hands landing on Iwaizumi's shoulders. Iwaizumi reaches under him and traces over his hole, teasing, familiar. Oikawa whines, pressing their foreheads together, and Iwaizumi must take pity on him because he fills him up with his fingers again, thank god.
"Let me," Oikawa attempts, pawing uselessly at Iwaizumi's bicep, "let me at least get you off."
"Shh," Iwaizumi soothes, pulling Oikawa's hand away and kissing the knuckles, the tenderness of which Oikawa is horrified to say just turns him on more. "Later." Then he lets go so he can spread his hand over the small of Oikawa's back, holding him in place with his broad palm. It lets Iwaizumi fuck him harder, and Oikawa's gut clenches, almost painful.
His throat is aching from moaning, and when Oikawa wets his dry lips, they're salty from sweat. Iwaizumi's hand slips under the jersey, warm enough to give him goosebumps, and stills beneath his shoulderblades, where the number is. Oikawa's breath hitches, and he gropes blindly for Iwaizumi's jaw, drawing him into a kiss.
Iwaizumi smiles against his lips indulgently, and rubs over his prostate.
"Oh, fuck you," Oikawa hisses, his hips jerking against Iwaizumi's stomach. He goes up on his knees to give Iwaizumi better access, and demands, "Again, again—"
"Are you angry or not?" Iwaizumi asks, amused, and Oikawa bites his lip in retaliation.
"Do it again," he whines, grinding down against Iwaizumi's fingers to try to get what he wants. "You asshole, I'm so close."
Iwaizumi huffs out a laugh against his lips, and presses up into him, firm and inexorable, and Oikawa trembles in his hold. "You gonna come? Without me even touching you?"
"Yes," Oikawa sobs, and does. It catches the hem of Ushijima's jersey, and a part of him despairs at the thought of cleaning it, even as larger, more smug part says isn't this exactly what you wanted?
"God," Iwaizumi breathes, hot against Oikawa's throat, "the way you look right now."
Oikawa can't respond, just shakes apart against him, Iwaizumi's body, his hands the only thing keeping Oikawa upright. His thighs are screaming at him, and he drops down until he's seated firmly in Iwaizumi's lap, giving him some relief. Plus, it puts him in direct contact with Iwaizumi's cock, and Iwaizumi swears, hips thrusting up against him. The fabric of his dress pants is smooth and strange against Oikawa's bare skin, but it feels—good. Everything feels good, at this point.
He's about to reach down and unbutton Iwaizumi's pants, when he hears the front door open and close. "I'm home," Ushijima's voice calls, resonant as always.
Oikawa glances at Iwaizumi, wide-eyed, and ducks his head, suddenly oddly nervous.
Iwaizumi swallows and then yells back, only a little hoarse, "Welcome home, we're in the bedroom." He hasn't taken his fingers out of Oikawa yet, and slowly, he starts to move them again. Oikawa tenses up, clenching automatically, and Iwaizumi's free hand drops to his hip, soothing.
Ushijima's a heavy walker, so Oikawa hears his footsteps clearly as he moves through the house. Ugh, why is he taking so long? Doesn't he know that Oikawa's been waiting for this for days?
Of course he doesn't, though; this was a surprise. Fuck.
Finally, the footsteps come closer, floorboards outside their bedroom creaking. Then the shriller creak of the door opening, and then—nothing. Oikawa tucks his face into Iwaizumi's neck and waits, heart pounding.
"Get over here," Iwaizumi orders, and the bed dips behind Oikawa. Then a touch to his back, light and almost hesitant, skating over the jersey to the name at the top.
Oikawa, somehow, finds it in him to say, "For you," and the fingers clench, rough, in the fabric of the jersey.
"Tooru," Ushijima whispers, awed. He presses up against Oikawa's back, all the maddening, incredible heat of him, and Oikawa exhales shakily, tipping his head back against Ushijima's shoulder. Ushijima kisses his neck, and it's soft and loving and wonderful, but it's very much not what Oikawa needs right now. He whines and presses back impatiently, and Ushijima's mouth opens over his throat, startled.
"Just fuck me already, Wakatoshi," Oikawa commands, "I've been—ah!" Iwaizumi smirks against Oikawa's jaw, fingers working slow, unhurried inside of him. Oikawa's voice when he continues is thin, reedy with want. "I've been waiting."
"He has," Iwaizumi confirms. "I found him when I came home, just like—" He thrusts his fingers back in, sharp. "Just like this."
Ushijima swears, and then the bed shifts again, the weight of his body disappearing, and Oikawa lets out a frustrated, plaintive noise. "Where are you going?"
"Shh," Iwaizumi says, and when Oikawa looks at him, his eyes are dark and eager. After a moment, Oikawa feels hands, rough with calluses, spreading him open, and then the heat of Ushijima's breath.
"Oh," Oikawa says numbly, and his knees slip apart farther on the bed.
Ushijima huffs out a laugh (making Oikawa twitch, oversensitive) and licks over Iwaizumi's fingers, just barely touching Oikawa's skin.
Oikawa shakes, hands biting bruises into Iwaizumi's shoulders. "Just do it," he demands, and tries to pretend he's not begging.
A second later, he's rewarded with the feeling of Ushijima's tongue flat against his entrance. Iwaizumi takes his fingers out to make room, and Oikawa barely has time to whine in protest before Ushijima's licking in after them, tongue fucking into where he's already open and ready. It's not the first time they've done this, but Oikawa will never get over how hot it feels, burning him up inside, making him sweat. He moans like he's dying, hips rocking back against Ushijima's tongue, trying to get it in deeper.
Ushijima inserts two of his fingers and spreads them, licking in between them, and Oikawa chokes on his next breath. He wants to plead, wants to scream and beg for it, but he can't find the air to do it, gasping for air, head swimming.
"He's ready," he hears Iwaizumi say distantly. "You can give it to him."
Ushijima pulls back with a wet, obscene noise, and Oikawa tenses with anticipation. And there it is, the blunt, slick head of Ushijima's cock, spearing him open inexorably the way he's been aching for.
"You did this for me," Ushijima says hoarsely, his mouth pressed up against his name on Oikawa's back. "I can't believe you."
The snotty, childish part of Oikawa, the part that cringes away from emotional vulnerability, wants to say that actually, he did this for himself, he just needed Ushijima's cock to do it. But that's not true, is it? As much as he's needed this, as hard as being home, alone was for him, he knows it had to have been just as hard for Ushijima to go to practice, every day, without him. To stand on a court without him, to be tossed to, to partner with someone who isn't him. They're symbiotic, the two of them, and though Ushijima would never say anything, Oikawa knows his absence has been wearing on him.
So yeah, it really was for Ushijima.
"You can thank me by fucking me harder," Oikawa grates out, and Ushijima finally does, both hands falling to Oikawa's hips to hold him steady. Ushijima fucks him with, long, steady thrusts, each one punching a moan out of Oikawa's throat until he's whining almost continuously. He bites at Iwaizumi's shoulder to muffle himself, and Iwaizumi laughs, pulling him back gently by the hair and into a kiss.
"Now you can get me off," he says, and Oikawa fumbles eagerly for his button and zipper, undoing them both as quickly as he can in the state he's in. Iwaizumi lifts his hips enough to get his pants down around his thighs, and the motion rubs his cock up against Oikawa's own, pushes Oikawa back against Ushijima's cock.
Oikawa blinks rapidly, trying to concentrate enough to do what Iwaizumi's asked. He wraps his hand loosely around Iwaizumi's cock and strokes up. "Like that?"
"Just like that," Iwaizumi groans, kissing him sloppily, like he's desperate too. "That's so good, Tooru."
Oikawa stiffens, and then wordlessly shifts his hand to grip both Iwaizumi's cock and his own.
"Eager, huh?" Iwaizumi teases. "Already come once and you're that close again, just from Wakatoshi fucking you?"
Behind him, Ushijima's hip snap forward, and Oikawa's snide comeback fizzles out into a moan.
"Come on," Ushijima says, voice a low rumble in his chest, and Oikawa shivers. It's rare for Ushijima to talk during sex, but when he does— "I want to feel it," he says roughly. "I want to feel you coming around me."
Oikawa seizes up around him, spilling over his fist onto Iwaizumi's cock, Ushijima thick and unyielding inside him the whole time. "Ah, ah—" he pants, squeezing his eyes shut as it washes over him. He keeps it together long enough to jerk Iwaizumi off too, and then as soon as Iwaizumi groans in his ear, Oikawa's done.
He goes limp against Iwaizumi's chest, letting Ushijima fuck him through the aftershocks. It feels nice, being surrounded like this. Even the slightly painful oversensitivity after coming is nice, like a sign of a job well done.
Maybe that's why when Ushijima pulls out, Oikawa finds himself protesting, "No, no, you can—"
Iwaizumi lays a quelling hand on his thigh, and Oikawa falls silent. "Come here," Iwaizumi murmurs, grabbing Oikawa by the back of his neck and guiding his head down to Iwaizumi's shoulder. Oikawa wraps his arms around Iwaizumi's neck and doesn't miss the way that this leaves his back exposed, the jersey in full view.
Ushijima's breath is getting ragged, and it only takes another minute, Iwaizumi calmly stroking over Oikawa's pulse with his thumb, before Oikawa feels the hot stripe of Ushijima's come against the small of his back. He inhales, shaky, and feels another splash higher up, burning even through the fabric.
Ushijima collapses on top of him, and Oikawa exhales. It feels like the first moment of true relaxation he's had in a month. Dimly, he registers Iwaizumi getting up, probably to take his clothes off and clean up. But for now, Oikawa's awareness has narrowed to just the weight of Ushijima on him, the soft comfort of the bed, and the satisfying ache in his body. He lets his eyes close.
Later, when they've showered and eaten—and Iwaizumi's sleeping between them, dead to the world—Ushijima asks, "So you've fully healed, then?"
Oikawa smiles. "I've been cleared. I'll be back at practice in a couple days."
Ushijima breaks into a soft, sweet smile. "Good," he says, and stretches across Iwaizumi's hip to take Oikawa's hand in his. "The team has missed you."
"The team has—" Oikawa laughs, disbelieving. "You little shit."
"I didn't say I haven't missed you too," Ushijima says, smirking lightly, and Oikawa retaliated by tugging his hand free and jabbing a finger into Ushijima's side.
Ushijima huffs and grabs it back again, kissing it.
Oikawa goes still. "Fuck you," he says breathlessly. "That's not fair."
"What are you two doing," Iwaizumi groans, half-asleep, and Ushijima freezes, wide-eyed, his lips still pressed to Oikawa's knuckles.
"Sorry, Iwa-chan," Oikawa whispers, trying to hide his amusement. Iwaizumi grumbles and rolls over, buries his face in Ushijima's t-shirt, and goes back to sleep. Oikawa wishes he could take a picture of the unspeakably, transcendentally soft expression on Ushijima's face as he looks down at Iwaizumi; he wonders if his own matches.
When they've settled down again, Oikawa asks, "So: did you like your surprise?"
Ushijima smiles at him. "Yes. Very much."
As always, his blunt sincerety is disarming, and Oikawa feels his cheeks warm. "Good," he says. He bites his lip. "Hey, Wakkun."
"Tell me something good."
It's not an uncommon request; Oikawa pulls it out every once in a while, when he can't sleep. Ushijima considers for a moment. "I stopped by the hospital the other day, when Hajime left his lunch."
Ushijima nods. "Apparently, we've gained somewhat of a reputation among the nurses..."
Oikawa curls closer to Iwaizumi's back as he listens and smiles, feeling warmed all the through.
He thinks he can call this Plan a success.