Work Text:
i.
Alex stares across the court as he stretches, past the net, past the white line, past the white sneakers and strong thighs to the one face he’s been looking for. Already, his hair is tousled even though the game hasn’t started; already, a soft pink covers his face, sweat beading at his brow.
He laughs, a sound that carries across the court. Alex absolutely hates it.
He throws his leg back, stretching his knees, breathing through his teeth. Across the court, muscled thighs strain against the fabric of the shorts that leave barely anything to imagination. Just above the hemline, there’s a faint yellow mark. Alex grits his teeth at the sight.
Other leg. His muscles scream at him. He lets out a breath and throws his head back, pushing his curls away. He watches slender fingers do the same, the blonde waves now spread over beautiful brows. Then, there’s the blue eyes that meet his through the net, the lips that tilt into a grin.
Henry Fox smirks at him, and Alex tries not to lose his balance.
ii.
“Good luck,” Henry whispers in that knee-weakening accent of his when they meet in the middle. His grip is strong around Alex’s hand, though it barely lasts a few seconds.
Alex grins. Cocks his head. “Don’t give it away so easily, Fox. You’re gonna need it.” Henry laughs again, quiet enough that only Alex gets to hear it. He holds Alex’s gaze.
“We’ll see about that.”
He turns around. Alex watches him leave, ass tight against his shorts. He has to force his eyes away.
Henry Fox doesn’t get a right to be that hot, especially when Alex knows he means every kind word that comes out of his mouth.
iii.
A block sends Alex’s spike right back into his court, so fast his eyes can’t even track the ball.
He looks up, only to find Henry grinning from the other side of the court. He has at least four inches on Alex, an advantage he doesn’t hesitate using whenever possible. “What were you saying about winning, sweetheart?” he mouths, and, damn him, Alex can read each word on his mouth.
He scowls. “It was one fucking block.” And it is. Alex’s team is still ahead by a comfortable gap. Yet Henry’s words slip under his skin anyway, like an itch he can’t scratch off.
Sweetheart. That fucker.
iv.
Alex scores the winning point.
The stadium erupts into cheers. Suddenly, he’s being hugged by his teammates, screams in his ears, and he lets himself get swept in the excitement of it all.
They won. He won. Henry can fucking suck it.
He’s still grinning by the time the teams move to the net, by the time Henry takes his hand. There’s a small smile on his face and a pride behind his eyes. ”Congratulations, love,” he whispers quietly.
Alex beams.
v.
“Fox,” Alex says when Henry stops next to him, his bag slung over his shoulder. Under the moonlight, his hair looks almost silver, skin shining like that of an ethereal being made of stars.
“Claremont-Diaz,” he says, though there’s no bite in his voice. His eyes meet Alex’s in the dark, and Alex feels something melt inside of him.
He slips his hand into Henry’s. “Home?” he asks, and watches a smile spread on his husband’s face.
“Yeah. Home.”
+i
Alexander Claremont-Diaz and Henry Fox were bitter rivals on the volleyball court. Alex and Henry returned home to each other outside of it, shoes aligned in front of the door, a little beagle welcoming both home with a wagging tail.
Alex drops his keys to the bowl now and grabs their rings, taking Henry’s hand in his the moment the door closes behind them. The ring slides easily down his finger. “There you are.”
Henry’s smile turns cheeky. “I’ve always been here, love.”
“Fucker.” The grin on Alex’s face undercuts the sentiment. He presses a quick kiss on Henry’s ring before letting go, before sliding his own ring down. A perfect match to Henry’s, the gold to his silver.
“Hungry?” Henry asks, and there’s only one right answer. Alex drips his duffel and leads them into the house.
“I could eat.”