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Oikawa loves volleyball, and he knows he’s extremely lucky to have made a career of it thus far, but even he has those days where he wishes to be in a profession that was less… physically demanding.
Take the predicament he was in right now, for example. He wills his legs of lead and his heaving lungs to press on and take him to the opposite side of the court for the fifth time. All the while, he fantasizes about a perfect day of doing nothing; No moving, no thinking, and absolutely no running.
As he finishes his second set of sprints, a laugh escapes him that comes out more like a wheeze. To think, all this suffering is due to the fact that he did not have his practice jersey on. It’s only when he’s half-deluded from lack of air to his cells that he thinks of the insanity of it all, but he really has no one to blame but himself. He’s been on sports teams enough to know that coaches were serious about the professionalism and uniformity that wearing matching t-shirts depicted in some way.
“We give you uniforms to wear to practice, not to wear whenever you feel like it,” was frequently said to the players, and the habit was ingrained in them by enforcing punishments on those who didn’t do exactly that. He and his peers quickly learned the discipline of looking like a team, and if anyone forgot, they were given a harsh reminder.
Oikawa had already been the victim of many such punishments when he was younger, and he thought he’d learned his lesson by this point, especially with being an Olympic athlete, but it seems he was mistaken. The whistle blows, and he jolts forward with the little remaining energy he has, breathing in deep and hard.
In Oikawa’s defense, he could have sworn that he had double—no, triple-checked that his duffle bag had everything he’d need for the next day’s practice, including his practice uniform. He had only taken such precautions the night before because he had already been put on the line to run that week, and he did not want a repeat.
He had walked into the men’s locker room to change into said uniform, and had only had to dig around in his bag for a few seconds before coming to the dreadful conclusion that it wasn’t there. He settled for a different shirt that was similar in color, but he knew his effort to blend in would be made in vain.
Just as expected, he had felt the assistant coach’s eyes on him all throughout warm-ups. And of course, when Oikawa had wanted practice to go slower, it somehow went by faster, until suddenly everyone else was dismissed to hit the showers while he was called to hang back. His peers closest to him clapped his back for comfort, but he could see the slight relief that it wasn’t them made to run sprints after their grueling workout. Traitors.
In the end, he finishes as strongly as he can, delirious with exhaustion and thrilled that it’s over. These damn alpha genes are useless, he grumbles to himself, trying not to bend over and hurl the toast and banana he’d eaten before practice.
“This isn’t like you,” The assistant coach says after letting the player catch his breath. His expression resembles that of a disappointed parent. Oikawa tilts his lips up into a smile, and waves the concern away.
“It won’t happen again, Coach.”
The coach studies his face, which must be red and splotchy and covered in perspiration, before he nods. “See to it that it doesn’t. As captain, you have to lead by example, Oikawa.”
He bows his head in apology, “Of course.”
The older man nods again and dismisses Oikawa with a flick of his hand, “Now get out of here, you punk.”
Grateful, Oikawa starts walking towards the locker room, which has been cleared out by the rest of his teammates. He collects his towel and other toiletries from his locker, and makes his way to the showers, humming a nonsensical tune to himself as he washes the practice’s mistakes away. Quickly, he dries and changes into a pair of clean clothes and heads home, a man on a mission.
Lately, he’d been noticing the shortage of clothes in his closet. It always looked less full after every wash day and he’d had to resort to mix-and-matching his socks because too many were missing to form a pair. To be honest, he was in dire need of buying some more clothes or finally getting to the bottom of this mystery, especially since the clothes he had changed into were the some of the last items in his closet.
It doesn’t take him long to reach his apartment complex, taking the stairs two at a time up to the second floor and inputting the code to unlock the door. The second he opens the door, he almost drops to his knees at the mouthwatering scent of an omega nearing their heat that hangs heavily in the air.
He manages to steady himself, but then Oikawa feels his face curl into a snarl so that his canines, which had elongated with the primal need to sink them into soft flesh, were on full display. He also finds that it takes him longer to steady his breath now than it had earlier this morning when he was relentlessly running from one side of the court to the other.
He drops his duffle bag in the living room and makes a beeline toward the origin of the scent, further cementing his suspicions on who the clothing thief might be. It leaves him standing in front of the half-closed door of the room across from his, which he pushes open wider to reveal the prime suspect in his investigation.
There Wakatoshi sits, in the middle of his king-sized bed surrounded by an absurd amount of clothes, blankets, and pillows all assembled and assorted in their respective place. Many of the items looked suspiciously like Oikawa’s, and if he went into his room right now, he was sure that the rest of the clothes in his closet would have been snatched up by Wakatoshi to be used in his nest as well.
Then, he notices that the omega is on the phone, and by the constant chatter coming from the other side, he concludes that it can only be Wakatoshi’s best friend from high school, Tendou Satori. Oikawa hangs back near the doorway, letting the two converse while he watches his mate with ravenous eyes. He takes in the deep timbre of Wakatoshi’s voice as he replies to the beta’s nonsense with an answer that seemed to be too-serious for the topic at hand. Oikawa’s lips stretch into a small smile at that, endeared.
Gone were the days of animosity (mostly on Oikawa’s part) and fierce rivalry between the two players that had shaped their younger years. The development of their relationship towards a more romantic one had been a surprise to the alpha, but once Oikawa had set his pride aside, enough to admit to reciprocating Wakatoshi’s feelings, it hadn’t been long after until they started courting and then became mates.
He didn’t think his high school self could ever believe his mate was the stubborn, annoying omega from Shiratorizawa, and sometimes he couldn’t believe it even now. The scene in front of him was so domestic and was a totally other side of Wakatoshi he would never get used to seeing, but this is who they were now: High school rivals turned mates in their mid-30s, renting an apartment together.
He’s startled out of his thoughts when the omega finally looks up to meet his eyes. It’s impossible to miss the way they light up with happiness now that he’s back from practice, and Oikawa has to physically stop himself from going up to Wakatoshi and kissing him all over his face.
He had time to do that later, he thinks. Right now, he had some confronting to do.
So instead, he pulls a blank expression and watches his boyfriend lift his nose up slightly to try and catch his scent in the air, only to then tilt his head in confusion and let out a long, soft whine when he couldn’t smell him.
“You took a shower before you came home?” Wakatoshi asks glumly, whining again.
With his heat being only a few days away, Wakatoshi had become a one-track mind, only craving the comfort of his nest and the presence and scent of his alpha. It makes perfect sense that the omega would be deeply (and adorably) concerned that Oikawa had washed away his natural musk before the omega had had time to relish in it.
“You know I had to, baby,” Oikawa coos in a sickeningly sweet voice, fighting the urge to smile. He loved teasing his omega. “I didn’t want to come home smelling like stinky alpha,” he continues with a scrunch of his nose.
Wakatoshi’s frown deepens, “But I love your stinky alpha smell.”
And it’s here that Oikawa puts himself into a dilemma. He knows that Wakatoshi is close to having his brain turned off from his heat. He knows that his boyfriend is only repeating what he said first. He knows, but Oikawa is also childish and had to suffer this morning because of the omega, so goddammit he was going to make a big deal out of nothing!
“Hey!” Oikawa cries out. “I do not have a stinky smell,” he says, wholly offended by the description of his scent.
“If I may, Oikawa-kun,” Tendou chimes in rather unhelpfully, sensing trouble in paradise. (If he wasn’t on Oikawa’s side—which he rarely was—then he was unhelpful, and an enemy.) “But you’re the one who described yourself as uh—’stinky’.”
He scoffs, pushing himself off the doorframe where he was leaning on to walk deeper into the room. “Who said what, first, doesn’t matter in this case, Satori-kun. Only that he didn’t choose to correct me, which is a grave error on his part.”
Oikawa then starts to pace the room. Wherever he goes, he knows Wakatoshi’s eyes follow. “But,” He says, slowing for a moment to throw a sly glance the omega’s way. His mate waits patiently for him to continue. “I might be willing to look over this grievous mistake if Ushiwaka-chan admits to taking my practice jersey, and everything else in my closet, for the use of his nest he is now sitting in.”
He continues his pacing, and lifts his gaze to see Wakatoshi open his to say something, and Oikawa can practically taste the confession on his mate’s lips—
“My client doesn’t need to admit to anything,” Tendou jumps into the fray again at the omega’s defense. Then, the beta addresses his friend, “Wakatoshi-kun, you don’t need to answer him.”
Wakatoshi looks down at the phone in his hand in confusion. “But I did take his practice jersey, Satori. And it is in my nest. Over there.” He says, and points to a vague spot in the enormous pile on his bed that contains Oikawa’s missing shirt.
Oikawa hurrahs in triumph, laughing at Tendou’s groan of defeat. The redhead lightly scolds the omega for admitting to his crime so quickly. “Don’t ever become an actual thief, Wakatoshi-kun.” To the alpha, he says, “Don’t be too hard on him, Oikawa-kun.”
He laughs again at that, “You know Satori-kun, I had to run sprints two days of this week because Ushiwaka-chan couldn’t help himself to my clothes. No,” Oikawa shakes his head. “On the contrary, I don’t think I’m hard enough on him.”
And Wakatoshi—his simple, honest, needy omega—agrees with him.
“I can handle it,” He says, confidently rising to Oikawa’s teasing like it was a challenge. On top of that, the omega’s scent gets all the more sweeter at his declaration, and because Oikawa was, is, and will forever be weak to anything having to do with Wakatoshi, he decides to drop all charges.
He walks over to Wakatoshi’s bedside and leans over into his nest, careful not to disturb the omega’s hard work as he bumps his head lightly into the crook of his neck with the intent to have their released scents blend deliciously with one another. Oikawa places a faint kiss where Wakatoshi’s pulse races, who flushes and starts to purr, always delighted to be receiving Oikawa’s affection.
“Does that mean I get to keep your stuff?” He asks, hopeful and reluctant to give any of his alpha’s clothes back.
Oikawa taps a finger to his chin, feigning thought, like his answer to Wakatoshi wasn’t always going to be yes. He even sighs loudly for dramatic effect, “Well, I guess you can.”