The Jersey He Never Gave Back

The sun was low over Mendoza, throwing long shadows through the apartment windows. The place smelled like dust and sweat—practice smell, the kind that stuck to your skin. Oikawa's muscles ached in that good way after a solid session, his mind still replaying the perfect spike he'd hammered past the blocker. He dropped his bag by the door. "Wakatoshi? I'm back."

Nothing. Then a soft rustle from the bedroom.

Oikawa frowned. Usually Ushijima met him with a glass of water and a calm "Welcome home." Something felt off—a tension in the air that made his arms prickle. He walked through the living room, past the shelf with their shared trophies, the framed photo of the San Juan team, the bookcase where Ushijima's match programs sat next to Oikawa's beat-up copy of The Art of War. The bedroom door was cracked open.

He pushed it.

And stopped breathing.

Ushijima stood near the bed, backlit by golden light through the sheer curtains. He was wearing Oikawa's old Seijoh jersey—the navy one with white numbers, from Oikawa's third year. A relic, something Oikawa kept folded in a drawer, never expecting to see again. But there it was, draped over Ushijima's broad shoulders, hanging loose. Oikawa had filled out since high school—more muscle, wider chest—but Ushijima was still bigger, and the jersey that once fit snugly now fell like a dress. The sleeves swallowed his arms, the hem hit his thighs. And below that, a skirt—simple black pleated, catching the light as he shifted.

Oikawa's throat went dry. Heat pooled in his stomach and spread outward. His eyes traveled from Ushijima's bare calves, to the line of his throat where the jersey's collar gaped, to his face—those dark, steady eyes watching him. There was a flicker of vulnerability there, something Oikawa had never seen. Ushijima's hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching.

"What... what is this?" Oikawa's voice came out rough.

Ushijima took a breath. "I wanted to feel closer to you. To your past. To the version of you I only watched from a distance."

The words hit him like a spike to the chest. He stepped forward, feet moving on their own, and stopped inches away. The jersey smelled faintly of fabric softener and something else—something clean and warm that was purely Ushijima. Oikawa reached out, rubbed the hem between his fingers. Soft from years of washing, the numbers slightly faded.

"This is from my third year," he said, low. "The year we played finals."

"I know." Ushijima's gaze didn't waver. "I remember every detail. The way you moved on the court. The way you looked at me when I blocked your spike."

Oikawa's jaw tightened. "You looked at me too."

"I always did."

The words hung there, heavy and sweet. Oikawa's fingers slid up the jersey, tracing Ushijima's collarbone through the fabric. He could feel the heat of his skin underneath. His heart pounded, loud enough to drown out the traffic outside.

"You look..." Oikawa's voice cracked. He swallowed. "You look beautiful."

Ushijima's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, but he didn't look away. "I wanted to surprise you."

"You succeeded." Oikawa moved closer, until their chests almost touched. He could feel Ushijima's breath on his lips. "But why the skirt?"

"I thought you might like it."

Oikawa let out a low sound—half laugh, half growl. "You know me too well."

He didn't give him time to answer. He cupped Ushijima's face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, and kissed him. Not gentle. A claim, a demand, all the hunger that had been simmering since he walked in pouring into that kiss. Ushijima made a small noise and parted his lips, letting him deepen it. Taste of mint from the tea he'd been drinking, and something wild underneath.

Oikawa walked him backward, step by step, until the back of Ushijima's knees hit the bed. They tumbled onto the mattress, Oikawa on top, his weight pressing Ushijima into the sheets. The jersey had ridden up, exposing the smooth skin of his stomach. Oikawa broke the kiss and looked down at him—dark hair spread on the pillow, parted lips, eyes half-lidded and dark.

"You're wearing my jersey," Oikawa said, voice rough. "My old jersey. You know what that does to me?"

Ushijima's chest rose and fell quickly. "I hoped it would."

Oikawa laughed, breathless. "You're so good at provoking me. Even now."

He sat up and grabbed the hem of the jersey, pulling it upward. Ushijima lifted his arms to help, and the fabric came off, leaving him bare-chested and flushed. The skirt remained, bunched around his waist. Oikawa tossed the jersey aside, didn't care where it landed. Then he looked at Ushijima's body—defined abs, broad shoulders, faint scars on his knees from years of diving. Perfect. His.

"You're so beautiful it hurts," Oikawa murmured, and bent to press his lips to Ushijima's chest, just over his heart. He kissed a trail downward, tasting salt and warmth, feeling muscles quiver under his mouth. Ushijima's hands fisted in the sheets.

"Tooru..."

That name, in that low, breathy voice, sent a bolt of heat straight through Oikawa. He moved faster, pulled the skirt off with a rough tug, tossed it aside to join the jersey. Ushijima lay before him, naked except for the faint golden light, his body open and waiting. Oikawa's breath quickened.

"Do you know how long I've wanted you like this?" he whispered. "Since high school. Since the first time I saw you on that court, blocking everything I threw."

Ushijima's eyes widened slightly. "You never said."

"I was too proud." Oikawa's hand slid down his side, over his hip. "But now I have you. And I'm never letting go."

He leaned down and kissed him again, softer this time but no less intense. Ushijima arched into him, his hands finally coming up to grip Oikawa's shoulders. The kiss deepened, and Ushijima's legs parted—an invitation Oikawa couldn't refuse.

---

The next hour was a blur of heat and motion, whispered words and raw sound. Oikawa took him from behind, one hand gripping Ushijima's hip hard enough to leave bruises, the other pressed flat on the bed. Ushijima's face was buried in the pillow, his moans muffled, but Oikawa wanted to hear him. He hooked an arm around his chest and pulled him up, flush against his body, Ushijima's back to his chest.

"I want to hear you," Oikawa said, lips against his ear. "I want everyone to know who you belong to."

Ushijima's head fell back, eyes closed, mouth open. "Tooru... please..."

"Please what?" Oikawa drove forward, and Ushijima cried out. "Say it."

"Please... don't stop."

Oikawa smiled, sharp and possessive. He moved faster, rhythm relentless, each thrust punctuated by a gasp or a moan. He watched them in the mirror across the room—sweat on his skin, the way Ushijima's back arched, his hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"You know," Oikawa said, voice strained, "if you had come to Seijoh, we could have been doing this years ago."

Ushijima let out a choked laugh. "I... I didn't know..."

"You didn't know I was obsessed with you?" Oikawa bit his earlobe gently. "Every time I played against you, I couldn't think straight. I wanted to beat you. I wanted to tear you apart. And I wanted this."

He drove deeper, and Ushijima's body shuddered. Oikawa's hand moved down, wrapped around him, stroking in time with his thrusts. "Come for me," he whispered. "Come for me, Wakatoshi."

Ushijima's body tightened like a bowstring. He cried out Oikawa's name, raw and desperate, as he came hard, spilling over Oikawa's fingers. The feeling of him pulsing, clenching around him—too much. Oikawa buried his face in Ushijima's shoulder and let go, driving into him one last time, his own climax ripping through him. He held him close, arms locked around his waist, and whispered into his skin: "You're mine. You've always been mine."

They stayed like that a long moment, breathing hard, trembling. Then Oikawa slowly pulled out and laid Ushijima down on his stomach. The evidence was there—red marks on his hips, flush across his shoulders, faint sheen of sweat. Oikawa's chest ached with something fierce.

He got up, wet a cloth, returned to the bed. Gently, he cleaned Ushijima—slow, careful strokes over his back, his thighs, the sensitive place between. Ushijima flinched once, then relaxed, letting out a long sigh.

"I love you," Oikawa said quietly. Not the first time he'd said it, but in this moment it felt new. Sacred.

Ushijima turned his head, eyes soft and tired. "I love you too."

Oikawa finished, then lay down beside him, pulling the sheet over them both. He spooned against Ushijima's back, arm draped over his waist, hand resting on his stomach. He could feel Ushijima's heartbeat, slow and steady now.

A thought struck him, and he smiled. He pressed his mouth to Ushijima's ear. "Ushijima, you should have come to Seijoh."

Ushijima went still. Then he let out a quiet laugh—a rare sound, like the first thaw of spring. "Perhaps."

Oikawa tightened his arm. "Think about it. You in a Seijoh jersey. Me as your captain. We would have been unstoppable."

"We were already rivals," Ushijima said, drowsy. "Maybe that was enough."

"No." Oikawa nuzzled into his hair. "Nothing is enough. I want every version of you. The one who blocked me. The one who plays for San Juan. The one who wears my jersey and lets me love him."

Ushijima's hand came up to rest on Oikawa's. "You have all of them."

The sun had set, and the room was dimming into twilight. Outside, the city hummed. Inside, only the warmth of two bodies tangled together. Oikawa closed his eyes, nose pressed to the back of Ushijima's neck, breathing him in.

He thought of the past—the cold rivalry, the fiery matches, the years of wanting. And the future—more mornings like this, more afternoons, more nights. The way Ushijima's hand felt in his, steady and sure.

"Thank you," he murmured, barely audible.

"For what?"

"For letting me catch you."

Ushijima's hand squeezed his. The silence that followed was full and rich, like a held breath finally released. And as the last light faded from the window, Oikawa Tooru fell asleep with his champion in his arms, dreaming of a younger self who never could have imagined this happiness—but who, somehow, had known it was coming all along.