Practice had been brutal that day. Endless drills, scrimmages, and then another round of serves just because Oikawa refused to leave until every single one was perfect.

By the time the gym emptied out and the sun had already dipped low outside the tall windows, he was dragging his feet toward the bench with his towel slung pitifully around his neck.

When you walked over and told him to sit down so you could massage his shoulders, he didn’t even argue.

That alone was proof of how exhausted he really was. He dropped down onto the bench, head tilted forward, exposing the tense slope of his neck and the strained line of his shoulders.

The moment your thumbs pressed into the tight muscles near his shoulder blades, he let out a sound—something between a groan and a sigh—that made you freeze for half a second.

“Ughhhh—” He slumped forward, the sound embarrassingly loud in the near-empty gym.

His head bobbed forward dramatically as though he might collapse completely. “Ohhh, that’s it—yes, right there! My savior—ahhh!”

You dug your thumbs deeper, working slowly along the knots in his back, and Oikawa just kept going. His noises varied—long sighs, low groans, and even an occasional, high-pitched whine when you pressed into a particularly sore spot.

“Ahhh—ugh—oh my god—” he gasped, gripping the edge of the bench like he was on the verge of death. “You’re—killing me but saving me at the same time—” His voice pitched upward at the end, almost theatrical, as though he were being tortured and pampered all at once.

Iwaizumi, who had been packing up near the door, turned around with narrowed eyes. “Oi, Shittykawa! What the hell are you doing?”

Oikawa’s head shot up, hair sticking out in disarray. “Iwa-chan! It’s not what it sounds like!”

Another sharp press from your thumbs had him letting out a noise that absolutely did not help his case—half moan, half groan, muffled against his hand.

Iwaizumi groaned in frustration, muttering, “You’re the most annoying guy alive,” before storming out.

Oikawa melted back under your hands, paying his best friend no mind. “Don’t stop,” he begged in a much softer tone now, his voice dipping into something almost too vulnerable. “You don’t know how much I needed this…”

His shoulders finally loosened little by little, his body relaxing completely into your touch. For once, his constant chatter died down, replaced only by the occasional hum or deep sigh that slipped past his lips.

His usual perfect mask was gone—no fake smiles, no winks, no practiced charm. Just Tōru Oikawa, tired, dramatic, and completely at your mercy under your hands.