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Oikawa groans inwardly and tries to keep a neutral expression plastered on his face. It was only the first day of his cycle but his cramps were so much worse than usual.
“Kindaichi, nice serve! Make sure to follow through all the way.” He calls out to the first-year practicing at the end of the line and tries for an encouraging smile. Kindaichi beams back.
“Hai, captain!”
Oikawa brushes his sweaty bangs out of his face and takes a few deep breaths to steel himself to hit a jump serve with his usual power, even though the nausea that had been tickling his throat for the past couple of hours urges him to reconsider. His palm hits the ball a second too slow. He sways for a second before righting his footing and rebalancing himself. His eyes follow the ball—it’s in, but too slow, too arched.
He wonders if it would be worth it to scramble to the other side of the building to grab his pain medication from his locker before their practice match starts. A glance to the clock on the opposite side of the gym quickly dashes that idea.
Just three more hours…three more hours until he can go home and bury himself in a cocoon of blankets and eat ice cream while wallowing in the unfairness that was his stupid body. He can make it three more hours, he hopes.
Despite his most fervent wishes, however, his gameplay is off. His sets are still hittable, but they’re a fraction of a second too slow, an inch or two off. Three of his serves go out of bounds in the first two sets. The ones that go in aren’t nearly as powerful as they usually are. Aoba Johsai is still winning, but the gap that they’re leading the visiting team by is not large.
Finally, as he leaps to do one of his patented sets-turned-dump-shots, a jagged pain rips through his guts and he almost rolls his ankle landing off-balance. The ball doesn’t make it over the net. He can barely hear the opposing team’s shouts of “Lucky!” and his own team’s “Don’t mind!”’s as he pants heavily with his hands on his knees and tries to blink the stars out of his eyes.
If he were in middle school, he would’ve insisted on playing through the pain. Even now, part of him—that stubborn, ugly part that screams at him that he'll fall behind if he slows down for even a minute—wants more than anything to stay on the court. But another, louder voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Iwaizumi’s tells him, That’s what an idiot would do, Idiotkawa!
He waves to catch Mizoguchi’s attention and gestures that he needs to be subbed out. Mizoguchi nods promptly and calls up the freshman setter, wide-eyed at getting his first chance to play in a practice match with the first string players.
Oikawa manages his best everything-is-peachy smile at his kouhai and says, “Do your best!” The boy nods dazedly.
An awful wave of nausea washes over him suddenly as he walks towards the bench and he quickly changes course to hurry into the bathrooms down the hall instead. Stupid period. Stupid, traitorous body.
***
Yahaba watches his captain (and mentor, and gay awakening in his first year?) dash out of the gym with a pang of worry. He looks to Mizoguchi and gestures for permission, receives a nod, and quickly follows Oikawa out.
The halls are clear and he frowns for a second before deciding to search the boys’ bathrooms first. As soon as he enters, he hears retching and then the splash of vomit from the stall closest to him.
“Oh, Oikawa,” Yahaba murmurs softly, stomach twinging with pity.
He knocks gently before pushing the unlocked stall door open. Oikawa blinks up at him but doesn’t protest. His cheeks are flushed against his pale skin, and his hair is sweaty and plastered to his face.
Oikawa groans and vomits into the toilet again. Yahaba hesitates before kneeling down next to him and rubbing soothing circles on his back.
When it seems like he’s done, Oikawa flushes the toilet with a shaky hand, and then slumps back against the wall of the bathroom stall. Yahaba reaches to feel his forehead with the back of his hand without a second thought—only registering a few moments later that he’s being way too touchy with his senpai and flushing. His forehead is slightly warm, though he can’t tell if it’s indicative of a fever or not.
“How are you feeling?” Yahaba asks.
“Pretty shitty.” Oikawa pauses. “I think I’m done throwing up though. I’ll be able to play in a few.” He traces a finger absentmindedly on his kneepad.
“Oikawa-san, you shouldn’t have been playing if you’re sick. You need to go home and get some rest,” Yahaba chides gently.
“I’m not sick.” He scowls.
“You clearly are?” Yahaba says, bemused.
“I’m not.” Oikawa shakes his head. It seems like he steels himself for a second before untensing his shoulders and molding his face into something that Yahaba would’ve read as an extremely carefree and relaxed expression if he hadn’t spent the past year-and-a-half observing Oikawa’s every carefully-crafted movement and expression.
“It’s just, ah, cramps.” Oikawa admits after a few moments. He puts on a fake smile. “I’m on my period. I’ll be fine in a few minutes though, not a thing to worry about!”
Yahaba is kind of touched, honestly. He knows Oikawa is trans, of course—everyone knows how hard he’s worked since Kitagawa Daiichi to be recognized as a player who can hold his own and rise far above the standard, so that no one could claim that he didn’t belong there. But it’s rare for Oikawa to admit to anyone, much less his underclassmen, that he wasn’t feeling 100%, that he was anything less than their perfectly calm, perfectly collected, incessantly boisterous and overconfident captain.
“Let’s go to the clubroom,” Yahaba decides. “You can rest for a bit and see how you feel.”
Oikawa nods after a moment of hesitation and lets Yahaba help him up off the ground.
The clubroom is dark, and Oikawa drops down in a corner with his knees drawn up to his chest and both arms wrapped around his midsection as another wave of painful cramps tears through him. When did it get this bad?
“Do you have pain meds with you?” Yahaba asks softly.
“In my regular locker,” Oikawa whispers. “I didn’t bring it down.”
“You stay here, I’ll go get it.”
Yahaba trots through the school and retrieves the necessary bottle. He drops by the nurse’s office too and grabs a couple of heat packs.
When he gets back, Oikawa is sprawled out facedown on a bench. From what Yahaba can see and smell, it appears he’d thrown up again in the wastebasket next to the bench. Yahaba winces.
“I should die right here, right now.” Oikawa announces.
Yahaba rolls his eyes. “And who’s going to lead us to victory against Shiratorizawa in the Spring High if you meet your end right now, captain?”
“Hmmm, you’re right.” Oikawa rolls over, eyes glittering faintly. “Stupid Ushiwaka won’t know what hit him until he’s on the bus home after three straight sets.”
He laughs softly. After a moment, says, “Our team is strong this year.”
“Yeah,” Yahaba agrees. He gives him the Ibuprofen and his water bottle—Oikawa drinks slowly, swallows laboriously—and passes him the heat packs for his stomach and lower back. Oikawa sighs as the heat touches his stomach. Yahaba notes that Oikawa is very likely still wearing his binder, but he picks his battles and decides not to press the issue. Instead, he offers up his windbreaker and spare jersey to line the bench and make it a little more comfortable for Oikawa to rest his head on.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, Yahaba scrolling on his phone to give Oikawa some space. He knows the other boy might not want to feel too observed right at this moment but he also has no plans to leave him alone in the clubroom while he is in this state.
“Shigeru-chan, can you text Mizoguchi-sensei that I have a migraine and will be out for a while?” Oikawa speaks up, voice sounding a little far away.
“Yes, I’ll do it now.” Yahaba sends the message. Hesitates, weighs the pros and cons of saying what he wants to say.
“You know, Oikawa-san.” He begins, carefully. “It’s definitely your call as to how much you want people to know, but it’s okay that it’s not a migraine. Mizoguchi-sensei isn’t like that, he wouldn’t judge you for being on your period.”
Oikawa doesn’t say anything.
“I know I can’t fully understand what it’s like—”
“No, you can’t.” Oikawa interrupts, something hot and bitter in his voice. Yahaba draws back.
“Ah, I’m sorry.” Oikawa mutters, the edge flattening out of his voice. “I’m being an ass.” He rolls over away from Yahaba and curls the heat pack closer to his stomach.
“You’re not.” Yahaba shakes his head fervently, “I’m sorry Oikawa-san, I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re right, I don’t know how you’re feeling.”
Yahaba’s gaze traces the shape of the other boy’s body, curled up in an uncomfortable position on the bench. Oikawa, with his cocky attitude and superhuman command of the court, didn’t often seem like he was only another high-school boy, only a year older than Yahaba himself. However, right now, he thinks, Oikawa looks rather young.
“I know Mizoguchi-sensei isn’t like that.” Oikawa says after a bit. “He lets me play on the damn team, after all.”
Yahaba wants to shake his captain, tell him that there’s no force of nature that could stop Oikawa from playing on the team, from leading the team, from bending the court to his will completely and absolutely, time and time again. But instead he just hums, letting him continue.
“It’s just. I don’t know. I feel kind of pathetic right now, letting people know.” He laughs brittlely, wonders if pain makes him more honest, more inclined to spill his guts to his favorite kouhai.
“You know, if you weren’t already feeling bad right now, I’d punch you for saying that.”
Oikawa barks out a full laugh this time, surprised.
“Scary, Shigeru-chan! Iwa-chan’s a bad influence on you!”
Yahaba snorts, “If anything, Iwaizumi-senpai is a great influence on me. You’re the bad influence.”
Oikawa pouts dramatically and rests one of his balled fists in Yahaba’s lap. “Rude! What did I—such a kind and loving senpai—ever do to deserve such verbal abuse and threats of physical violence?”
Yahaba shakes his head in amusement. He softens, though, when he says, “I’m serious, Oikawa-san. There’s not anything about you that’s pathetic.”
Oikawa stares resolutely at the ceiling.
Yahaba starts again, “It’s not the same, but you know I have asthma. Watari has his joint problems. Kyoutani’s trans too and you’d knock the lights out of anyone who would ever call him pathetic for something like this. Iwaizumi-senpai…I’m sure has also experienced some sort of physical hardship in his life.”
Oikawa snorts.
“My point is that despite everything that might be hard for us to deal with as individuals, our team is strong. And we’re strong because of all of us coming together, but we’re also strong because our captain takes care of us. Because he’s always watching us and checking in on us, doing his utmost to draw out our strengths and cover for our weaknesses. And if you ever call our captain pathetic or imply that he’s somehow not the foundation of our team, you’ll have to take that up with me. With all of us.” Yahaba jabs a finger at Oikawa’s chest and puts on his best rendition of Oikawa’s scary-captain face.
Oikawa blinks, stunned. Then, he grins lopsidedly up at Yahaba and whistles.
“Well shit, you’re going to be one tough captain next year, Shigeru-chan. I’m so proud that I taught you so well!”
Yahaba rolls his eyes and slaps Oikawa’s arm lightly.
“Thank you, Shigeru-chan. That helps.” He says, sincere for once.
The two boys rest in the clubroom for a while longer in comfortable silence. Eventually, the pain meds kick in, and Oikawa feels well enough to head back to the gym.
Yahaba watches his captain’s form as he sends a powerful serve over the net. As Watari digs a spike, Oikawa sets a smooth arc to Matsukawa, who slams the ball to the floor.
Yahaba thinks. Yeah, our team is strong.