Pretty Crying in the Moonlight

The Inarizaki gym still smelled like sweat and rubber. Practice ended twenty minutes ago, but Atsumu was buzzing—couldn't sit still, fingers twitching as he rubbed a towel over his face. Osamu was already packing his bag, methodical as always. The rest of the team lay sprawled across the benches, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Oi, anyone up for Gin’s place?” Suna asked, not looking up from his phone. “My parents are out. Fridge is stocked.”

A bunch of groans answered. Ginjima—ever the host—nodded. “Fine, but no one eats all my mom’s leftovers this time. I’m serious, Miya.”

Atsumu grinned, that cocky look sliding right into place. “Which Miya? There’s two of us, y’know.”

“The loud one,” Ginjima said flatly. Osamu snorted.

Ten minutes later they were sprawled across Ginjima’s living room—a modest place cluttered with volleyball magazines and a kotatsu that barely fit all of them. Someone ordered pizza. A bag of chips got passed around like a sacred relic. The TV was on but muted, playing some drama nobody watched. Instead, everyone stared at Suna’s phone, propped up against a stack of cushions.

“You guys gotta see this account,” Suna said, scrolling lazy. “Been popping up on my FYP all week. The content is… intense.”

“Intense how?” Osamu asked, reaching for a slice.

“Aesthetic. Feminine. Lots of crying—but like, pretty crying.”

Atsumu’s ears perked up, but he kept his face neutral. Lately he’d been feeling that itch—the urge to scroll through his own secret account, the one nobody in real life knew about. The one where he could be soft and vulnerable and ridiculous without judgment. He’d named it Atsumu_Miya—full name, because who’d ever think the loudmouth setter was behind it?

Suna tapped the screen. A video started playing.

The room went dead quiet.

On the screen, a boy with honey-brown hair and sharp amber eyes sat on a bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. His makeup—if you could call it that—was subtle: just a shimmer on his eyelids, a gloss on his lips. Soft lighting, perfect angle. Crying, but it looked like art. The caption: “Sometimes you just need to let it out. 💔”

The comments were flooded with hearts and crying emojis.

“Who is that?” Ginjima leaned in.

“No idea,” Suna said, “but the aesthetic’s insane. Look at this next one.”

He swiped. Another video. Same boy, dimly lit room, standing in front of a mirror. Oversized sweater—clearly someone else’s. Camera panned to show a dark-haired figure behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. The boy turned, tilted his head up, and the dark-haired boy leaned down to kiss him. Soft fade to black.

Caption: “My favorite person. 🤍”

The Inarizaki team stared.

“That’s… really romantic,” Akagi muttered, almost annoyed. “Who even makes these?”

“Someone with too much time and a very pretty boyfriend,” Suna said dryly. “Wait. Look at this one.”

Next video was different. Same boy, kitchen floor, knees pulled to his chest. Harsh lighting, unflattering. His face blotchy, eyes red-rimmed. He was talking to the camera, voice cracking.

“I don’t know why I’m posting this. Maybe because I can’t say it to anyone in real life.” A shaky breath. “My brother left. He’s starting his own business, and I’m happy for him, but… I feel like I’m losing half of myself. And I can’t tell him that because he’ll feel guilty, and he shouldn’t. So I’m telling you guys instead. Thanks for listening.”

The video ended.

Silence.

Everyone looked at Atsumu.

He was frozen, face pale, hands gripping his knees so hard his knuckles were white. The floor in the video was tiled in that distinct green-and-white checkerboard—same as the Miya kitchen.

Osamu’s expression shifted from mild curiosity to grim recognition. “That’s our house.”

“What?” Suna looked at the screen, then back at Atsumu. “No way.”

“That’s the kitchen,” Osamu said flatly. “Chipped cabinet handle behind him? I broke that when we were ten. Dad never fixed it.”

Atsumu let out a strangled sound—half laugh, half groan—and buried his face in his hands. “Oh god. Oh god, please kill me now.”

“Atsumu,” Ginjima said slowly, “is that… you?”

The silence was thick enough to choke on.

Atsumu lifted his head, bravado completely shattered. Eyes wide, cheeks burning. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s me. Happy now?”

The team erupted.

Not in mockery—in a chaotic mix of laughter, whoops, and disbelieving shouts. Suna cackling behind his hand, Akagi grinning, even Osamu with a smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re telling me,” Suna wheezed, “the same guy who told Kita-san he could set a ball through a cement wall—makes aesthetic crying TikToks?”

“Shut up!” Atsumu grabbed a cushion and hurled it at Suna, who dodged easy. “It’s a coping mechanism!”

“With perfect lighting and a ring light?” Ginjima said, incredulous. “That’s dedicated coping.”

Osamu was still looking at his brother, but his expression had softened. “You made that video about me leaving Onigiri Miya?”

Atsumu’s defiance crumbled. He looked down, picking at a loose thread on his shorts. “Yeah. Didn’t want you to feel bad.”

The room got quiet again. Teasing Atsumu about his secret TikTok was one thing—realizing how deep it went was another.

Osamu reached over and ruffled his brother’s hair—a rare show of affection. “Idiot,” he said, but his voice was soft. “I already knew you were soft. Doesn’t mean you gotta hide it.”

“Yeah, well,” Atsumu muttered, “it’s embarrassing.”

“It’s adorable,” Suna corrected, already pulling up the account on his own phone. “I’m following you right now.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Too late. Within minutes, half the team had followed Atsumu_Miya, and the comment sections of his videos got flooded with inside jokes: “Nice crying form, Miya-san!” and “Your blush says what you can’t.”

Atsumu wanted to disappear. But something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in his chest—acceptance, maybe. Or relief.

He didn’t notice Osamu slip his phone out and start typing.

But someone else noticed.

Two days later, as Atsumu headed to the gym for morning practice, a hand grabbed his wrist and yanked him into an empty classroom.

“What the— Kiyoomi?”

Sakusa Kiyoomi stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Long-sleeved compression shirt, dark curls peeking out from under a beanie. Looked like he hadn’t slept.

“I got a text from your brother,” Sakusa said flatly. “With a link.”

Atsumu’s stomach dropped. “Osamu sent you my TikTok?”

“He sent it to the entire group chat—the one with all the team captains from the prefecture. But yes, I received it.”

“The entire— OSAMU!”

Sakusa held up a hand. “Relax. I already told them it was a fake account. They believed me because they can’t imagine you crying aesthetically. But I need to know the truth.”

Atsumu felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff. He and Sakusa had been secretly dating for four months—ever since spring training camp, where they bonded over mutual hatred of messy locker rooms and mutual obsession with perfection. No one else knew. Not even Osamu.

And now Sakusa had seen his most vulnerable videos.

“The boyfriend in those videos,” Sakusa said slowly, “is that me?”

Atsumu swallowed. “Yeah.”

Sakusa’s expression flickered—surprise, then something softer. “You recorded us?”

“I didn’t— I mean, I recorded myself after you left. I photoshopped your face into the frame later. The kissing one was a composite. I’m not a creep, Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa was quiet for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, voice low. “Why?”

Atsumu’s usual walls crashed down. He sank into a chair, head in his hands. “Because I don’t know how else to feel pretty, okay? Everyone sees me as the cocky setter who never shuts up. But inside, I’m a mess. I get scared. I miss my brother. I want to be held. And I can’t— I can’t show that to anyone in real life. So I made a fake world where I’m soft and loved and it’s okay.”

Sakusa knelt in front of him, gently pulling his hands away from his face. “You’re being loved in real life.”

“I know, but it’s secret.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Atsumu looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”

Sakusa’s jaw tightened—a rare sign of determination. “I mean, you’re not just some pretty thing on a screen. You’re my pretty thing. And I’m tired of hiding it.”

The next few days were a whirlwind.

The Inarizaki team, true to their word, became Atsumu’s most loyal internet cheerleaders. They left comments like “Aesthetic crying level: Olympic gold” and “Who did your blush? You look like a strawberry princess.” Atsumu hated it and loved it in equal measure.

But the real change came when he posted a new video—simple, just him talking to the camera, thanking his followers.

“I wanted to say thanks to everyone who’s been following me,” he said, voice a little raw. “And also to my favorite people—the ones who saw me at my worst and didn’t look away. You know who you are.”

He didn’t tag anyone, but the team knew. And they liked it.

Then Sakusa messaged him: “Rooftop. After practice. Alone.”

Atsumu’s heart hammered as he climbed the stairs to the school rooftop, spring breeze cool against his flushed cheeks. Sakusa was already there, leaning against the railing, profile sharp against the orange sky.

“You came,” Sakusa said, without turning.

“Of course I did.” Atsumu stood beside him, close enough to feel the warmth from his boyfriend’s shoulder. “What’s this about?”

Sakusa finally turned, his eyes soft. “I saw your latest video. The gratitude one.”

“Yeah?”

“It made me realize something.” He reached out, fingers brushing Atsumu’s cheek. “You’re beautiful when you’re vulnerable. And I don’t want to be the reason you have to hide anymore.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. “Kiyoomi…”

“Make a TikTok with me,” Sakusa said. “Public. Let them see us together.”

“But— what about your reputation? The whole ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t have time for trivial things’ thing?”

Sakusa let out a soft snort—rare. “I’ll make time for you. Besides, my reputation’s overrated. You’re more important.”

Atsumu felt tears prickling—the real kind, not the pretty ones he staged. “You sure?”

Instead of answering, Sakusa leaned in and kissed him. Gentle, tender, like the first video Atsumu ever made. His hand slid to the back of Atsumu’s neck, pulling him closer.

When they broke apart, Sakusa’s forehead rested against Atsumu’s. “Let them see how beautiful you are.”

Atsumu posted the video that night.

Simple “get ready with me,” but the twist was Sakusa in the background the whole time, reading a book, occasionally glancing up with fond exasperation that made the comment section swoon. At the very end, Atsumu turned the camera on Sakusa, who gave a deadpan look, then pulled Atsumu in for a kiss.

Caption: “My favorite person — now officially public. 💛”

Comments exploded.

“WAIT THAT’S SAKUSA KIYOOMI FROM ITACHIYAMA??” “THE CROSSOVER I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED.” “HE CALLED HIM PRETTY?? I’M CRYING.” “ATSUSHU IS THAT YOU???”

The Inarizaki team’s comments were predictably ridiculous. Suna: “Finally, we can stop pretending he’s your cousin.” Ginjima: “Sakusa-san, blink twice if you need help.” Akagi: “Most wholesome thing I’ve seen all year, and I’m a volleyball player.”

But Osamu’s comment stood out. Simple, heartfelt: “You’re my twin, and I’m proud of you. Always have been. Don’t ever be ashamed of being soft.”

Atsumu read that one three times, vision blurry.

Later that evening, Atsumu and Sakusa walked hand-in-hand through quiet streets near the school. The sun had set, painting the sky deep purple and burnt orange. The air was cool, the world peaceful.

“So,” Sakusa said, “are you going to make a TikTok about this walk?”

“Maybe,” Atsumu said, grinning. “Gotta keep the fans fed.”

“Don’t you dare make me wear a matching outfit.”

“Too late. Already ordered them.”

Sakusa groaned, but he was smiling. He squeezed Atsumu’s hand. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

They walked in comfortable silence, footsteps echoing in the empty street. Atsumu felt lighter than he had in months—like a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying had finally lifted. He didn’t need to hide. He didn’t need to pretend. The world had seen his softness, and instead of breaking him, it had embraced him.

And Kiyoomi—his Kiyoomi—was right there beside him, steady and warm.

“Hey,” Atsumu said, stopping under a streetlamp. “Thank you.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For not running away when you saw my weird crying videos.” Atsumu laughed, a little self-deprecating. “Most people would’ve bolted.”

Sakusa’s expression softened. He stepped closer, cupping Atsumu’s face in his hands. “I love all sides of you. The loud, cocky setter. The soft, aesthetic crier. The idiot who can’t cook rice to save his life.”

“Hey! That was one time!”

“It was three times.”

Atsumu pouted, and Sakusa kissed the pout off.

“Let’s go home,” Sakusa murmured against his mouth. “I’ll make you onigiri.”

“You can’t cook either.”

“I can make onigiri. It’s just rice and filling.”

“You’re going to poison me.”

“Then we’ll die together. Very romantic.”

Atsumu laughed, bright and unguarded, and they kept walking, fingers intertwined.

Behind them, the first stars appeared in the darkening sky. Ahead, the future stretched out—uncertain, but full of promise.

And somewhere in the depths of the internet, a little account called Atsumu_Miya had gained a thousand new followers—and one very important one who had been there all along.