The Humming of a French Love Song

The charter bus hummed along the expressway, engine droning low under the chatter and laughter of the Inarizaki volleyball team. Late afternoon sun cut through the tinted windows, throwing long gold rectangles across the seats. Most guys had settled into their usual spots within the first hour: Ginjima and Maruyama grabbed the back for cards, Riseki was already out cold with headphones on, and the twins—Atsumu and Osamu—had wedged themselves into a double seat near the middle, bickering over nothing like always.

“I’m tellin’ ya, that diner we passed had way better fried rice than the place last week,” Osamu said, poking his brother’s shoulder.

“You’re wrong. Always wrong about food.” Atsumu’s voice didn’t have its usual bite. He leaned toward the window, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping an aimless rhythm on his knee. Subtle, almost unconscious—but Kita noticed from two rows ahead.

Kita Shinsuke sat alone, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in minutes. He didn’t usually people-watch, but he found himself tracking Atsumu more than he liked to admit. The setter’s energy spread like wildfire, either thrilling or exhausting, and today it felt like the latter. The tapping sped up, then stopped. A long breath. Then he started humming.

Quiet at first, barely there over the bus noise. A melody—warm, lilting, with a gentle rise and fall that didn’t match the brash setter at all. Familiar to some: a French love song from last spring, all sweeping strings and honeyed vocals. Atsumu’s humming got louder, more sure, like he’d forgotten where he was.

Suna Rintarou leaned across the aisle, phone in hand, eyebrows up. “Is that… La Vie en Rose?”

Atsumu’s humming hitched. A flush crawled up his neck. “What if it is?”

“Nothing. Just didn’t peg you for French jazz.” Suna’s voice was flat, but his eyes glinted.

From the back, Ginjima yelled, “Sing it, Miya! Let’s hear the whole thing!”

A round of encouragement—claps, whistles, good-natured heckling. Atsumu’s flush deepened, but he never backed down from attention. He straightened, cleared his throat, and started to sing.

The bus went dead silent.

His voice was incredible—high and clear, almost feminine, coming from the same mouth that yelled “Nice serve!” loud enough to crack glass. The melody floated through the cabin, tender and aching, every note perfect. Atsumu’s eyes drifted shut, head tilted back, and for a second he looked vulnerable in a way that made Kita’s chest tighten.

When the last note faded, a beat of silence, then applause. Atsumu opened his eyes, grinning, but the smile didn’t stick. He rubbed the back of his neck—nervous.

“Where’d you learn to sing like that?” Osamu asked, not unkindly.

“I dunno. Just picked it up.”

“He sings in the shower all the time,” Osamu announced to the whole bus. “Like full concerts. You can hear him through the walls.”

Atsumu’s grin got strained. “Shut up, Samu.”

“And remember when we were kids, you’d serenade the neighbor’s cat?” Osamu nudged Suna. “The cat just stared at him. Probably thought he was weird.”

Suna smirked. “He is weird. But I guess that’s part of his charm.”

Light teasing, familiar. Atsumu laughed along, shaking his head. “You’re both jerks. I’m a gift to this team.”

“A gift that gets carsick if he eats too many onigiri,” Osamu said.

“That was one time!”

“And you threw up in the captain’s bag. Remember, Kita-san?” Osamu called forward.

Kita turned slightly, calm. “I remember.”

Atsumu’s ears went red. “It wasn’t that bad. I only had three.”

“You had five,” Suna corrected.

“Okay, so I had five. But it was a long trip.”

The bus rumbled on, teasing continued, but the tone shifted. What started as harmless poking turned sharper. Suna, maybe bored, dug into older stories—ones Atsumu clearly didn’t want aired.

“Remember when he cried during that movie? The one with the dog?” Suna said.

“It was a sad dog!” Atsumu protested.

“You cried for twenty minutes after the credits. You had snot bubbles.”

Osamu chuckled. “He still can’t watch animal movies. The other day we saw a commercial for pet adoption, and he got misty.”

“Shut up, both of you.” Atsumu’s voice stayed light, but his shoulders crept up toward his ears.

The team laughed—but it felt hollow. Ginjima shot Suna a look, a silent warning. Suna didn’t notice. Or chose not to.

“And he’s terrified of blood tests,” Suna added. “Like full panic attack at the clinic. Had to hold his hand.”

“That’s enough,” Atsumu said, smaller now.

“What else? Oh, he still sleeps with a stuffed animal. A fox named Kitsune.”

“Suna.” Thin, almost a whisper.

Osamu, caught up in the rhythm, pressed on. “He also has the biggest crush on—”

“Osamu, don’t.” Atsumu’s plea was barely audible.

But Osamu was already looking at Suna, and Suna’s mouth was open, and the words tumbled out. “He’s had a huge crush on Kita since he was fourteen.”

The bus went dead.

Not just quiet—the kind of silence that presses in, physical. The card game paused. Riseki pulled out his earbuds. Even the engine seemed to hold its breath.

Atsumu’s face went pale, then red, then white. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried to smile. The smile wobbled, cracked, and then his eyes welled up.

“It’s… it’s not true,” he managed, voice cracking. “They’re just messin’ around. Right, Samu? Right?”

Osamu’s smirk had vanished. He looked stricken, hand halfway to his mouth. “Tsumu, I didn’t mean—”

But Atsumu wasn’t listening. He blinked hard, trying to hold back tears, but they spilled anyway, hot and fast. He pressed his palms to his eyes, but sobs broke through anyway, ugly and raw.

“Fuck,” he whispered, breath hitching. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Aran stood up from a few rows back. “Okay, everyone shut up. Now.”

Too late. Atsumu’s breathing spiraled—ragged gasps between sobs, chest heaving. He tried to speak, but a loud gulp cut him off. His face went green.

“Bag,” Aran ordered, already reaching for the emergency bag in the seat pocket. He shoved it into Atsumu’s hands just as the setter’s body convulsed. The sound was wet and harsh—vomit into the bag, shoulders shaking, tears streaming.

The team watched in horror. No one knew what to do. Some looked away. Osamu’s face was ashen. Suna had dropped his phone, his usual deadpan shattered into guilt.

Atsumu’s heaving slowed, but his breathing didn’t improve—shallow, rapid, each inhale a whistling strain. His hands gripping the bag started trembling violently. His eyes were wide, unfocused, lips taking on a bluish tinge.

“He’s having an asthma attack,” someone said.

“Where’s his inhaler?”

“I don’t know! Does he have one?”

“In his bag.” Sharp, calm voice cut through the panic.

Kita was already standing, moving past legs and backpacks. He reached Atsumu’s seat and knelt in front of him, blocking the view of everyone else. His voice was steady, low, and it slashed through the chaos.

“Atsumu. Look at me.”

Atsumu’s eyes were wild, glassy, tears still falling. He tried to speak, but it came out as a wheeze.

Kita’s hand came up slowly, deliberately, and rested on Atsumu’s knee. “I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

Atsumu shook his head, frantic.

“Yes, you can.” Kita’s voice didn’t waver. “I’ve seen you do harder things. Breathe in through your nose, count to four. Watch me.”

He demonstrated, slow and exaggerated. Atsumu’s gaze locked onto his captain’s face, onto the calm in his eyes. After a moment, he tried to follow—a shaky inhale that stuttered in his throat.

“Good. Now out, count to six. Like blowing out a candle.”

Atsumu exhaled, and it came out as a sob, but the whistle was softer. Kita guided him through four more cycles, each steadier, until Atsumu’s breathing normalized to a wet, uneven rhythm. The blue faded from his lips, replaced by splotchy red.

Kita pulled Atsumu’s bag from the overhead and found the inhaler in the side pocket. “Open,” he said, and Atsumu obeyed. Two puffs later, his chest expanded more easily.

The bus was utterly silent except for Atsumu’s ragged breaths. No one moved. Osamu stared at the floor, hands clenched. Suna had his face buried in his hands. Aran stood vigil.

Kita didn’t look away from Atsumu. He slid the inhaler back into the bag, then gently took the vomit bag, tied it off, set it aside. “You’re okay,” he said softly. “You did good.”

Atsumu’s lip quivered. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—they didn’t mean to—it’s my fault—”

“Stop.” Kita’s voice was firm but not harsh. “None of this is your fault. Breathe. Just breathe, Atsumu.”

Atsumu’s next sob was quieter, more exhausted. He leaned forward, forehead pressing into Kita’s shoulder. Kita didn’t flinch. He stayed perfectly still, letting Atsumu cling to him, one hand coming up to rest on the back of his head.

“I’ve got you,” Kita murmured. “You’re safe.”

The bus felt heavy with regret. After a long minute, Aran spoke. “We’re sorry, Miya. All of us. We went too far.”

Murmured apologies followed. Osamu’s voice cracked. “Tsumu, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

Suna’s was barely a whisper. “I didn’t think… I’m sorry, Atsumu.”

Atsumu didn’t respond. He just pressed closer to Kita, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket. Small tremors still ran through him.

Kita looked up at the team, gaze sweeping across them. Not angry—Kita’s anger was a quiet, rare thing—but heavy with disappointment. Several players looked away.

“We’ll talk more later,” he said. “For now, give him space.”

They did. The card game resumed with muted voices. Suna retrieved his phone but didn’t look at it. Osamu moved to the seat behind Kita, keeping a watchful eye on his brother.

Kita sat down next to Atsumu, leaving no gap between them. Atsumu’s head had fallen to Kita’s shoulder, his breathing still uneven, eyes red and swollen. Kita adjusted the vent above them, letting cool air flow, and pulled a blanket from his own bag. He draped it over Atsumu’s lap.

“Rest,” he said. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

Atsumu’s hand found Kita’s—hesitant, trembling. Kita turned his palm up and let Atsumu’s fingers lace with his.

“Thank you,” Atsumu whispered, barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Kita squeezed his hand. “Always.”

Afternoon faded into evening, sky shifting from gold to violet. The bus cruised on, quieter than before, but not uncomfortably so. A new gentleness hung in the air—an understanding forged in the clumsy, painful heat of a mistake.

Atsumu dozed off against Kita’s shoulder, his breathing finally steady. Kita didn’t move. He let his own eyes drift half-closed, thumb tracing slow, absent circles on Atsumu’s hand.

Later, when the bus pulled into a rest stop, Osamu approached with two bottles of water. He set one beside Atsumu and held the other out for Kita.

“Thanks, Kita-san. For… for taking care of him.”

Kita took the bottle. “He’s your brother. But he’s also my teammate. And more than that.”

Osamu’s face tightened, but he nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

He lingered for a moment, then returned to his seat. Atsumu stirred, blinking sleepily. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight. You slept for two hours.”

“Mmm.” Atsumu’s voice was rough. He realized their hands were still linked, and a faint blush crept back into his cheeks. He didn’t pull away.

Kita watched him. “We should talk. After we check into the hotel. About what Suna said.”

Atsumu’s blush deepened. “You don’t have to. It’s just stupid kid stuff.”

“It’s not stupid.” Kita’s tone was final. “And it’s not nothing. Not to me.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. He looked up, meeting Kita’s eyes for the first time since the attack. No pity there, no awkwardness. Just calm, steady warmth.

“Okay,” Atsumu said, small but sure. “We can talk.”

Kita nodded. Then, very gently, he released Atsumu’s hand to reach for a water bottle. Atsumu felt the absence like a chill, but Kita handed him the bottle with a soft smile.

“Drink. You need to rehydrate.”

Atsumu took it, fingers brushing Kita’s. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The bus pulled back onto the highway, night stretching ahead. Somewhere in the back, someone started humming a different song, quiet and respectful. Atsumu closed his eyes, the warmth of Kita’s presence beside him a steady anchor.

Maybe tomorrow would be hard. Maybe the conversation would be terrifying. But for now, he was safe. And that was enough.