The Song of Waiting Stars

The locker room smelled like steam and liniment—the good kind, the kind that sticks to your skin no matter how many showers you take. Inarizaki's volleyball team had finished their cooldown ages ago. Towels draped over shoulders, water bottles half-empty, but nobody moved to leave. Just sat on the benches, legs stretched out, voices low. Waiting.

From the showers came a sound that kept them all frozen. Atsumu's voice, sure—but not the loud, cocksure tone they knew from the court. This was different. Something pure. Almost otherworldly. The tiles turned it into a cascade of shimmer, amplifying every note. He was singing in a language none of them understood, but the melody didn't need translation. It spoke longing. Heartache. The words rose and fell like a desert wind, carrying grief so ancient it felt like memory, like something you'd lived before.

Aran leaned back against the lockers, eyes half-closed. "He's been at it for twenty minutes," he murmured. "Didn't know he could sing like that."

Osamu sat beside Suna, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hadn't said much since practice ended. Every once in a while, his jaw tightened, and Suna noticed. Without a word, Suna shifted closer, let his shoulder brush against Osamu's. Osamu didn't pull away. Small gesture. Said everything.

"He only sings like this when he's nervous," Osamu said quietly.

Suna raised an eyebrow. "Nervous? Atsumu? He's never nervous."

"You'd be surprised."

The singing stopped. Water shut off. A beat of silence, then the click of the locker room door swinging open.

Atsumu emerged. Every head turned.

He wore a Moroccan bridal caftan, heavy with gold embroidery that caught the fluorescent light and scattered it like a thousand tiny suns. Deep royal blue, almost black, with intricate gold thread patterns across the chest and down the flowing sleeves. Gold bangles stacked up both arms, clinking softly when he moved. A sheer veil pinned to his hair—braided back with golden beads. His eyes lined with kohl, the wing sharp and elegant, cheeks dusted with subtle shimmer. He looked like a prince from a storybook. Or a bride on her way to a wedding that would break her heart.

Stunning. And utterly terrified.

"What in the ever-lovin' hell are you wearin'?" Aran asked, but his voice held no malice. Just bewilderment.

Atsumu fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. "I have an audition."

"An audition for what? A fashion show?" Suna asked, one corner of his mouth lifting.

"The Voice Kids." Atsumu's voice was small, almost shy. "I'm singin' Arabic heartbreak songs. By Sherine. The caftan is for stage presence. It's—it's traditional. I practiced the whole thing. The walk, the veil, everythin'."

The team exchanged glances. The loud, brash setter who commanded the court with a smirk and a taunt—standing before them in gold and eyeliner, trembling like a leaf.

"Arabic heartbreak songs," Osamu repeated, voice flat. "You don't even speak Arabic."

"I learned the pronunciation. Practiced for months. Had a tutor from online. Don't judge me, Samu."

"I'm not judgin'. I'm just sayin' it's a lot."

Atsumu blinked. His eyes glistened. "I have to do this. Please don't make fun of me."

The room went quiet. Aran stood up, walked over, placed a hand on Atsumu's shoulder. "We're not makin' fun. We're just surprised. You've been hidin' this?"

Atsumu nodded. "Volleyball is my life. But singin' is my… heart. I can't explain it. When I sing those songs, I feel like I'm tellin' a story I've lived a thousand times. Even if I don't understand the words, I feel them."

Suna stood, stretched lazily. "Well, we can't let you go alone. Who's comin'?"

"All of us," Osamu said, already grabbing his bag. "Let's go watch the star."

The team murmured in agreement, gathering their things. Atsumu looked at them, wide-eyed, the gold beads in his braids catching the light. "You don't have to—"

"Shut up, Tsumu," Osamu said, but his voice was soft. "You're my twin. I'm not missin' this."

Suna walked past Osamu and, in a move so quick no one else noticed, brushed his fingers against Osamu's hand. Osamu's breath hitched. Suna's lips twitched into a tiny, secret smile.

Atsumu caught it. Didn't say anything. Just nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

They filed out of the locker room—a small army of volleyball players escorting a glimmering, nervous boy in a caftan.

---

The audition venue was a converted theater in the heart of the city. Red velvet curtains, a grand stage, a panel of three judges seated at a long table with microphones and water bottles. The audience was sparse: family members, a few scouts, other contestants warming up in the wings. Atsumu's name was called early. Number seven.

The team found seats in the fourth row. Aran on the aisle, Suna beside him, then Osamu, then a few others who'd tagged along. Suna leaned into Osamu's space, arms resting on the seat in front of them.

"You're gonna tell me what this is really about," Suna said, low enough that only Osamu could hear.

Osamu's jaw worked. "He's been different lately. Ever since… Kita-san left."

Suna's eyes widened slightly. "Oh."

"Yeah. He won't talk about it. But those songs—they're all about losin' someone you still love. I think this is his way of lettin' go."

Suna nodded slowly. He reached over and laced his fingers with Osamu's, hidden between their bodies. Osamu squeezed back.

On stage, the host called out, "Next up, we have Miya Atsumu from Hyogo! Performing 'Hobbo Ganna' and 'Batmanna Ansak' by Sherine!"

Atsumu walked out from the wings. A murmur rippled through the audience. The caftan flowed behind him like a river of night, gold embroidery shimmering. The veil draped over his hair. His kohl-rimmed eyes looked enormous—full of light and fear.

One of the judges, a stern-faced woman with silver hair, leaned forward. "That's quite an outfit. Are you feeling confident?"

Atsumu took the microphone stand, adjusted it to his height. "I'm terrified," he admitted. The audience laughed softly. "But I've been dreamin' of this moment for a long time. I want to share somethin' beautiful."

The silver-haired judge raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Very well. Whenever you're ready."

Atsumu closed his eyes. The music began—a slow, haunting oud melody, layered with a soft string section. He took a breath, and then he opened his mouth.

The first note was a thread of pure silver, rising from his chest like a prayer. The Arabic words rolled off his tongue with a fluency that surprised even him. He'd practiced for months: recording himself, mimicking the accent, the inflection, the raw grief in Sherine's voice. But now, standing on stage, it wasn't imitation. It was him.

"Hobbo ganna, we sawa 'ayesh…"

The translation appeared on a screen beside the stage—white text against black. The audience could read along. The first song was about a love that bloomed like a desert flower, miraculous and fragile. Atsumu's voice soared, then dropped to a whisper, then swelled again, his hands moving like he was tracing the shape of the melody in the air. The gold bangles clinked softly—a delicate percussion.

Aran wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "He's really somethin'," he whispered.

Osamu couldn't speak. He was watching his twin pour out a heart he didn't know could be so tender. The smirking setter, the trash-talker, the one who always had to be the best—this was Atsumu stripped bare. Vulnerable. Brave.

Osamu's grip tightened on Suna's hand. Suna looked over, saw Osamu blinking rapidly. He didn't say anything. Just leaned in a little closer.

The first song ended to stunned silence. Then applause—tentative at first, then thunderous. Atsumu bowed, his veil falling forward. He straightened, took a shaky breath.

"Thank you," he said. "Now, my second song. 'Batmanna Ansak.' It means 'I Wish I Could Forget You.'"

The music began again, slower, sadder. A single piano note repeated like a heartbeat. Atsumu closed his eyes, and for a moment he wasn't on a stage in a theater. He was back in the Inarizaki gym, watching Kita-san walk away after graduation. The last words they'd exchanged hanging in the air like smoke.

"Batmanna ansak, bas kalbi ma yirda…"

His voice cracked on the high note. The audience held its breath. The silver-haired judge pressed a hand to her chest. Beside her, a younger judge with kind eyes was openly crying. Atsumu didn't see them. He saw only the memory: calm, steady gaze; the gentle way Kita had said his name; the quiet acceptance when Atsumu had confessed his feelings months ago—and Kita had said, "I know. But I can't be what you need right now."

The song built to its climax. The orchestra swelled. Atsumu hit a note so pure, so devastating, it seemed to shatter something in the air. His voice trembled, threatened to break, but he held it—poured every ounce of longing and grief into that single sound.

"Batmanna ansak, batmanna ansak…"

The note faded into silence. The last piano key echoed and died.

Atsumu opened his eyes. Tears streaked his kohl-lined cheeks, smudging the makeup. He blinked. The audience erupted. Standing ovation. Cheers. Cries of "Bravo!" and "More!" The judges were on their feet, clapping—the silver-haired woman nodding with something like awe.

The host rushed on stage, beaming. "Miya Atsumu! That was extraordinary! Judges, your thoughts?"

The silver-haired judge took the microphone. "I have been doing this for twenty years," she said, her voice thick. "I have heard thousands of singers. But I have never heard someone deliver a song in a language they don't speak with such… soul. You didn't just sing the words. You lived them. The raw emotion, the control, the vulnerability—you are a once-in-a-generation talent."

The kind-eyed judge nodded. "Where did you learn to sing like that?"

Atsumu laughed shakily. "I don't know. I just… feel things very deeply. And music lets me express them."

"Well," said the third judge, a man with a goatee, "you expressed them perfectly. I have no doubt you will go far."

They didn't make him wait. The host announced the winner after two more contestants, but everyone knew. The trophy was handed to Atsumu—a golden microphone on a marble base. He held it like it was made of glass, a shy smile blooming through the smeared eyeliner.

The team rushed the stage. Aran lifted him in a bear hug, spinning him until the veil flew loose. Suna clapped him on the back with a grin. The others crowded around, shouting congratulations, ruffling his hair, careful not to snag the gold beads.

Osamu stood apart for a moment, watching his brother glow. Then Atsumu looked at him, and Osamu stepped forward. They didn't hug—they weren't that kind of twins. But Osamu reached out and adjusted the fallen veil on Atsumu's shoulder.

"You did good, Tsumu."

"It meant a lot that you came."

"Of course I came."

Suna appeared beside Osamu, slinging an arm around his waist. "Can we go eat now? All this emotion has made me hungry."

Atsumu laughed—a bright, unburdened sound. "Yeah. Let's go celebrate."

---

They found a small ramen shop tucked between two buildings. The kind with steam curling from the kitchen and stools worn smooth by generations. The team squeezed into a corner booth, ordering bowls of tonkotsu and gyoza. Atsumu still wore the caftan, though he'd removed the veil. The gold bangles clinked as he lifted his chopsticks.

"So," Aran said, slurping noodles, "is this your new career? Quit volleyball, become a singer?"

"Never," Atsumu said, mouth full. "But I'll do both. I can be a volleyball player and a singer. Nothin' says I gotta choose."

"Spoken like a true Miya," Osamu muttered.

Suna nudged him. "You're proud of him."

"I'm always proud of him. Don't make it weird."

"It's already weird," Suna said, but he was smiling.

Later, when the others were arguing over the bill, Atsumu pulled out his phone. He scrolled to a contact—a name that still made his chest ache.

Kita Shinsuke.

He typed a message, deleted it, typed again. Finally, he attached a photo of the trophy, taken in the theater lights, the golden microphone gleaming.

Atsumu: I won.

He almost put the phone away, but a reply came within seconds.

Kita: I always knew you were a star.

Atsumu stared at the screen. His heart pounded. He thought about the songs, about the tears, about the way he'd poured his longing into a melody. And now, this.

He typed back: Thank you. For believin' in me.

Kita: I still do. Maybe one day we can talk.

Atsumu: I'd like that.

He locked the phone and slipped it into his pocket. Osamu was watching him from across the table, a knowing look in his eyes.

"Good news?"

"Maybe," Atsumu said, and for the first time in months, hope felt real. Something he could hold.

Suna leaned his head on Osamu's shoulder. Osamu's hand came up to rest on his knee. The team bickered over the check. The ramen steamed. Outside, the night was soft and dark and full of stars.

Atsumu looked down at his hands, still wearing the gold bangles, and smiled.