The Sound of Gold

The gym lights buzzed low, throwing long shadows across the polished floor. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but Inarizaki's team still hung around the locker room, half-dressed, voices low and easy.

“He still in there?” Aran pulled a sweatshirt over his head.

Osamu grunted, arms crossed, leaning against the lockers. “Yeah. Takes forever.”

“Forever's an understatement.” Suna scrolled through his phone from the bench. “I think I've aged two years waiting.”

Then, from the showers, a sound drifted through the thin walls. Soft at first, then rising. A melody—liquid, warm, curling through the steam. Arabic. None of them understood the words, but the feeling was clear. Atsumu's voice, unburdened and pure, threading through the air like silk.

The chatter died.

Kita looked up from tying his shoes. His face softened, the faintest smile. He didn't say anything. Just listened.

Osamu's jaw tightened, but not in frustration. Pride, maybe. Or something close. He'd heard his brother sing since they were kids, but it never got old. Never stopped surprising him.

The song built, a gentle swell, then dissolved into a breathy, aching note that hung there before fading into the hiss of water.

Aran let out a slow breath. “Damn.”

“He's really good,” Suna said, pocketing his phone. “I mean, we knew. But still.”

Kita nodded once, quiet.

The water stopped. A few minutes of shuffling, then the door creaked open.

And Atsumu Miya stepped out.

He was wearing a caftan. A Moroccan bridal caftan—deep sapphire velvet embroidered with gold, patterns swirling like a map of stars. Gold fringe lined the hem, a matching sash cinched at his waist. A heavy gold necklace layered around his neck, chandelier earrings dangling from his ears. His face was done: foundation smooth, eyes lined with kohl, eyelids dusted with shimmery gold, lips a soft rose. His hair, usually messy and damp, was curled into soft waves falling around his shoulders.

The locker room went silent again.

Atsumu struck a pose, hand on his hip, the other flicking his hair back. “Well? Don't just stare. Compliment me.”

Osamu blinked. “What the hell are you wearin'?”

“It's called fashion, Samu. You wouldn't get it.” Atsumu twirled, the caftan swirling around his ankles. “Do I look good or not?”

“You look…” Aran paused. “Stunning, actually.”

“Damn right I do.” Atsumu beamed, then turned to Kita softer. “What d'you think, Shinsuke?”

Kita's gaze was steady, warm. He stepped forward, reached out, gently adjusted one of Atsumu's earrings so it hung straight. “You look beautiful, Tsumu.”

Atsumu's cheeks flushed under the makeup. He ducked his head. “Thanks.”

“But seriously,” Osamu said, arms crossed. “Where you goin' dressed like that? Plannin' to rob a palace?”

Atsumu laughed, bright and easy. “Nah. Better. I got an audition.”

“Audition?” Suna raised an eyebrow.

“For The Voice Kids.” Atsumu said it like it was obvious. “Been plannin' it for months. Just didn't wanna say anythin' in case I chickened out. But I ain't chicken. I'm ready.”

The locker room went quiet for a beat. Then Aran whistled low. “The Voice Kids? That's huge.”

“I know.” Atsumu's voice was steady, but his fingers fidgeted with the fringe on his sleeve. “I've been practicin'. I think I got a shot.”

Kita was the first to move. He walked over, placed a hand on Atsumu's shoulder. “You've got more than a shot. You've got talent, and you've got us.”

“Yeah,” Osamu said, stepping forward. “We're comin' with ya.”

Atsumu's eyes went wide. “What?”

“You heard him,” Suna said, pocketing his phone. “We're not lettin' you go alone. Someone has to film your dramatic entrance.”

“And someone has to keep you from freakin' out,” Osamu added.

Atsumu opened his mouth, closed it. For a moment he looked like he might cry—but he blinked it back, pointed a finger at his brother. “Fine. But you're not takin' any stupid selfies in the background.”

“No promises,” Suna said.

They piled into two cars—Aran's old sedan and Kita's compact. Atsumu rode shotgun in Kita's, careful not to wrinkle his caftan. Osamu and Suna crammed in the back. The drive was filled with chatter, teasing, the occasional hum from Atsumu as he ran through his songs in his head.

The venue was a big auditorium, banners for The Voice Kids hanging from the ceiling. Atsumu checked in at registration, heart thudding against his ribs. Backstage, the team found seats in the waiting area. Atsumu stood apart, pacing, muttering lyrics under his breath.

Kita approached him quietly. “Nervous?”

“A little,” Atsumu admitted, twisting a gold bracelet around his wrist. “What if I mess up? What if my voice cracks? What if they don't like me?”

Kita took his hand, stilling the fidgeting. “Then you try again. But you won't mess up. I've heard you sing. When you stop thinkin' and just feel, you're unstoppable.”

Atsumu looked at their joined hands, then up at Kita's calm gray eyes. “You really believe that?”

“I know it.”

Atsumu squeezed his hand, then let go. “Okay. I'm ready.”

When his name was called, he walked onto the stage. The lights were blinding. The audience was a blur. The four judges sat in their red chairs, backs turned, faces hidden.

He took his place at center, microphone in hand. The backing track started—a soft, acoustic arrangement of “Hobbo Ganna” by Sherine.

Atsumu closed his eyes. Thought of his mother's voice, of the Arabic lullabies she sang when he and Osamu were sick. Thought of the hours he spent in his room, listening to Sherine on repeat, teaching himself the language through song.

He opened his mouth.

And sang.

The first note was soft, almost a whisper, then grew fuller, richer as he moved into the verse. His voice wrapped around the melody like honey, smooth and golden. The audience went still. He held the high notes with effortless ease, let them shimmer before falling into the next phrase. The judges' chairs stayed turned, but one—a woman with long black hair—tapped her fingers on the armrest, nodding along.

He finished with a gentle, breathy fade, holding the last note until it dissolved into silence.

A pause.

Then the first chair spun. The woman with the black hair stood, clapping. A second chair followed. Then a third. The fourth hesitated, then slammed the button, and the whole audience erupted.

Atsumu's knees almost buckled. He grinned, wide and trembling, as the judges called him forward.

“That was beautiful,” the first judge said. “Arabic? That's brave for a Japanese kid. Where did you learn?”

“YouTube,” Atsumu said, still breathless. “And my mom. She sings sometimes.”

“It shows. You have a natural gift.”

He was through to the next round.

Backstage, the team mobbed him. Aran lifted him off his feet. Suna snapped a photo. Osamu clapped him on the back so hard he stumbled. And Kita just pulled him into a hug, whispering, “I told you.”

The next few weeks flew. Atsumu rehearsed, performed, advanced. His wardrobe grew more extravagant—caftans, kimonos, even a traditional Moroccan djellaba for one round. The audience loved him. The judges praised his emotional range. But the semi-finals changed everything.

He chose “Batmanna Ansak.”

The song was devastating—a plea to forget someone, to erase the pain of love. Atsumu had never experienced heartbreak like that, but he understood longing. Understood the ache of wanting something just out of reach. He poured all of it into the performance.

When the lyrics flashed on the screen behind him, translated for the Japanese audience, people started crying. The judges wiped their eyes. In the audience, Kita's hand found Osamu's shoulder, squeezing tight.

Atsumu's voice cracked on the last line—a deliberate, raw break that sent shivers through the hall. He ended with his head bowed, breathing hard.

Silence.

Then a standing ovation. All four judges on their feet. The host rushed to his side, grinning. “You've done it again, Atsumu!”

He won the competition the next week.

The finale was a blur of confetti, lights, a golden trophy placed in his hands. He held it above his head, tears streaming down his face, makeup smudged. The audience chanted his name.

Afterward, backstage, his team waited.

Osamu got to him first, grabbed him into a fierce hug. “You did it, you idiot. You actually did it.”

“Told ya I would,” Atsumu choked out, laughing through tears.

Aran hugged him next, lifted him off the ground again. “I'm so proud of you, man. Seriously.”

Suna snapped more photos, but his smile was genuine. “You made us look good. Well done.”

Then Kita stepped forward.

Atsumu fell into his arms, buried his face in the crook of his neck. Kita held him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other around his waist. “I always knew,” he murmured. “From the first time I heard you sing in the bath. I knew you'd be here.”

“I love you,” Atsumu whispered, muffled against his shoulder.

“I love you too.”

The team gathered around them, a tight circle of warmth and laughter. Suna finally put his phone away. Aran clapped Atsumu's back again. Osamu ruffled his hair, careful not to mess the curls too much.

“So,” Suna said, “what now, star boy?”

Atsumu pulled back, wiped his eyes, smearing gold powder across his cheek. His smile was brilliant, unguarded. “Now we go eat. I'm starvin'.”

They walked out together, the trophy passed from hand to hand, the night air cool and sweet. Kita wrapped an arm around Atsumu's waist, pulled him close as they headed toward the parking lot. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like dust on velvet.

Atsumu looked up at them, then at his boyfriend, then at his brother, his friends, his family by choice.

“Hey,” he said softly.

They all looked at him.

“Thanks. For comin'. For always bein' there.”

Osamu snorted. “Shut up. You'd do the same for us.”

“Yeah, I would.” Atsumu grinned, leaning into Kita's side. “I really would.”

They walked on, voices rising in laughter, the golden trophy glinting under the streetlights. Somewhere far away, a radio played a Sherine song, and Atsumu hummed along, his voice mixing with the wind.

Soft. Dreamy.

Home.