TikTok Confessions

The gym still smelled like sweat and floor wax. The echoes of spikes and serves had faded into the quiet hum of the overhead lights. Practice ended twenty minutes ago, but nobody was in a hurry to leave. The team was sprawled across the wooden floor in various states of dead, water bottles scattered around like fallen soldiers.

Osamu lay on his back, phone held above his face, thumb scrolling lazily. A beat of silence. Then a snort.

“Oi, listen to this,” he said, turning up the volume.

A tinny voice blared from the speaker: “When your senpai says you’ve got potential, but you’ve been riding the bench for three years—”

The video cut to a cat falling off a couch.

Suna snorted from where he leaned against the wall. “Relatable content.”

“That’s literally Omimi,” Ginjima said, grinning.

Omimi, who’d been quietly stretching his hamstrings, threw a sweat towel at him.

Laughter rippled through the group, easy and warm. This was the best part—not the drills or the wins, but this. The after-hours stillness when the pressure fell away and they were just a bunch of teenagers being stupid together.

“Let me see,” Ginjima said, reaching for Osamu’s phone. “There’s this account I found the other day. Some guy does dead-on impressions of coaches. You gotta hear his version of Coach Kurosu.”

He took the phone and started scrolling, the team leaning in like penguins huddling for warmth. Suna peered over his shoulder. Akagi propped himself on his elbows. Even Kita, who’d been quietly gathering his stuff near the door, paused to watch.

“No, not that one,” Ginjima muttered, swiping. “It’s somewhere in my—oh.”

He stopped.

“What?” Suna asked.

Ginjima’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh.”

“What?” Osamu said, sitting up. “Don't just ‘uh’ at my phone.”

“No, it's just—” Ginjima turned the screen toward the group. “I think I found something.”

The account name was clean, bold letters: Atsumu_Miya.

“No way,” Suna said, already grinning.

Below the username, the follower count read 5K. Five thousand followers. For a volleyball player whose whole personality revolved around being the best setter in Japan, this was either incredibly on-brand or deeply concerning.

“That's not mine,” Atsumu said immediately, voice a little too high.

He'd been lying face-down on the floor, still in his practice jersey, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Now he lifted his head, eyes wide.

“Give me that.” He scrambled to his feet.

Osamu was faster. He snatched the phone from Ginjima and held it out of reach, already scrolling. “Let's see what secrets you've been hiding, twin.”

“Osamu, I swear to god—”

The first video loaded.

Atsumu stared at the camera, but not the Atsumu they knew. This Atsumu had makeup on. Not just a little—full, polished, magazine-cover makeup. Eyeliner that winged out perfectly. Soft pink blush across his cheekbones. Lips glossed into a subtle shine.

He was wearing a cropped sweater.

“Hey, everyone, welcome back to my channel! Today I’m gonna show you how to get this soft glam look using only drugstore products, because I’m not about to spend my entire tournament bonus on a single eyeshadow palette.”

The team was silent.

Then Suna burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “Oh my god.”

“Atsumu,” Akagi said, voice strangled, “why do you know how to do makeup?”

“It's not mine!” Atsumu lunged for the phone. “Give it back!”

Osamu pivoted, keeping the phone away with the ease of someone who'd spent eighteen years evading his twin's grabs. “Hold on, there's more.”

The next video was a dance. Atsumu—again, fully made up, wearing loose-fitting jeans and a cropped tank top—was moving to some K-pop song the team vaguely recognized from the radio. His movements were sharp, practiced, confident. He hit the beat like he was serving an ace.

“He's actually good,” Suna admitted, sounding almost disappointed.

“I hate all of you,” Atsumu said, his face the color of a tomato.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Osamu's voice shifted. “What's this?”

The next video was a photo, not a video. A single image, posted three months ago.

Atsumu in a red dress.

Not a costume. Not a joke. A proper dress, floor-length, with a slit up the side and a halter neckline. He was standing in what looked like a school gymnasium, decorated with fairy lights and streamers. His hair was styled differently—softer, falling across his forehead in deliberate waves. His makeup was lighter, more natural, with a focus on glossy lips and flushed cheeks.

He looked beautiful.

The team went quiet again, but this time it wasn't funny. It was something else. Something that made Ginjima shift awkwardly and Akagi look away.

“Is that... prom?” Omimi asked quietly.

Atsumu had stopped trying to grab the phone. He stood frozen, arms at his sides, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It's prom.”

Osamu looked at the photo longer than the others. Something flickered across his face—recognition, maybe. Or understanding. He didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. Twins didn't need words for that kind of thing.

“Well,” Suna said, breaking the silence with his characteristic dryness, “you look better than half the girls who went.”

Atsumu's head snapped up. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you clean up nice. Relax.”

The tension cracked. Ginjima snorted, then Akagi, then Omimi. Soon the whole team was laughing, the awkwardness dissolving into the easy ribbing they were built for.

“I can't believe you have five thousand followers,” Akagi said. “What do you even post?”

“None of your business.”

“Makeup tutorials, apparently,” Suna said. “And dance covers. What's next, ASMR?”

“I will end you, Suna.”

“You can try.”

Osamu was still scrolling, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Oh, this one's good.”

He turned the phone around.

The video showed Atsumu and another person. A boy. Dark-haired, tall, with a face that was half-hidden because he was currently locked in a kiss with Atsumu. It was brief—just a few seconds—but it was enough. When they pulled apart, the camera caught the dark marks blooming on Atsumu's neck.

Hickeys.

The team erupted.

“ATSUMU!”

“Who is THAT?”

“He's got a BOYFRIEND?”

“A HOT boyfriend, by the looks of it.”

“That's the guy from Itachiyama,” Suna said suddenly, squinting at the screen. “I recognize the jersey in the background. That's Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

The name landed like a bomb.

Atsumu's boyfriend was Sakusa Kiyoomi. The Sakusa Kiyoomi. The one who was already being called one of the best high school wing spikers in the country. The one who wore masks before it was cool and had a reputation for being cold, unapproachable, and terrifyingly good at volleyball.

“Sakusa?” Ginjima repeated. “The germaphobe Sakusa?”

“He's not a germaphobe,” Atsumu said defensively. “He's just... particular.”

“He's literally wearing a mask in half your videos.”

“It's a fashion statement!”

“It's not,” Osamu said flatly. “I've met him. He wouldn't shake my hand.”

“That's because you were sweaty!”

The team dissolved into laughter again, but this time it was lighter, warmer. They passed the phone around, watching more videos, throwing out comments that ranged from teasing to genuinely impressed.

“This lighting is actually good.”

“His eyeliner is better than mine, and I've been doing this for years.”

“Did he just do a split? Since when can Atsumu do a split?”

“He's flexible,” Osamu muttered. “Don't ask how I know.”

“I'm right here!” Atsumu shouted.

He was bright red, from the tips of his ears down to his collarbone. He'd given up trying to grab the phone and was now standing with his arms crossed, radiating pure, concentrated embarrassment.

But he wasn't angry.

If they looked closely—and Osamu did—they would see the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The way his posture, defensive as it was, had a hint of pride.

He'd been keeping this secret for months. Maybe longer. And now they knew. It was terrifying, sure. But it was also... freeing.

“Alright, let's see what else you've got,” Osamu said, scrolling to the next video.

The tone shifted immediately.

The video was dark. Literally—the lighting was low, the camera pointed at Atsumu's face in what looked like his bedroom at night. He was crying.

Not the pretty kind of crying, either. This was messy. Eyes red, nose running, voice cracking as he spoke.

“I don’t know why I’m making this,” the video started. “I guess I just needed to get it out. My brother—he’s leaving. Not forever, I know that logically. But he’s going to open his own shop, and he’s going to be busy, and we’ve never really been apart, you know? We’ve shared a room our whole lives. We’ve shared everything. And now he’s leaving, and I don’t know how to be me without him.”

The room went silent.

Atsumu's breath caught audibly.

Osamu's hand froze on the screen.

“Osamu,” Atsumu said, his voice small. “Turn it off.”

But Osamu didn't. He kept watching, his face unreadable.

“I know it’s stupid,” the video continued. “He’s not dying. He’s just going to open a rice ball shop. But it feels like I’m losing a part of myself. And I don’t know how to tell him that without sounding pathetic, so I’m telling you instead. Thanks for listening.”

The video ended.

The gym was so quiet you could hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights.

Atsumu looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. His arms were wrapped around himself now, his shoulders hunched, his face hidden behind a curtain of blond hair.

“I do content,” he said, his voice cracking. “It's just... it's just for content. I do sad videos sometimes because they get views, it's not—”

“Atsumu.”

Osamu's voice cut through the rambling.

He set the phone down and stood up. Walked over to his twin. And then, in front of the entire team, he pulled Atsumu into a hug.

It was awkward. They weren't huggers, these Miya twins. Their affection came in the form of insults and stolen food and the unspoken understanding that came from sharing a womb. But this—this was different.

“You're an idiot,” Osamu said, voice rough. “You know I'm not going anywhere.”

Atsumu made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “You literally are. You're opening a shop.”

“In the same town. I'll be ten minutes away, dumbass.”

“That's not the same.”

“I know.” Osamu's arms tightened. “But you'll survive. You've got your team. You've got your boyfriend. You've got five thousand strangers on the internet who apparently like watching you do makeup.”

Atsumu let out a watery laugh. “Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“No, you shut up.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, the team watching with expressions ranging from touched to uncomfortable.

“This is really sweet,” Suna said finally, “but can we move on before I start crying too?”

The laughter broke the tension again, lighter this time, softer. Atsumu pulled back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, muttering about how he was fine, it was just allergies, the gym was dusty.

His phone buzzed.

He fumbled for it, checking the screen. His face went through a rapid series of emotions: surprise, panic, relief.

“It's Sakusa,” he said.

“Ooh, put it on speaker,” Ginjima said.

“Absolutely not.”

“Put it on speaker or I'll tell him about the crying video.”

Atsumu glared at Suna, then sighed, hitting the speaker button with a muttered curse.

“Hey, Omi,” he said, voice carefully casual.

“You're screwed.”

Sakusa's voice came through the speaker, flat and dry, with just a hint of amusement underneath.

“What?” Atsumu said.

“Gao from Itachiyama just texted me. Apparently your entire team found your TikTok account.”

A collective groan went through the team. Of course. Of course someone had already ratted them out.

“It's not that bad,” Atsumu said weakly.

“They saw the prom dress video.”

“Okay, it's a little bad.”

“They saw the kissing video.”

“It's very bad.”

“They saw the crying video.”

Atsumu buried his face in his free hand. “How do you know about the crying video?”

“Because I've seen it. You sent it to me at 2 AM, remember? You were very emotional about onigiri.”

Osamu snorted. “Onigiri?”

“Don't,” Atsumu warned.

“Your brother cried about my onigiri?”

“I didn't cry about the onigiri, I cried about the sentiment behind the onigiri! There's a difference!”

“There really isn't,” Sakusa said, and even through the phone, they could hear the smile in his voice. “Anyway. I'm outside.”

Atsumu froze. “What?”

“The gym. I'm outside. I got your texts.”

“I didn't text you.”

“You sent me seventeen panicked messages in the span of four minutes. I assumed it was an emergency.”

Atsumu checked his phone. He had, in fact, sent seventeen panicked messages. Most of them were just the word “help” repeated at varying levels of capitalization.

“Oh,” he said. “Uh. I didn't realize.”

“Clearly. I'm coming in.”

The line went dead.

The team exchanged looks.

“He's coming here?” Ginjima said. “Sakusa Kiyoomi is coming here?”

“He's just picking me up,” Atsumu said, already flustered. “It's not a big deal.”

“He's coming to pick you up,” Suna repeated. “Like a date.”

“It's not a date!”

“Didn't say it was.”

The gym door slid open.

Sakusa Kiyoomi stepped inside, and the first thing everyone noticed was that he was exactly as intimidating as the rumors said. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark curls that fell across his forehead and eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He was wearing a black mask and a simple hoodie, his hands tucked into his pockets.

The second thing everyone noticed was the way his gaze landed on Atsumu and softened. Just a fraction. Barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Omi!” Atsumu said, rushing over. “You didn't have to come all the way here.”

“You sent seventeen texts.”

“I was being dramatic.”

“You're always dramatic.”

Sakusa's eyes flicked to the rest of the team, and for a moment, the air went cold. Then he said, “So you finally found his secret account.”

The team blinked.

“He's been obsessed with the crying one all week,” Sakusa continued, deadpan. “He kept asking me if it made me emotional.”

“It's a good video!” Atsumu protested.

“It's a video of you crying about rice balls.”

“It's about FAMILY, Omi. It's about the BOND between TWINS.”

The tension shattered. The team burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the gym walls, and even Sakusa's eyes crinkled in what might have been a smile behind his mask.

“You've been holding out on us, Miya,” Suna said. “A secret TikTok account and a secret boyfriend. What's next, a secret talent for opera?”

“I can sing, actually.”

“Prove it.”

“I'm not singing for you.”

“Coward.”

Sakusa walked over to Atsumu, his steps easy, unhurried. He stopped close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and without any fanfare, he reached out and took Atsumu's hand.

Not dramatically. Not for show. Just a simple, casual gesture, like he'd done it a thousand times before.

The team went quiet again, but this time it was different. This time it was soft.

“His account is cute,” Sakusa said, voice low but clear. “The makeup tutorials are well-produced. The dance videos are actually impressive. And the sad ones—” He paused. “They're honest.”

Atsumu's face went red again. “Omi.”

“What? It's true.”

“You're embarrassing me.”

“You love it.”

“I hate it.”

“You love me.”

Atsumu's mouth opened and closed. No words came out.

The team collectively lost it.

“Oh my god,” Ginjima wheezed. “Oh my god, they're adorable.”

“I can't believe Sakusa Kiyoomi is a sap,” Suna said, shaking his head.

“I'm not a sap,” Sakusa said, but he was still holding Atsumu's hand.

“You literally just said ‘you love me’ in front of his entire team,” Osamu pointed out.

“He does.”

“That's not the point.”

“What is the point?”

Osamu opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “I give up. You two deserve each other.”

Atsumu, still red-faced, tried to hide behind Sakusa's shoulder, but Sakusa wouldn't let him. He pulled Atsumu closer, wrapping an arm around his waist, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

The team made a collective noise of disgust and delight.

“Alright, get out of here,” Osamu said, waving them off. “Take your sappy romance somewhere else.”

“Gladly,” Sakusa said.

He started walking toward the door, Atsumu still tucked against his side, and the team watched them go with a mixture of amusement and genuine fondness.

“Hey, Atsumu!” Suna called out.

Atsumu turned, raising an eyebrow.

“We're all following your account. Don't disappoint us.”

Atsumu flipped him off, but he was smiling.

“And post more crying videos!” Ginjima added. “Those are your best content!”

“I hate you all.”

“No, you don't,” Osamu said.

Atsumu paused. Looked at his brother. Looked at his team. Looked at Sakusa, who was watching him with that soft, secret smile.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don't.”

Sakusa tugged him forward, and they disappeared through the gym doors, hand in hand.

The team stood in silence for a moment.

Then Suna said, “So we're definitely watching all his videos tonight, right?”

“Absolutely,” Akagi said.

“I want to see the dance ones again,” Omimi added.

“I want to see the one where he insults his brother,” Osamu said, already pulling out his phone. “I know there's one. I can feel it.”

They gathered around, scrolling through Atsumu's TikTok, laughing and joking and teasing.

It was nice, Osamu thought. Having a secret like that, carrying it alone for so long—it must have been exhausting.

But now Atsumu didn't have to carry it alone anymore.

And if the team's newfound knowledge meant they were going to mercilessly tease him about it for the rest of his life... well, that's what family was for.