Turquoise Confidence

The Inarizaki gym after hours felt like a completely different building. Without the overhead lights, it was just shadows and the dim amber glow of emergency exits, plus one pale rectangle where someone had propped a portable projector screen against the wall. The air still smelled like sweat from practice, but also like cheap chips and soda. A bunch of blankets and practice jerseys had been spread across the floor in a messy pile, and half the team was sprawled on them like cats who’d found a sunbeam—except the sun was long gone.

“I’m just sayin’,” Suna drawled, chin in his hand, “if we’re gonna skip Kita-san’s ‘optional’ cool-down stretches, we could at least watch somethin’ interestin’. Not another compilation of setters gettin’ hit in the face, Gin.”

Ginjima slapped Suna’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “That video was hilarious. Remember when that dude from Kamomedai took a spike straight to the nose? His face—”

“I remember,” Suna said flatly. “I was there. Saw it live.”

“You were on the other side of the court.”

“And yet I remember.”

Atsumu lay on his back, arms behind his head, one ankle crossed over the other. Osamu sat a little off to the side, nursing a sports drink like he’d been dragged here against his will but couldn’t be bothered to leave. Aran had the spot closest to the projector—not because he cared about the movie, but because he was the only one who knew how to work the remote.

“Just put on somethin’ loud,” Aran said, scrolling through YouTube. “Any requests besides setters gettin’ concussed?”

“Music,” said Kita quietly from the edge. He wasn’t lounging—that would be too out of character—but he sat cross-legged, hands on his knees, like a monk at a barbecue. “Somethin’ to unwind after the season.”

They’d finished their final spring tournament that morning. Not nationals, but solid. Kita had given his end-of-season speech—short, earnest, with that whole “work hard, be humble, don’t leave your shoes on the court” thing. Then he announced two weeks off, no mandatory practices, everyone should rest.

And apparently, rest meant smuggling a projector into the gym and eating snacks that were technically banned from the locker rooms.

“Fine, fine.” Aran tapped his screen. The projector threw a blue glow onto the sheet. A chunky playlist loaded. First up was some high-energy J-pop dance cover—Ginjima bobbed his head, Suna groaned half-heartedly. Second was a compilation of dogs falling off couches. Third—

“What the hell is that?” Osamu finally looked up from his drink.

On the screen: a title card that said “DANCE STAR WINNER – 10 Years Ago Compilation Best of!”

The thumbnail showed a kid—maybe nine or ten—drenched in glitter, wearing a turquoise sparkly vest and matching shorts, face painted with a blue-and-silver streak across one cheek. His hair was spiked up with enough gel to fossilize a small animal.

“That’s gotta be ancient,” Ginjima said. “Look at the aspect ratio. Four-by-three.”

“Skip it,” Suna said.

But Aran didn’t skip it. He was staring at the thumbnail, then at Atsumu, then back at the thumbnail. “Uh.”

“What?” Atsumu didn’t look up from his phone.

“Atsumu,” Aran said slowly, “you ever do any… dance stuff? When you were little?”

“No.”

Osamu snorted. Loudly.

Atsumu’s head snapped up. “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” Osamu said, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

On screen, the video started playing. A buzzing crowd. A stage with too many lights. Then the camera zoomed in on a small figure—turquoise, glittery, unmistakably familiar.

The gym went silent.

Atsumu’s phone clattered to the floor.

The kid on screen was maybe nine. He had Atsumu’s face. Same sharp eyes, same jut of the chin, same already-too-confident smirk. But the kid was moving—no, the kid was dancing. He rolled his hips in a slow, fluid wave, arms tracing arcs, fingers snapping in time with the Latin beat. His feet moved sharp and quick, and every time the music hit a crescendo, he flicked his wrist like he was throwing confetti.

The outfit glittered under the stage lights. The eye makeup was thick—blue eyeshadow that winged out, a silver line beneath the lower lash. His lips were glossy.

And he was, objectively, fantastic.

“Holy shit,” Suna said, and he sounded genuinely stunned.

The kid on screen launched into a series of spins, then dropped into a low dip, one arm extended, his face a mask of sultry concentration that looked hilarious and impressive on a third-grader. The audience cheered. The judges clapped.

The video cut to a close-up of the kid smirking as the announcer pronounced him the winner.

“DANCE STAR WINNER!” the voiceover boomed.

Atsumu’s face was the color of the emergency exit sign.

“That’s you,” said Ginjima, pointing. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“That’s literally you,” Suna said. He already had his phone out, taking a picture of the screen. “I am saving this forever.”

“Delete it.”

“No.”

Osamu stared at his twin with an expression that was half wonder, half vindication. “I remember this,” he said quietly. “You were so damn proud. Kept the trophy on your side of the room for a year. Took it to school for show-and-tell.”

“Shut up, ’Samu.”

“You won a dance competition,” Aran said, still processing. “Salsa?”

“It was Latin fusion,” Atsumu muttered, then clamped his mouth shut as the team howled.

“He knows the name of the genre!” Ginjima yelled.

Kita, who’d watched the entire video without a change in expression, finally spoke. “That takes discipline,” he said, and somehow it wasn’t teasing. “To compete at that level at that age.”

Atsumu looked at Kita, something softening in his shoulders. Then Suna replayed the part where the nine-year-old Atsumu winked at the camera with exaggerated flirtation, and the moment was ruined.

“Oh my god, the wink,” Suna said, holding his phone up triumphantly. “The wink.”

“I did not wink.”

“Your eyes closed in an obvious, calculated manner. That’s a wink.”

Atsumu sat up, yanking a jersey off the floor and tossing it at Suna’s face. Suna caught it without looking, still staring at the screen. The video had moved on to other contestants—kids in sequined costumes, a boy in a bow tie doing a robot routine—but the damage was done.

Aran paused the playlist and turned to look at Atsumu properly. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

Atsumu shrugged, but it was tight. “It was a kid thing. Did it for a couple years. Then middle school happened and it was all volleyball.”

“Did you like it?” Kita asked.

The question caught Atsumu off guard. He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “Yeah. I liked it.”

He remembered it more than he wanted to admit. The feel of the floor under his feet, the spin of lights, the way the crowd’s energy fed into his chest. He’d loved the showmanship, the chance to be someone else for two minutes—someone sleek and smooth and in total control. Volleyball gave him that too, but differently. On the court, he was the loud, brash setter who demanded perfection. On the stage, he could be soft, fluid, teasing. He could be sexy, even if he hadn’t understood what that meant at nine.

He’d quit because the dance studio was too far from the volleyball club, and because some kid at school had called the sparkly costume “girly,” and Atsumu had wanted to punch him but instead he’d just stopped going. He’d buried the trophy in the back of his closet and pretended it didn’t exist.

But Osamu never let him forget.

“You used to practice in the living room,” Osamu said now, his voice quieter, less mocking. “Mom would put on the music and you’d dance around the coffee table. I thought it was stupid at the time.”

“It was stupid.”

“But you were good,” Osamu finished, and that was the closest he ever got to a compliment.

Atsumu blinked, then looked away. “Yeah, well. It’s been years.”

“But you still know how, right?” Ginjima was practically bouncing. “You just watched a kid do it. Muscle memory’s gotta kick in.”

“I’m not dancin’ for you lot.”

“Come on,” Suna said, clicking his tongue. “One dance. Show us if you’ve still got it. We promise not to record. Much.”

“I ain’t got the costume,” Atsumu said, but his voice was already wavering. There was a flicker in his chest—something warm and reckless. The team was watching him, not with mockery now, but with genuine curiosity. Even Kita had tilted his head, interested.

Aran set the remote down. “I mean, if you don’t want to, don’t. But you were movin’ pretty smooth, Miya. Can’t lie.”

Atsumu looked at him. Aran’s face was neutral, open, the way it always was when he was being sincere. That was the thing about Aran—he didn’t tease unless he was sure the other person could take it. He was safe.

And Atsumu felt a dangerous idea spark.

“Fine,” he said, standing up. “But I need room.”

The team scrambled, dragging blankets and snacks away from the center of the gym. The projector screen cast a bright rectangle on one wall, but the space in front was clear. Atsumu pulled off his practice jersey, leaving him in a tank top. He hesitated, then tugged that off too, revealing a plain black sports bra underneath.

Suna whistled low.

“Shut up,” Atsumu said, but there was no heat. He unbuckled his shorts and stepped out of them, leaving him in a pair of tight volleyball shorts and the bra. The bra was nothing special—just a training top, really—but the contrast of bare shoulders and the line of his collarbone drew attention. His arms were lean and defined from years of setting, and his waist tapered sharply.

“I need a partner,” Atsumu said, looking around. His gaze landed on Aran. “You.”

“Me?” Aran blinked. “I can’t dance.”

“You don’t have to. Just stand there.”

“Stand there?”

“Yeah. Let me move around you. It’s a salsa routine—I need a post to spin off. You’re tall. You’ll do.”

Aran looked to the others for help. Ginjima was already grinning like a fool. Suna had his phone out again, and even Kita offered a mild, “It would be supportive to participate, Ojiro.”

Aran sighed and stood up. He was a solid wall of muscle, broad-shouldered and a head taller than Atsumu. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with his hands. “Fine. But if you drop me, I’m tellin’ Kita you skipped warm-ups.”

“I’m not gonna drop you,” Atsumu said, and the smirk that spread across his face was pure Miya confidence. “I’m gonna make you look good.”

Osamu groaned. “Here we go.”

Atsumu pulled out his phone, scrolled through his music—somehow he still had a Latin pop playlist—and handed it to Aran. “Hit play when I say.”

Then he turned, rolled his shoulders, and dropped into a stance.

His hips shifted to one side. His chin lifted. His eyes—sharp, honey-brown—found Aran’s and held them.

The gym seemed to get smaller.

“Now,” Atsumu said.

The music hit: a syncopated beat, brass, a woman’s voice purring in Spanish. Atsumu moved.

It was nothing like the child’s version. That had been cute, precise, a mimicry of something bigger. This was the real thing. Atsumu’s body rippled—his hips rolled in a slow, lazy figure-eight, his arms rose as if tracing the air, fingers curling like he was inviting something close. He stepped toward Aran, closed the gap, and then circled him, one hand brushing across Aran’s chest as he passed.

Aran stood frozen. His ears were red. His expression was carefully blank, which meant he was extremely flustered.

Behind them, someone let out a breath. Ginjima, probably.

Atsumu moved into a spin, let himself fall into a deep arch backward, then snapped upright, hips rolling again. He danced as if the music were inside him, not around him—every beat a command, every pause a tease. He dropped to one knee, slid forward, and rose again with his hand trailing from Aran’s hip up to his shoulder, then his cheek.

Aran’s breath hitched.

The team was dead silent.

Atsumu turned his back to Aran, pressed against him for just a beat—shorter than a breath—and then shimmied away, shaking his hips in a fast, controlled vibration that made Suna choke on his soda.

“Holy shit,” Suna wheezed.

Atsumu laughed. It was breathless, gleeful. He spun again, this time taking Aran’s hand and pulling him into a half-turn so they stood face to face. Atsumu stepped close—close enough that his chest almost touched Aran’s—and then he dipped back, one hand on Aran’s shoulder, the other flung high, his spine curving like a bow.

The move ended with Atsumu looking up at Aran from under his lashes, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.

There was a beat.

Then Ginjima let out a wolf-whistle so loud it echoed.

“GODDAMN, ATSUMU!”

Aran’s hand was still on Atsumu’s waist, where it had moved instinctively to steady him. He looked down at Atsumu’s flushed face, the sheen of sweat already gathering on his collarbone, the grin that was half-brat and half-dare.

“I think you broke him,” Atsumu said, straightening.

Aran let go like he’d been burned. “You—where did you—that was—”

“Good?” Atsumu offered.

“Ridiculous,” Aran said, but his voice cracked, and the team howled.

Suna was filming. Osamu was staring at his twin like he’d grown a second head, but there was pride in there too, buried under years of sibling rivalry. Kita nodded once, a small smile on his lips.

Atsumu turned to face them fully, arms spread, chest heaving. He was still in just the bra and shorts, skin flushed, hair falling into his eyes. He felt electric. The dance had woken something in him—a confidence that had been sleeping since childhood, wrapped in shame and self-consciousness. But the team wasn’t laughing at him. They were laughing with him, cheering, clapping.

“I used to compete,” Atsumu said, louder now, more brazen. “National level. Won three times.”

“We saw the proof,” Ginjima said, wiping a fake tear. “Our setter can salsa. This is the best day of my life.”

“You can never tell anyone outside this room,” Atsumu said, pointing. “I have a reputation.”

“The reputation of a sexy dancer,” Suna said. “I think you just upgraded.”

Atsumu flipped him off, but he was grinning.

He turned back to Aran, who had sat back down with the careful air of a man who needed to collect himself. Atsumu dropped onto the blanket beside him, close enough that their elbows touched. “You were a good partner,” he said. “Nice and sturdy.”

“You used me as a prop,” Aran muttered.

“A very handsome prop.”

Aran’s ears reddened again. “Shut up.”

But he was smiling.

The rest of the evening dissolved into chaos. Suna insisted on watching the video of Atsumu as a child on a loop until Osamu physically blocked the projector lens with his body. Ginjima tried to teach himself a basic salsa step and nearly tripped over a blanket. Kita produced a bag of onigiri he’d brought “just in case,” and the team devoured them in minutes.

Atsumu sat in the middle of it all, feeling lighter than he had in months. The memory of the dance—the feel of the rhythm in his bones, the look of stunned admiration on Aran’s face, the howling approval of his teammates—settled into his chest like a second heartbeat.

He caught Osamu’s eye across the circle. His twin raised an eyebrow, a silent question: You okay?

Atsumu nodded. Smirked. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he did a quick shoulder shimmy, just for Osamu.

Osamu rolled his eyes so hard they nearly stayed stuck.

But he was grinning.

And when Kita finally declared it was time to pack up—past curfew, but he’d talk to the dorm supervisor—Atsumu lingered a moment, watching the others fold blankets and unplug the projector. Aran stood beside him, silent and steady.

“Thanks,” Atsumu said quietly. “For not makin’ it weird.”

“Wasn’t weird,” Aran said. “Just unexpected.”

“Unexpected good?”

Aran looked at him. In the dim light, his dark eyes were warm. “Unexpected good.”

Atsumu felt his face heat. He turned away before Aran could see, but the smile stayed.

They filed out of the gym, leaving the echoes of laughter behind. The team walked in a loose pack under the floodlights, talking loudly about nothing. Atsumu brought up the rear, arms crossed, head high.

He still knew how to move. He still knew how to captivate.

And his teammates—his idiot, wonderful, ridiculous teammates—had seen every side of him now. The loudmouth. The perfectionist. The sexy dancer in turquoise.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Somewhere in the distance, Suna was already sending the video to the team chat.

Atsumu would kill him tomorrow.

Tonight, he let himself be proud.