Pretty Enough

The first sign that something was seriously off with Inarizaki’s volleyball team came when Atsumu Miya walked into the gym wearing a cropped jersey that showed off a solid two inches of his stomach, a full face of makeup, lavender acrylic nails, and a designer handbag that probably cost more than the team’s ball budget.

The gym went dead silent. Then it exploded.

“Oh my god,” Suna said, already snapping a photo. “This is going straight to the group chat.”

“Ya look ridiculous,” Osamu said flatly, eyes rolling so hard they might’ve gotten stuck. “What’s next, a tiara?”

“Don’t give him ideas,” Omimi muttered.

Atsumu tossed his perfectly glossed hair. “Yer just jealous I got the confidence to pull this off. Not everyone can handle this level of aesthetic.”

“Aesthetic?” Osamu deadpanned. “Looks like ya got dressed in the dark after fallin’ into a Sephora.”

Snickers rippled through the gym. Atsumu’s ears turned pink, but he held his ground. He’d been experimenting for weeks—tinted lip balm first, then eyeliner, then a skirt at a team dinner, and now this. The team had gotten used to it, but they still found it hilarious.

Ginjima clapped him on the back. “Lookin’ good, Miya. Really leanin’ into the whole… thing.”

“What thing?” Atsumu demanded, voice cracking.

“The pretty thing,” Suna supplied, not looking up from his phone. “It’s workin’, by the way. He definitely noticed.”

Atsumu’s heart did a traitorous flip. He forced himself not to look toward the gym entrance where Kita Shinsuke would arrive any minute, calm and composed and completely oblivious to the chaos he’d caused in Atsumu’s chest.

“I dunno what yer talkin’ about,” Atsumu said, but his hands were already clammy under the acrylics.

Practice started, and Atsumu discovered a new kind of suffering: setting with long nails. The first toss went wild, spinning off his index finger like a drunk top. The second wobbled so bad it nearly hit Omimi in the face.

“Oi, Miya! What’s wrong with yer sets?” Coach Kurosu yelled.

“Nothin’!” Atsumu yelled back, flexing his fingers. The nails clicked together. He wanted to die.

Osamu, his partner for drills, just stared. “Yer nails are messin’ with yer spin.”

“I know that, genius! Ya think I don’t know?”

“Then why wear ’em?”

Atsumu’s face went red. “Because they’re pretty, alright?!”

The team exchanged glances. Suna’s smirk deepened. Osamu sighed—the sound of a man who’d long accepted his brother was an idiot.

After practice, Osamu cornered Atsumu in the locker room. The rest had filtered out, leaving just the two of them in the humid air that smelled like sweat and fabric softener.

“Spill it,” Osamu said, crossing his arms. “Why are ya suddenly dressin’ like a magazine cover?”

Atsumu tried to brush past him. “None of yer business.”

“I’ll stop makin’ ya onigiri.”

Atsumu froze. Low blow. And Osamu knew it. The onigiri—perfectly seasoned, warm, shaped with precision—were the only thing that got Atsumu through long practice days.

“That’s not fair,” Atsumu whined.

“Life ain’t fair. Talk.”

Atsumu slumped against the lockers, the metal cool against his bare back. He stared at the ceiling, at the fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped insects. “I like someone, alright?”

Osamu’s eyebrows shot up. “Who?”

“I ain’t tellin’ ya.”

“Is it that girl from the literature club? The one with the braids?”

“No!”

“The manager from the basketball team?”

“Osamu, I swear—”

“Kita-san?”

Atsumu’s mouth snapped shut. His face went from pink to crimson in record time. Osamu watched the color spread like a sunrise, and a slow, incredulous grin spread across his face.

“Oh my god,” Osamu said. “It is.”

“Don’t say it like that!” Atsumu buried his face in his hands. “I can’t help it, okay? He’s just… so stable. And his eyes are real pretty. And when he says my name it sounds like honey. And—”

“I’m gonna stop ya there before I throw up,” Osamu said, but his voice had lost its edge. He uncrossed his arms and sighed. “So ya decided to dress up to get his attention?”

“I wanted to look pretty for him,” Atsumu mumbled into his palms. “He’s always so put together. I thought maybe if I looked nice, he’d notice me.”

Osamu was quiet for a moment. Then, to Atsumu’s surprise, he reached out and ruffled his brother’s hair—gently, the way he used to when they were kids.

“Kita-san’s a good man,” Osamu said. “He’s responsible, hardworkin’, and he don’t take crap from nobody. If yer gonna fall for anyone, at least ya got good taste.”

Atsumu looked up, eyes wide. “So… ya ain’t mad?”

“Mad? I’m impressed ya finally got the guts to do somethin’ about yer feelings instead of mopin’ around like a wet cat.” Osamu’s grin turned sharp. “But if he breaks yer heart, I’ll bury him in a rice paddy.”

“That’s… weirdly sweet?”

“Don’t get used to it. Now come on, I’ll buy ya some melon bread. Yer gonna need the energy if yer gonna keep up this whole ‘look pretty’ routine.”

Atsumu beamed, and for a moment, the weight in his chest felt lighter.

Over the next two weeks, Atsumu escalated his campaign with the precision of a general planning a siege. Hair gloss treatment that made his strands shine like spun gold. A new dress—soft, flowy, pale pink—that he’d never have dared to wear before. He practiced walking in heels in his room at night, wobbling down the hallway while Osamu yelled at him to “stop clackin’ around like a horse.”

But his target remained infuriatingly unreadable.

Kita Shinsuke was a fortress of calm. Arrived at practice early, organized equipment, went through warm-ups with that same focused intensity. Polite, reserved, completely immune to Atsumu’s charms.

Atsumu tried everything. Touched Kita’s arm during water breaks, fingers lingering a second too long. Batted his eyelashes—honestly, what else were they for? Positioned himself so the afternoon sun caught his glossed hair just right.

And Kita noticed. Atsumu could tell by the way his gaze would flicker, just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. But he never said anything. Never reacted. Just nodded, said “Thanks” when Atsumu handed him a towel, and went back to his sets.

Driving Atsumu insane.

But then, something shifted.

Kita started rolling up his sleeves during practice.

Small thing, barely noticeable at first. He’d always worn his jersey neatly, but now he’d push the fabric up past his elbows, exposing forearms corded with lean muscle. During stretching, he’d arch his back a little more, his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders. After practice, extra pull-ups on the bar, back flexing with each deliberate movement.

The team noticed. Of course they noticed.

“Did Kita-san just flex at Miya?” Suna whispered to Omimi.

“I think he did.”

“Oh, it’s on.”

The shipping was unofficial but unanimous. Even first-years caught on, exchanging knowing glances whenever Atsumu’s latest outfit coincided with Kita rolling up his sleeves just a little higher.

The training session that cemented their status as the gym’s favorite potential couple happened on a Thursday.

Coach Kurosu had them doing set-and-spike drills, and Atsumu was assigned to set for Kita. Problem: Atsumu was still wearing his acrylic nails. He’d refused to take them off, insisting they made his hands look “delicate and elegant.”

The first set he sent wobbled like a jellyfish. Kita adjusted his approach, jumped, spiked it anyway—right into the net.

“Sorry!” Atsumu called, mortified.

Kita didn’t say anything. Just retrieved the ball, tossed it back, waited.

The second set was worse. The ball slipped off Atsumu’s nail and flew sideways. Kita, instead of letting it fall, dove and managed to bump it back up with his forearms. The ball arced gracefully, then dropped dead.

“Nice try,” Kita said, and there it was—the faintest ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Atsumu’s brain short-circuited. Knees went weak. He stood there, mouth open, while the team wolf-whistled.

“Ya alright there, Miya?” Ginjima called. “Look like ya seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine!” Atsumu squeaked, voice an octave higher. “Totally fine! Let’s go again!”

The next set was perfect. Atsumu didn’t know how—maybe adrenaline, maybe the sheer force of Kita’s smile still burning in his memory—but the ball left his fingers clean, spinning exactly as it should, and Kita punished it with a spike that shook the gym.

After that, Atsumu was lost.

He devised his grand plan on a Friday afternoon, hunched over his phone in the corner of the gym while the others packed up.

“I need a jersey,” he muttered.

“Ya have like eight,” Osamu said from behind him.

“Not my jersey. Kita-san’s jersey.”

Silence.

“Ya wanna wear his number? His number? The one the fans buy?”

“Yes.”

“Atsumu, that’s…”

“Brilliant? Iconic?”

“Concerning.”

But Atsumu had already placed the order. It arrived three days later, and he spent the entire night before the big day planning. White jersey with Kita’s number 1 on the back. Flowing white skirt that hit just above his knees. Heeled sandals that gave him an extra three inches.

When he walked out of the house that morning, Osamu was sipping coffee on the porch. He took one look at Atsumu, sighed, and pulled out his phone.

“What are ya doin’?” Atsumu asked.

“Preservin’ this moment for posterity. Also blackmail.”

“Osamu!”

“Say cheese.”

Atsumu flipped him off, but he was grinning. The morning air was cool. The jersey smelled like new fabric. He felt… brave. Stupid, maybe. But brave.

The walk to school was a gauntlet of stares and whispers, but Atsumu held his head high. He was Miya Atsumu, setter for Inarizaki, and he was going to win Kita Shinsuke’s heart if it killed him.

The gym doors loomed ahead. He pushed them open.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Every single member of the volleyball team stopped what they were doing. Suna’s water bottle slipped from his hand. Omimi choked on air. Even Ginjima, who’d seen Atsumu in progressively more daring outfits, looked like someone hit him with a frying pan.

Then Omimi cleared his throat. “Princess Atsumu has arrived.”

The gym erupted.

Atsumu’s face burned. He wanted to sink through the floor, disappear, rewind time and never have this idea. But he’d come this far. He wasn’t going to run.

“Shut up!” he yelled, but his voice cracked, and the laughter grew louder.

Osamu, who’d followed him in, just leaned against the wall watching. Phone out, recording. Atsumu was going to kill him.

But then the laughter died.

Kita had arrived.

He stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning the room with his usual calm. Then they landed on Atsumu.

Kita paused.

The silence stretched. Atsumu felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the push.

Kita walked toward him. Measured, unhurried steps. Stopped right in front of Atsumu, close enough that Atsumu could smell laundry detergent and something earthy.

“It’s a bit big,” Kita said, and before Atsumu could react, he reached out and adjusted the jersey. His fingers brushed Atsumu’s shoulder, light as a feather. He tugged the fabric slightly, smoothing it down. “There. Better.”

Atsumu’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

Kita’s ears were red. Bright, unmistakable red, spreading from the tips down to his neck. But his voice was steady when he said, “It suits you.”

The team erupted again, but this time it wasn’t mocking. Cheers and whoops and Suna literally falling onto Omimi’s shoulder, cackling.

Atsumu stood frozen, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. Kita gave him one last look—a small, almost imperceptible nod—and then walked to his usual spot to start warm-ups.

Practice was a blur. Atsumu played like a man possessed. Sets were sharp, serves lethal. The nails didn’t bother him anymore—they were weapons now, extensions of his will. Every time he looked up, Kita was there, moving with that quiet confidence, and Atsumu wanted to be worthy of it.

During water break, Kita walked over and handed him a towel. The one Kita had been using.

“Come to the rooftop after practice,” Kita said, so softly Atsumu almost missed it.

Then he walked away, leaving Atsumu clutching the towel like a lifeline.

The rest of practice crawled. Atsumu couldn’t focus. Every time he caught Osamu’s eye, his brother just shrugged and mouthed, “Good luck.”

When Coach finally called it, Atsumu was out the door before anyone could stop him. Took the stairs two at a time, heeled sandals clacking against concrete, and burst onto the rooftop breathless.

Kita was already there, leaning against the railing, looking out at the town below. The sunset painted the sky orange and pink, casting long shadows across the rooftop.

“Ya came,” Kita said, not turning around.

“’Course I came.” Atsumu walked up beside him, heart hammering. “Ya asked.”

Kita was quiet for a long moment. The wind picked up, ruffling his hair—the same hair Atsumu had spent weeks fantasizing about running his fingers through.

“Why are ya dressin’ like this?” Kita asked finally.

Atsumu’s throat tightened. He’d prepared for this. Rehearsed answers in front of the mirror. Cocky answers, flirty answers, answers that deflected with humor. But standing here, under Kita’s steady gaze, nothing felt right except the truth.

“Because I wanted to be pretty for ya,” he said, voice small. “I wanted ya to notice me. To look at me the way I look at ya.”

The words hung in the air. Atsumu felt exposed, raw, like he’d peeled off his skin and handed it over.

Kita turned to face him. Expression unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, warm eyes—held something Atsumu had never seen before. Vulnerability.

“Ya don’t have to change,” Kita said slowly. “I already noticed ya. I’ve been noticin’ ya for a long time.”

Atsumu’s breath caught.

“But I like that ya tried,” Kita continued, and now his lips curved into a real smile, soft and genuine. “I like that ya put in the effort. It means somethin’.”

Before Atsumu could process, Kita reached out and took his hand—the one with the acrylic nails, the ones that had caused so much trouble. Lifted it to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to Atsumu’s knuckles.

“Let’s go get dinner,” Kita said. “I’ll pay.”

Atsumu’s brain short-circuited. His heart grew wings and flew straight into the sunset. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally managed to squeak out, “Okay.”

Kita laughed—actually laughed, a quiet, wonderful sound—and laced their fingers together. “Let’s go before the team finds us.”

They made it down the stairs and out the side gate before anyone spotted them. But word traveled fast. Suna had been watching from the third-floor window, phone already recording. By the time they reached the convenience store, the team group chat was blowing up with screenshots and emojis.

Osamu, sitting on the school steps with a bag of chips, watched his brother walk hand-in-hand with Kita Shinsuke, still wearing that ridiculous jersey and skirt, and smiled.

“Took ya long enough,” he muttered, and snapped one last photo for the album.

The next morning, Atsumu showed up to practice in normal clothes—simple t-shirt and shorts, no makeup, no nails. But on his wrist, he wore a thin leather bracelet. And on Kita’s wrist, there was an identical one.

The team howled.

“Matching bracelets?!” Omimi yelled. “Already?!”

“It ain’t official till we see a kiss!” Suna shouted.

“Shut up!” Atsumu yelled, but he was grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

Kita walked past him, brushing his shoulder. “Good morning,” he said, and there was that faint smile again.

Atsumu thought his heart might actually explode.

Practice proceeded, and for the first time in weeks, Atsumu’s sets were flawless. He didn’t need the nails or the dresses or the heels. He was already pretty enough.

But he still wore the bracelet.

And so did Kita.

And at the end of practice, when the team was packing up, Kita walked over and whispered, “Same place, same time?”

Atsumu nodded, face splitting into a grin. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The team watched them leave together, shoulder to shoulder, and Suna sighed dramatically.

“They grow up so fast.”

“Shut up,” Osamu said, but he was smiling too.