The Fox Below His Elbow

The gym smelled like sweat and rubber, the kind of smell that sticks to your skin long after you leave. Practice had been brutal—the good kind, where your lungs burn and your legs shake and you feel alive. Atsumu Miya lived for that. The sting of a perfect set, the crack of a spike, the way the ball seemed to float before finding its mark. But today, something else had his attention.

Suna Rintarou had been gone for two weeks. Family trip, he said. No big deal. But when he walked through those gym doors that afternoon, Atsumu almost dropped the ball.

Suna had always been lean, lanky—a middle blocker with long limbs and that lazy elegance that made his blocks look effortless. Now? His shoulders were broader. His practice jersey stretched tight over biceps that hadn't been there before. His hair was shorter on the sides, swept back, showing off the sharp line of his jaw. And his usual slouch? Still there, but now it carried weight.

Then Atsumu saw the tattoo. Small fox, maybe the size of a thumbprint, tucked just below his left elbow. Subtle, hidden among the veins. But Atsumu saw it. He saw everything.

"Yo," Suna said, voice flat as ever. He dropped his bag by the bench, stretched his arms overhead. His shirt lifted, just a sliver of stomach showing. "Miss me?"

Osamu snorted from across the gym. "Not even a little."

Atsumu didn't answer. His mouth was dry. He watched Suna roll his shoulders, watched the way his back muscles shifted under the fabric, and felt something hot twist in his chest. Not jealousy. Not admiration. Something worse.

Attraction. Pure, stupid, I want to touch him attraction.

He'd always thought Suna was good-looking, in that distant, abstract way. Like a nice photo. But this was different. This was visceral, the kind of pull that made him want to cross the gym and see if that skin was as warm as it looked, if the fox had been inked with the same care Suna put into everything.

Atsumu swallowed. Forced his gaze away. Needed a second. Maybe five.

"Uh, bathroom," he muttered, and was gone before anyone could answer.

The bathroom was empty, thank god. He gripped the sink, stared at his reflection. Hair messy from practice, skin flushed, eyes bright. But there was something else now. A nervous flutter, like before a big match.

He pulled a small makeup bag from his gym bag. Red lipstick. Mascara. He didn't wear them often—only when he felt like it, when he wanted to feel more like himself. Right now, he needed armor. Something to make him feel bold, unshakable, the way he did on the court.

He traced the lipstick along his lips, sharp and crimson. Then carefully applied mascara, lengthening his lashes until they framed his eyes like dark fans.

There. Ready.

He walked back into the gym with renewed confidence. Team was warming up, scattered across the court. Suna stood near the net talking to Osamu, arms crossed, that infuriatingly calm look on his face. He looked up when Atsumu approached, and his eyes flicked—just for a second—to Atsumu's lips.

Atsumu stopped a few feet away, cocked his hip, tilted his head. Let the silence stretch. Then he said it.

"Sorry I did not see the vision… Baby baby mmm."

Cheesy. Ridiculous. Exactly the kind of line he'd never use. But with Suna looking at him like that, it felt right.

Suna blinked. For a split second, his composure cracked. Lips parted, a faint flush crept up his neck. He looked almost shocked—a rare, precious sight that made Atsumu's heart hammer.

Then he recovered. Let out a low laugh, shook his head, and the corner of his mouth curled into that familiar smirk. "That's your pickup line? Really?"

"It worked, didn't it?" Atsumu grinned. "You're blushin'."

"I'm not blushing. I'm embarrassed for you."

"Same thing."

Across the gym, Osamu had frozen mid-serve, eyes wide. He stared at his brother, then at Suna, then back at Atsumu. Opened his mouth, closed it. Finally just shook his head and turned away, muttering something that sounded like "finally."

Practice resumed, but Atsumu felt Suna's gaze on him the whole session. Every set, every spike—he was acutely aware of those hooded eyes following him. Intoxicating.

When the final whistle blew, Suna sidled up to him during cool-down. Didn't sit too close, just close enough that Atsumu could smell his detergent. Clean, subtle.

"So," Suna said, stretching his legs out, "you really went to put on lipstick just to flirt with me?"

Atsumu's cheeks burned. Thought he'd been subtle. "Maybe."

"You put on mascara too."

"Observant."

"I'm a middle blocker. I notice everything."

They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the ventilation system filling the space. Then Suna spoke again, quieter. "It looks good on you."

Atsumu's heart stuttered. "Thanks."

"But next time, try a better line."

That made Atsumu laugh, a real laugh, and the tension eased. "What would you suggest?"

"Don't know. Maybe just say 'hi' like a normal person."

"Boring."

"Effective."

That was the start of it.

---

Over the next few weeks, they started orbiting each other. Small stuff—Suna waiting for him to pack up after practice, Atsumu sliding into the seat next to him at lunch. Their conversations mixed sharp banter with unexpected softness, the kind that comes from spending hours together.

They discovered things they'd never talked about. Suna loved old horror movies, the black-and-white ones with cheesy effects. Atsumu had a secret passion for baking—he'd never admit it to anyone except maybe Osamu. They both hated mornings, both loved the smell of rain on concrete, both had a competitive streak that turned practice games into bloody battles.

But it was the quiet moments that mattered most.

One evening, after a particularly intense practice, they sat on the gym steps outside, watching the sky turn pink and orange. Atsumu had taken off his knee pads, rubbing a sore spot on his thigh. Suna sat beside him, a water bottle dangling from his fingers.

"Can I ask you something?" Suna said, not looking at him.

"Sure."

"Why do you wear makeup? To practice, I mean."

Atsumu tensed. He'd gotten that question before, but not like that. He took a breath. "I like how it makes me feel. Like I'm more myself. Does that sound stupid?"

"No," Suna said. "It doesn't."

"Some people think it's weird. 'Specially for a guy. Especially for a volleyball player."

"Those people are idiots."

Atsumu smiled, but it was thin. "I know. But it still gets to me sometimes. I used to think I'd have to change, tone it down, to find someone who'd want to be with me. But I don't want to do that. I'd rather wait for someone who likes me for who I am."

Suna was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "That's brave."

"Nah. Just stubborn."

"Same thing."

They fell into silence again, but it felt heavier. Charged with something unspoken.

---

A week later, Atsumu noticed the fox tattoo again. They were in the club room after practice, everyone else gone, and Suna had rolled up his sleeve to check his phone. The small fox sat there, dark and elegant against his skin.

"Why a fox?" Atsumu asked, nodding toward it.

Suna looked down at his arm, then back up at Atsumu. Something careful in his gaze. "Because… I wanted to match someone."

Atsumu's breath caught. "What?"

Suna set his phone down, turned to face him fully. "Do you remember when you got your tattoo?"

Atsumu's hand moved instinctively to his own left forearm, where a small, stylized fox sat nestled among the tendons. He'd gotten it last year, on a whim—because foxes were clever and quick, reminded him of the court. He'd never told anyone the real reason: because they reminded him of Suna.

"I remember," he said slowly.

"I saw it the day you got it. You were showing Osamu in the hallway. And I thought… I thought it was beautiful. And I wanted something that connected me to you."

Atsumu's throat tightened. "Suna…"

"I've been into you for a long time," Suna continued, voice steady but quiet. "Before the muscles, before the haircut. Before any of that. I just… never knew how to say it."

"So you got a tattoo."

"So I got a tattoo." Suna laughed, soft and self-deprecating. "I'm not good with words. I'm better with actions."

Atsumu didn't know what to say. He reached out, slowly, and traced the outline of the fox on Suna's arm. The skin was warm, the ink slightly raised.

"I like your actions," he whispered.

Suna caught his hand, threading their fingers together. "Does that mean you like me?"

"You're so annoying."

"That's not a no."

Atsumu looked up, met Suna's eyes. Dark, deep, full of something that made his chest ache. "It's a yes. It's a yes."

---

The confession came later that night, under the gym lights.

They'd stayed late, hitting serves until their arms hurt. The gym was empty, doors locked, only sound the rhythmic thud of balls hitting the floor. Atsumu was about to call it quits when Suna caught the ball mid-air and held it.

"Let's take a break."

They sat in the center of the court, bright lights casting long shadows. Atsumu's lipstick had worn off, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He felt raw, exposed, strangely free.

"I meant what I said," Atsumu started, staring at his hands. "About waiting for the right person."

Suna shifted closer. "I know."

"And I think… I've been waiting without knowing it. For you."

Suna's breath hitched. "Atsumu."

"I want to be with you. Wake up next to you, go to practice, argue about stupid crap. I want to teach you eyeliner. I want you at my matches. I want—"

Suna kissed him.

Soft at first, tentative, like asking permission. Atsumu leaned into it, hands coming up to cup his face, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, and he felt like he was falling—like gravity had shifted and he was finally where he was meant to be.

When they broke apart, breathing hard, Suna rested his forehead against Atsumu's.

"I've been waiting too," he murmured. "I just didn't know it."

---

They started dating quietly, then not so quietly. The team caught on fast—Ginjima noticed because Atsumu suddenly brought two bento boxes to lunch. Kita gave them a knowing smile but said nothing. Aran laughed and gave Atsumu a thumbs-up.

Osamu, predictably, was insufferable.

"So," he said one morning while Atsumu checked his makeup in the club room mirror, "you and Suna finally get your act together?"

"None of your business," Atsumu snapped, but his ears were red.

"Just sayin'. Took you long enough. I was startin' to think you'd never make a move."

"I made a move."

"You used a pickup line from a meme."

"It worked, didn't it?"

Osamu just shook his head and walked away, muttering something about "idiots in love."

But the teasing was good-natured. Soon the whole team accepted them as a pair—Atsumu and Suna, the setter and the middle blocker who were inexplicably, perfectly, in love.

Atsumu taught Suna how to do his makeup, though Suna preferred to just watch. "I like seeing you do it," he said one evening, perched on Atsumu's bed while Atsumu sat at his vanity. "It's like watching an artist work."

"You're just lazy."

"Maybe."

Suna attended every match, sitting in the stands with his camera. He captured Atsumu mid-jump, mid-serve, mid-smile. Filled an entire album with photos of him. When Atsumu found it, he cried—just a little.

They argued, obviously. About whose turn it was to do laundry, about whether horror movies were better than action, about the correct way to fold a gym uniform. But they always made up, because Suna would look at him with those calm eyes and say, "You're impossible," and Atsumu would laugh and say, "But you love me."

"Yeah," Suna would answer, voice soft. "I really do."

---

One night, after a victory against a tough rival, the team celebrated at a local diner. Air thick with laughter and the smell of fried food. Atsumu sat next to Suna, knees brushing under the table, and felt so content it almost hurt.

Suna leaned in, lips brushing Atsumu's ear. "I'm glad I got that tattoo."

Atsumu turned, smile wide and genuine. "Me too."

He reached under the table and took Suna's hand, interlacing their fingers. The fox ink was hidden by his sleeve, but he knew it was there—a promise, a connection, a beginning.

"So," Atsumu said, voice teasing, "what's next? Matching piercings?"

"Don't tempt me."

"Maybe a couple's bracelet?"

"Only if it's leather."

"You're impossible."

Suna smiled, slow and sweet. "But you love me."

Atsumu squeezed his hand, heart full to bursting. "Yeah," he said. "I really do."

The diner buzzed around them—teammates arguing over the last fry, the jukebox playing an old rock song, the night stretching warm and infinite. And in that moment, Atsumu Miya knew he'd found exactly what he'd been waiting for.