The Humming of French Love Songs

The bus hummed along the highway, tires thumping a steady rhythm against the asphalt. Inside, the Inarizaki boys' volleyball team sprawled across the seats in various states of collapse. The AC was fighting a losing battle against late summer heat, and every few seconds someone laughed or yelled something across the aisle.

Atsumu Miya had his forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching the endless green fields blur past. Legs stretched out, ankles crossed, hands loose in his lap. He was humming—soft, almost to himself—some melody that curled through the bus like smoke.

It was a French love song. Osamu had put on a playlist once, and the tune got stuck. His voice was light, clear, pretty. Feminine, almost—a weird contrast to the sharp-mouthed setter everyone knew. But here, in the quiet of the bus, it was kind of mesmerizing.

A few teammates stopped talking to listen. Ginjima had his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. Akagi nodded along, tapping his fingers on his knee. Even Kita, a few rows ahead, tilted his head slightly. Eyes on the window, but clearly somewhere else.

The song faded. Atsumu blinked, realized the silence. Turned, caught the looks. "What?" he said, voice a little defensive. "Was I bein' loud?"

"Nah," Osamu said from across the aisle, sprawled in his seat with one earbud dangling. "Just pretty. You sound like a girl."

Atsumu's ears went red. "Shut up, Samu."

"No, really." Suna leaned forward from the seat behind Osamu, phone in hand, eyes sharp. "That was nice. You should sing more often. Maybe at the next match. Distract the other team."

"I'm not a jukebox," Atsumu muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He was pleased, despite himself.

"You'd be a hit at karaoke," Ginjima added. "Atsumu, the secret songbird."

"Yeah, yeah." Atsumu waved a hand, but the compliment stuck. He turned back to the window, started humming again, quieter. The song was sad—something about lost love and longing—and he let the melody carry him.

The teasing started innocent enough. Osamu, never one to let a moment of vulnerability slide, leaned over the aisle. "Hey, remember that time in first year when you were singin' in the shower so loud the whole dorm heard?"

Atsumu groaned. "Samu, we don't talk about that."

"Why not? It was cute." Osamu grinned, eyes glinting. "He was beltin' out some pop song, and the water was off. Didn't even notice."

"I was tryin' to hit a high note," Atsumu said, face burning.

Suna snickered. "I remember that. You sounded like a dying cat."

"I did not!"

"You did," Osamu confirmed. "But then you got better. Now you sound like a very talented dying cat."

The team laughed. Atsumu shoved Osamu's shoulder. "You're one to talk. I've heard you mumble in your sleep."

"That's different. I'm not conscious."

"Neither were you when you threw up after that big dinner before the prelims," Suna said, voice casual. "Remember? You ate three servings of yakiniku and then puked in the bushes."

"That was you, Rintarou."

"No, it was definitely you. I have a photo."

Teasing escalated, banter light and familiar. They were a team; they knew each other's weak spots. But as minutes passed, jokes got sharper. Osamu, spurred by Suna's encouragement, started revealing more personal stuff.

"Remember when Atsumu cried after we lost to Karasuno in that practice match?" Osamu said, voice a little too loud. "He locked himself in the bathroom for an hour."

"I was takin' a crap!"

"You were sobbin'," Suna said. "I heard you."

Atsumu's smile tightened. "Okay, that's enough."

But they didn't stop. The team, caught up in easy camaraderie, didn't notice the cracks forming. They were just having fun. That's what friends did.

Suna leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried. "Oh, I've got a good one. You know how Atsumu's always been weird about Kita-san?"

Atsumu's heart stopped. His hands curled into fists on his knees.

"He's had a crush on him since first year," Suna said, grinning. "Since we were fourteen. Used to follow him around like a puppy. Remember, Osamu? He'd find excuses to be near him. 'Oh, Kita-san, can you help me with my toss? Oh, Kita-san, you're so good at receiving.' It was pathetic."

The bus went silent. Laughter died.

Atsumu's face went white. He stared at Suna, then at Osamu, who had the decency to look away. Mouth opened, but no words came. He felt the weight of everyone's eyes—shock, pity, awkward shift in the air.

He forced a smile. Brittle. Cracked mask. "It's not a big deal," he said, voice too high. "I was just—it was a phase. I don't—"

But his eyes betrayed him. Tears welled up, spilled over before he could stop them. He blinked, and they traced hot paths down his cheeks. He tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strangled.

"Atsumu—" Osamu started.

"Don't." Sharp, cutting. Hands shaking. Chest started to tighten—that familiar pressure building. He gasped, tried to draw in air, but it felt thin. Not enough.

"Hey, you okay?" Aran stood up a few rows back. "Atsumu, you're hyperventilatin'."

"I'm fine," Atsumu choked out. Breathing ragged, each inhale a struggle. Vision blurred. He doubled over, grabbed a nearby bag, and emptied the contents of his stomach into it. Team scrambled.

"Someone get his inhaler!" Akagi shouted.

"Where is it? Atsumu, where's your inhaler?"

Atsumu couldn't answer. Shaking now, hands white-knuckled on the bag. Breathing became a series of shallow, panicked gasps. The familiar wheeze of asthma filled the bus.

Osamu was on his feet, patting down Atsumu's bag. "It's not here! He must've left it at the hotel."

"We're in the middle of nowhere," Ginjima said, looking out at the endless fields. "Nearest hospital's at least an hour away."

Panic rippled through the team. Suna's face had gone pale, earlier smirk wiped clean. "I didn't mean—I didn't know he'd—"

"Shut up," Osamu snapped, voice cracking.

Atsumu's gasps grew louder, more desperate. Eyes wide, glassy. Body started to tremble violently. He slumped in his seat, head lolling back. The bag slipped from his fingers.

"He's not breathin'!" Aran yelled.

Team froze. No one knew what to do. Athletes, not medics. The bus driver pulled over, but there was nothing he could do.

And then Kita Shinsuke stood up.

He'd been quiet the whole time, sitting in the front row, back to the commotion. But now he turned, and his calm, steady gaze swept over the team. He didn't speak. Just walked down the aisle, steps unhurried, presence a quiet anchor in the storm of voices.

He knelt in front of Atsumu's seat. Atsumu's eyes were rolling back, lips blue. Chest heaved but barely moved.

"Atsumu." Kita's voice was low, soft. "Look at me."

Atsumu's gaze struggled to focus, but he found Kita's face. Fear and shame warred in his expression.

Kita didn't hesitate. He leaned in, pressed his lips to Atsumu's.

The bus went utterly silent.

It wasn't a kiss of passion—it was a demonstration. Kita breathed slowly, deeply, into Atsumu's mouth, then pulled back, waiting for Atsumu to exhale. Did it again, and again, rhythm steady, deliberate.

"Breathe with me," Kita whispered against his lips. "In… and out. In… and out."

Atsumu's body fought him, but slowly, painfully, his breathing started to sync with Kita's. Gasps became slower. Trembling eased. Color returned to his lips. Eyes, once wild, grew calm.

The team watched, hardly breathing themselves. No one dared speak.

After what felt like forever, Atsumu's breathing stabilized. He sagged in his seat, exhausted, head lolling forward. Kita sat back on his heels, hands resting on his knees. Face expressionless, but his eyes held a deep, quiet concern.

"He needs rest," Kita said, voice even. "And water. And when we get to a convenience store, we'll get him a new inhaler."

A collective exhale of relief. Osamu slumped into his seat, face buried in his hands. Suna stared at the floor, jaw tight. Team murmured apologies, but Kita held up a hand.

"Enough," he said. "We'll talk later. For now, give him space."

He stood, but before he walked back to his seat, he paused. Looked down at Atsumu, who was fighting to stay awake, eyes half-closed.

"Atsumu."

Atsumu's gaze flickered up.

"That song you were singing," Kita said softly. "It's beautiful."

Then he walked away.

The rest of the trip passed in a subdued haze. No one laughed. No one teased. The team took turns checking on Atsumu, who slept most of the ride, breathing steady but shallow. Kita sat in his usual seat, reading a book, but his eyes would occasionally drift to the window, reflecting the passing landscape.

When they finally stopped at a roadside rest area, Osamu bought a new inhaler and handed it to Atsumu without a word. Their eyes met—a brief, silent exchange of apology and forgiveness. Suna approached later, head bowed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think—"

"I know," Atsumu said, voice hoarse. "Just… don't do it again."

Suna nodded and walked away.

Later that evening, after they'd checked into the hotel and the team had dispersed to their rooms, Atsumu found himself on the rooftop, staring at the stars. Air cool. City lights glittering in the distance.

Footsteps behind him. Soft, deliberate. He didn't need to turn.

"How are you feeling?" Kita asked, stopping a few feet away.

"Better." Atsumu's voice still raw. "Thanks, Kita-san. For… what you did."

Kita moved to stand beside him, hands in his pockets. "You don't have to thank me. I only did what needed to be done."

Atsumu laughed, a bitter sound. "Yeah, but you didn't have to kiss me in front of everyone."

"It was the quickest way to regulate your breathing. I apologize if it made you uncomfortable."

"No, it's not that—" Atsumu stopped, cheeks flushing. "I mean, it was fine. It worked. I'm grateful. It's just…" He trailed off, staring at his shoes.

Kita was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke, voice thoughtful. "Suna said you've had a crush on me since we were fourteen."

Atsumu's heart lurched. He opened his mouth to deny it, to deflect, but the words died. He nodded—a small, jerky movement.

"I see." Kita turned to look at him, gaze steady. "And now?"

"Now what?"

"Now that I know. Does it change anything?"

Atsumu swallowed hard. "I don't know. I mean—I didn't want you to know. I didn't want anyone to know. It's stupid. Just a stupid crush."

"It's not stupid," Kita said. "Feelings are never stupid. They're just… what they are."

Atsumu looked up, surprised. Kita's face was unreadable, but there was a softness in his eyes Atsumu had never seen before.

"You saved my life today," Atsumu said, voice barely above a whisper.

"I did what anyone would do."

"No," Atsumu insisted. "No one else knew what to do. You did. You kissed me."

Kita's lips twitched—almost a smile. "And if I told you I didn't mind kissing you?"

Atsumu's breath caught. "What?"

Kita stepped closer, close enough that Atsumu could feel the warmth radiating from him. "I've known about your crush for a while," he said. "I'm not oblivious. But I didn't want to say anything because I wasn't sure what I felt. Today, when I saw you struggling, I knew."

"Knew what?"

Kita reached out, fingers brushing Atsumu's cheek. "That I care about you. More than I realized."

Atsumu's eyes widened. Heart pounded so loud he was sure Kita could hear it. "You're not just sayin' that because I almost died?"

"No." Kita's hand dropped, but his gaze held Atsumu's. "I'm saying it because it's true. And because I think you deserve to know."

For a long moment, neither spoke. Stars wheeled overhead. Night air wrapped around them like a blanket.

Then Atsumu smiled—a real smile, fragile but genuine. "Okay," he said. "I can work with that."

Kita nodded, a hint of warmth in his eyes. "Good. Now get some sleep. You have a competition tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah." Atsumu turned to go, but paused. "Kita-san?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For everything."

Kita inclined his head. "You're welcome, Atsumu."

Atsumu walked back toward the rooftop door, steps lighter than they'd been in years. Behind him, Kita remained, looking up at the stars, a quiet smile on his lips.

The bus ride the next morning was different. Team careful, almost overly polite, but slowly the normal banter returned. Osamu sat next to Atsumu, and they shared a pair of earbuds, listening to music. Suna made a few dry comments, but tempered, gentler. The team had learned something about boundaries, about the weight of words.

And Kita—Kita sat in his usual seat, reading his book. But when Atsumu hummed that same French love song under his breath, he saw Kita's fingers pause on the page, a slight curve to his lips.

Atsumu smiled and kept humming. The road stretched ahead, long and full of possibilities.