The Long Ride Home

The Inarizaki bus smelled like convenience store onigiri, stale AC, and twenty teenage boys who’d been cooped up for three hours. The afternoon sun slanted through the tinted windows, painting everything gold as the highway blurred past. Up front, Ginjima and Akagi were arguing over some card game, voices rising and falling in that familiar bickering they did every trip. Aran had his headphones on in the middle rows, nodding along to something slow. The team had settled into the usual rhythm—some slept, some scrolled, most just talked to kill time.

Atsumu Miya sprawled across two seats near the center, one leg propped against the window, the other dangling off the edge. He was in the middle of a dramatic retelling of last week’s practice match, complete with hand gestures and exaggerated sound effects. Osamu sat beside him, arms crossed, pretending to be annoyed but listening anyway. Across the aisle, Suna Rintarou had his chin propped on his hand, a lazy smirk playing at his lips.

“And then I set it—perfect, if I do say so myself—and boom! Point.” Atsumu grinned, wide and proud.

“You mean you set it too high and Aran had to jump an extra ten centimeters,” Osamu said flatly.

“Same thing.”

“It ain’t the same thing.”

“It literally is,” Suna drawled, inserting himself without invitation. “The net’s regulation height, Atsumu. You just wanted an excuse to show off.”

Atsumu’s grin only widened. “Showin’ off is the point. If you got it, flaunt it.”

“You definitely flaunt it in the shower,” Suna said, dropping his voice to a mock-whisper. “We all heard you last week. Full-on concert. Some Utada Hikaru, some Official Hige Dandism… real range.”

Osamu snorted. “Don’t forget the First Love rendition. He sang it three times.”

“I was warmin’ up my vocal cords!” Atsumu protested, but his cheeks were already pink. He laughed a little too loud, trying to brush it off. “A setter needs good lungs. It’s science.”

“Sure,” Suna said, eyes glinting. “And what about the time you cried during that dog food commercial?”

Atsumu’s laugh faltered. “That was one time. The puppy looked sad, okay?”

“You were sobbin’,” Osamu added, deadpan. “Full-on tears. Mom had to bring you tissues.”

The teasing was light—harmless ribbing, the kind that happened on every long trip. Atsumu could take it. He was used to being the center of attention, the loud one, the one everyone felt comfortable poking fun at. So he laughed again, even as the heat crept up his neck.

But Osamu and Suna didn’t stop.

“Remember the time he tried to dye his hair blond and it turned orange?” Osamu said, nudging Suna.

“For three weeks. He looked like a pumpkin.”

“A very volleyball-obsessed pumpkin.”

Atsumu forced a grin. “It was a good look. You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous of what? Your commitment to being extra?” Suna leaned forward, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that carried further than he intended. “Or your secret love letters to some mystery girl you’ve been pining over since middle school?”

The bus went quiet for a beat. A few heads turned. Atsumu’s heart stumbled.

“That ain’t true,” he said, his voice tighter than he meant. “I don’t write no letters.”

“No?” Suna’s smirk widened. “Then what about that notebook you keep hidden in your duffel? The one with ‘K.S.’ written on the inside cover?”

Atsumu’s blood went cold.

Osamu’s eyes narrowed, sensing something off. “Suna, that’s—”

“K.S.?” Ginjima called from up front, suddenly interested. “Who’s K.S.?”

“Leave it,” Atsumu said, and his voice cracked on the second word. He tried to cover it with a laugh, but it came out wrong—too sharp, too desperate. “It’s nobody. Just a dumb joke.”

But Suna was already in motion, the joke spiraling beyond his control. “Come on, Atsumu, don’t be shy. We’re all friends here. Is it Kiyoko Shimizu? No, she’s Karasuno. Kanoka? No, initials don’t match.”

“Stop,” Atsumu said, quieter now. The playful edge had drained from his voice.

Suna didn’t hear him. Or maybe he did, but he was too caught up in the game—the same game that had worked a thousand times before, where everyone laughed and moved on. “K.S., K.S… Kita Shinsuke? Our captain? No way.” He laughed, waving a hand. “That’s ridiculous. Atsumu wouldn’t have a crush on Kita-san.”

The name hung in the air like a bomb with the pin already pulled.

Atsumu’s entire body went still. The bus felt suddenly too hot, too loud, too full of eyes. He could feel them all—Osamu’s sharp glance, Suna’s fading smirk, the curious stares from the front rows. His chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t say anything.

He stood up, slow and deliberate, like a puppet whose strings were being cut one by one. His face was blank, but his eyes were glassy. He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t want to see the pity or the horror or the guilt that was already dawning on Suna’s face.

“Hey, Atsumu—” Osamu started.

But Atsumu was already walking. Not running. Not storming. Just walking, down the narrow aisle, past Aran who pulled out his earbuds, past Ginjima who opened his mouth to say something, past the two first-years who quickly looked away. He walked all the way to the back, where the seats were empty, where the engine hummed loudest.

He slid into the rear corner seat, pressed his forehead against the cold glass, and let the tears fall.

They weren’t loud. They weren’t dramatic. They just came, silent and steady, tracking down his cheeks and dripping off his jaw. He didn’t bother wiping them away. What was the point? Everyone already knew.

His face was burning with shame.

Behind him, the bus had fallen into a thick, suffocating silence. The card game had stopped. The chatter had died. Even Aran’s music was off.

Suna stared at his own hands, the smirk long gone. “I didn’t mean—” he started, voice barely audible.

Osamu stood, jaw tight. “You went too far.”

“I was just messin’ around. I didn’t think—”

“You never think.” Osamu’s voice was flat, colder than Atsumu had ever heard it. “You just talk.”

Ginjima rubbed the back of his neck. “Should someone go check on him?”

“Let him be,” Akagi said quietly. “Give him space.”

So they did. The bus resumed its motion, but the energy was gone—replaced by a heavy, uncomfortable guilt that seemed to cling to the seats. Suna slumped lower, arms crossed, staring at the floor. Osamu sat back down, arms crossed too, but his eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his brother’s hunched shoulders reflected in it.

No one said a word for the next twenty minutes.

---

At the very front of the bus, Kita Shinsuke had been reading.

He had his earbuds in, a novel balanced on his knee, the quiet hum of the engine enough to drown out the chaos behind him. He was a master of selective attention—a skill honed by years of living with a loud team and even louder grandparents. When the bus went quiet, he noticed. When the laughter stopped, he felt it.

He pulled out one earbud and listened.

The silence was wrong. Tense. None of the usual background chatter, no arguing over snacks, no muffled game sounds from someone’s phone. Just road noise and the uncomfortable shuffle of people not knowing where to look.

Kita marked his page and closed the book.

He stood, steadying himself against the seatbacks as the bus swayed, and made his way toward the rear. He passed his teammates one by one—they all avoided his gaze, which only confirmed something had happened. When he reached the back row, he saw Atsumu.

Atsumu was still pressed against the window, his reflection a blurred mess of red eyes and wet cheeks. He wasn’t crying anymore, but the tear tracks were fresh, and his breath came in uneven shudders.

Kita didn’t ask permission. He simply slid into the seat beside him, leaving a respectful half-meter of space.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Kita said, “Do you want me to stay here, or do you want me to leave?”

Atsumu’s shoulders hitched. He didn’t turn. “You don’t gotta.”

“I know.” Kita’s voice was calm, unhurried. The same voice he used during practice, to settle arguments, to remind Atsumu to breathe when he got too worked up. “But I’m askin’.”

Another long pause. Atsumu’s fingers curled into fists against his thighs. “Stay,” he whispered, and his voice broke on the word.

Kita shifted closer, just slightly. Enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Okay.”

The bus hummed on. The sun shifted lower, painting the interior in shades of orange and dusty pink. Atsumu kept staring out the window, but his breathing slowly steadied. Kita waited. He didn’t push. He didn’t ask what happened. He just stayed, a steady, solid presence in a world that had suddenly turned upside down.

It was Atsumu who broke first.

“They know,” he said, voice hoarse. “Everyone. They know.”

“Know what?”

Atsumu let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t play dumb. You’re too good at it.”

Kita tilted his head, patient. “I’m not playin’ anything. I genuinely don’t know what happened. I had my earbuds in.”

That made Atsumu finally turn. His eyes were swollen, his cheeks blotchy, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked wrecked—not the confident, loud Atsumu of an hour ago, but something fragile and raw.

“Suna,” he said, the name tasting bitter, “he told everyone that I—that I’ve had a crush on someone since I was fourteen.”

Kita’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “That’s a private thing. He shouldn’t have said it.”

“Yeah, well.” Atsumu wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “He did. And now the whole team knows I’ve been in love with you for four years.”

The words hung between them.

Atsumu’s face crumpled. He turned away again, pressing his forehead against the glass. “I’m sorry. I know you probably don’t—you’re the captain, and I’m just—I’m me. I’m loud and annoying and I talk too much and I don’t think before I say things, and you’re you. You’re perfect. You’re calm and smart and everyone respects you, and I’m just the dumb setter who can’t keep his mouth shut.”

Kita listened. He didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” Atsumu continued, his voice cracking again. “I didn’t want you to know at all. I was fine just… lookin’ from afar. It’s safer that way. I ruin everything I touch, and I didn’t wanna ruin this.”

“Atsumu.”

“I’m serious. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to this team, and I’m just the guy who can’t stop messin’ up. I can’t even keep a stupid secret for four years without someone else blurtin’ it out. I’m a disaster.”

“Atsumu.” Kita’s hand landed on his, warm and firm. “Look at me.”

Atsumu hesitated, then turned. His eyes were red-rimmed, his nose running, his whole face a mess. He expected Kita to look uncomfortable. To offer some gentle rejection, some “I’m flattered but—” speech that would leave him shattered but somehow grateful.

Instead, Kita was smiling.

It was small. Barely there. But it was real.

“Four years,” Kita repeated, almost to himself.

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s voice was small. “Since the prefectural tournament in middle school. You were setter for Inarizaki’s junior team, and I was just a kid from a no-name school, and I watched you play. You didn’t talk much. You just… did everything right. I wanted to be like that. I wanted to be with that.”

Kita’s thumb traced a slow circle on the back of Atsumu’s hand. “You know what I remember from that tournament?”

Atsumu shook his head.

“I remember a loud blond kid who kept starin’ at me from the stands,” Kita said, voice soft. “I remember thinkin’ he had good eyes. Determined. I wondered if he played too.”

Atsumu’s breath caught.

“When you joined Inarizaki the next year, I recognized you immediately. You’d grown taller, and your voice had dropped, and you were even louder than before. But your eyes were the same.”

“You… remembered me?”

“Of course I did.” Kita’s smile widened just a fraction. “I’ve been watchin’ you for four years too, Atsumu. Just from the other side of the net.”

The tears started again—but these were different. They welled up and spilled over without the sharp edge of shame. Atsumu let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

“That don’t make no sense,” he said. “Why would you watch me? I’m not—I don’t—”

“You’re passionate,” Kita said simply. “You care more than anyone I’ve ever met. You play like the world’s gonna end if you lose a single point. You yell at your teammates because you believe in them so much you can’t stand to see them settle for less. You annoy me sometimes, but…” He paused, and his smile turned fond. “I think I’d miss it if you stopped.”

Atsumu stared at him, mouth slightly open, as if trying to process a foreign language.

“Are you… sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”

“I’m sayin’ I like you too,” Kita said, each word clear and steady. “I’ve liked you for a long time. I didn’t say anythin’ because I didn’t want to complicate the team dynamic, and I wasn’t sure if you’d even… consider me that way.”

“Consider you—Kita. You’re the only person I’ve ever—” Atsumu’s voice cracked again, but he pushed through. “You’re it. You’re the only one.”

Kita’s hand squeezed his. “Then it seems like we’ve both been wastin’ time.”

Atsumu laughed, wet and disbelieving. “What are we supposed to do now?”

Kita thought for a moment. Then he reached up, gently cupped Atsumu’s jaw, and leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Barely a brush of lips, tentative and questioning. Atsumu’s eyes fluttered shut, and he melted into it like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. Because he had. Because he’d dreamed about it in a thousand different ways, but none of them felt like this—warm and real and full of unspoken promises.

When they pulled apart, Atsumu’s cheeks were flushed, his lips slightly parted. He looked dazed.

“That was…” he started.

“Better than a dog food commercial?” Kita asked, deadpan.

Atsumu burst into laughter, bright and genuine, startling himself. “You heard about that?”

“Osamu told me once. Said you cried for twenty minutes.”

“I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”

“Probably not.” Kita’s thumb brushed over Atsumu’s cheek, wiping away a lingering tear. “But I don’t mind. I like all your embarrassing parts.”

Atsumu’s chest felt too tight, like his heart was trying to escape. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Kita’s, breathing in the faint scent of laundry detergent and green tea.

“Can we do that again?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

And they did.

---

For the next four hours, the back of the bus became a world of its own.

It started with quiet kisses, gentle and exploratory. Atsumu’s hands trembled as they found their way to Kita’s shoulders, his neck, the small of his back. Kita was patient, guiding him, letting him set the pace. But as the minutes passed and the highway stretched on, the kisses deepened. Got hungrier.

Atsumu couldn’t help the sounds that escaped him—soft gasps, breathy moans that he tried to swallow but couldn’t contain. Every time Kita’s lips found a new spot on his neck, every time his fingers tangled in Atsumu’s hair and pulled just a little, a whimper slipped out. His face was burning, his heart racing, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

In the middle of the bus, Osamu pressed his palms over his ears.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“What?” Suna asked, still guilty but now also curious.

“I can hear them. He’s makin’ sounds. Disgustin’ sounds.”

Ginjima leaned over. “What kind of sounds?”

“Like a wounded animal. A very happy wounded animal.” Osamu shuddered. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“You’re just jealous your brother finally got a boyfriend,” Aran said without looking up from his phone.

“I ain’t jealous. I’m traumatized.”

The bus had regained its normal hum—quiet conversations, the occasional laugh—but everyone was acutely aware of the back row. No one dared to look. No one wanted to interrupt. But the muffled noises drifted forward like a strange, awkward soundtrack.

At one point, Akagi turned to Ginjima and whispered, “Do you think Kita-san is … enjoying it?”

“Don’t ask me that. Don’t ever ask me that again.”

Another hour passed. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and blues. The bus lights clicked on, casting a dim glow over the cabin. In the back, Atsumu had somehow ended up in Kita’s lap, straddling him in the narrow seat, arms wound around his neck.

Their lips were swollen, their faces flushed. Atsumu’s shirt was slightly rumpled, and Kita’s usually neat hair was mussed where Atsumu had run his fingers through it.

“We should stop,” Kita murmured against his mouth.

“No.”

“We’re gonna arrive soon.”

“Don’t care.”

Kita pulled back just enough to look at him. Atsumu’s lips were red and puffy, his pupils blown wide, his breathing shallow. He looked wrecked in the best possible way.

“You’re a mess,” Kita said, but it sounded like I love you.

“Your fault,” Atsumu replied, and it sounded like I love you too.

Kita kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and tender. “Let’s fix you up a little before we stop. You can’t walk off the bus lookin’ like this.”

“Watch me.”

“Atsumu.”

“Fine.” He pouted, but the smile broke through almost immediately. He pressed one more kiss to Kita’s lips, quick and sweet, then reluctantly climbed back into the seat beside him. His hair was a disaster, his shirt wrinkled, and his lips definitely looked like he’d been kissing someone for hours.

Kita reached out and smoothed down a strand of Atsumu’s hair. “There. Presentable.”

“I look like I got mauled.”

“By a very gentle bear.”

Atsumu laughed, leaning into Kita’s shoulder. “I love you,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He froze, bracing for awkwardness, for regret.

But Kita just pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I love you too.”

The bus pulled into the hotel parking lot fifteen minutes later.

As the team filed off, Suna caught a glimpse of Atsumu stepping down the stairs—swollen lips, red cheeks, a dazed, blissed-out expression that he didn’t even try to hide. Kita followed right behind him, one hand resting lightly on the small of Atsumu’s back.

Osamu walked past them both, muttering under his breath about needing brain bleach.

Suna stood frozen, guilt and relief warring in his chest. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Atsumu caught his eye first. Instead of anger, there was something like gratitude. A small, almost shy smile.

Thank you, that smile seemed to say. Even if it hurt. It worked out.

Suna exhaled, relieved beyond words. He nodded once, then turned and followed the team inside.

Behind them, the bus driver sighed, checked the rearview mirror, and wondered if he’d ever get the image of two third-years making out for four hours out of his head.

Probably not.