The Only Crown I'll Ever Need

The gym thudded with volleyballs, sneakers squeaking, the occasional drill shout—practice ended ten minutes ago but a few stragglers hung around, halfheartedly knocking the ball. Atsumu Miya wasn't one of them. He sat on the bench, legs out, arms crossed, watching the net like a hawk. Across the court, Aran Oijirou was helping a first-year fix his serve, his broad back a solid wall.

“Oi, Atsumu.” Osamu’s voice broke through. He dropped onto the bench beside him, sweaty, smelling like a locker room. Suna followed, sliding onto Atsumu’s other side like a cat.

“What?” Atsumu snapped, not looking away from Aran.

Osamu traded a look with Suna. “Nothin’. Just wonderin’ how long you’re gonna keep starin’ at Aran like he’s the last onigiri at the shop.”

Atsumu’s head whipped around, amber eyes narrowing. “I ain’t starin’.”

“You're literally starin’,” Suna said, voice flat, but his lips twitched. “I bet you’ve counted the sweat droplets on his neck.”

“Shut up, Suna.”

Osamu leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So, when you gonna actually tell him you're in love with him? Or did you already? You never tell me anythin’.”

Atsumu’s ears burned. “None of your business.”

“That means you told him. Or he told you.” Suna’s phone came out, camera ready. “This is gold. The great Atsumu Miya, blushing like a middle schooler.”

“I ain’t blushing!” Atsumu made a grab for the phone, but Suna held it above his head, smirking. Osamu took the chance to ruffle Atsumu’s hair—mistake. Atsumu swatted him away, nearly falling off the bench.

“Leave him alone, you two.” The voice was deep, calm, and right behind them. Aran had crossed the court without anyone noticing. He stood there, gym bag over one shoulder, dark eyes fixed on the twins with a look that could curdle milk.

Osamu straightened immediately, hands up. “We ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

“You were teasing him.” Aran’s gaze shifted to Suna, who pocketed his phone with exaggerated slowness.

“Just having fun, captain. No harm done.” Suna’s voice was smooth, but he was already inching away.

“Fun, huh?” Aran’s hand landed on Atsumu’s shoulder—possessive, gentle. “Let’s go, Atsumu. I’ll walk you home.”

But before Atsumu could answer, Osamu bolted. He sprinted toward the other end of the gym, cackling. “You gotta catch me first, Aran! Maybe then I’ll stop teasin’!”

Aran’s eyes narrowed. He squeezed Atsumu’s shoulder once, said, “Wait here,” and then he was off, moving fast and quiet. Suna saw the direction of the chase and took off in the opposite direction.

“You traitors!” Atsumu shouted, but he was laughing.

The chase was ridiculous. Aran rounded the net, cut left, intercepted Osamu near the bleachers. Osamu dodged, but Aran was faster—snagged the back of his jersey. But instead of tackling him, he did something unexpected. He turned, jogged back to the bench where Atsumu sat, and planted a firm kiss on Atsumu’s cheek.

Atsumu’s face went scarlet. “What the—?!”

Without a word, Aran released him and took off again. This time he cornered Suna near the equipment room. Suna tried to slip away, but Aran grabbed his wrist, spun him around, and then—again—returned to Atsumu. This kiss was longer, on the lips, soft and warm, and Atsumu’s brain short-circuited.

“Stop—stop usin’ me as a checkpoint!” Atsumu sputtered when Aran finally pulled back.

Aran only grinned, a rare full smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He stood up, looked at the twins huddled near the net, and said, “I’ll get you both later.” Then he turned back to Atsumu, took his hands, and brought them to his lips.

The room went quiet. Even the first-years stopped their drill.

Aran kissed the back of each of Atsumu’s hands, slow, deliberate, like sealing a pact. Then he looked up, dark eyes locked on Atsumu’s. “You set my soul on fire, Atsumu.”

Atsumu couldn’t breathe. The words were too much, too raw, too public. “Aran…”

Aran didn’t let go. He slipped one arm under Atsumu’s knees, the other around his back, and lifted him off the bench like he weighed nothing. Atsumu yelped, grabbing at Aran’s shoulders.

“Put me down, you lunatic!”

“No.” Aran held him close, face buried in Atsumu’s hair. “I’m gonna carry you out of here.”

It was only then that Atsumu noticed the silence. He looked over Aran’s shoulder—the entire team stood frozen, mouths open. Ginjima had dropped a water bottle. Akagi was blinking rapidly. The first-years looked like they’d just witnessed a miracle or a crime.

“Uh,” Atsumu said, eloquently.

Aran seemed to realize the audience at the same moment. He slowly set Atsumu down, but kept an arm around his waist. “We’re dating,” he announced to the stunned crowd. “Have been since middle school.”

The silence stretched. Then Osamu let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Finally. I was gettin’ tired of keepin’ the secret.”

Suna was already typing furiously on his phone. “The volleyball group chat is going to explode.”

Ginjima finally picked up his water bottle. “Wait, since middle school? That’s… four years?”

“Five,” Aran corrected. He looked down at Atsumu, who was trying to disappear into his jersey. “And I’ve loved him every single day.”

Atsumu’s ears were so red they looked like emergency signals. “We don’t need a whole speech.”

“Yes we do,” Aran said firmly. Then, to the team: “Is anyone going to have a problem with this?”

The team looked at each other. Then Ginjima shrugged. “I mean, you’re still the captain. And he’s still the best setter we have. As long as you don’t make out during matches.”

“Deal,” Aran said.

Atsumu groaned.

---

Three weeks later, Inazuma High School’s prom was in full swing. The gym had been transformed into fairy lights, silver streamers, a towering DJ booth. Students swayed to pop under a spinning disco ball, formal wear a colorful contrast to the nets that had been taken down for the night.

Atsumu stood at the edge of the dance floor, tugging at the collar of his navy suit. He hated suits. Hated ties. Especially hated how the fabric itched. But Aran had looked at him when they were getting ready, and said, “You look good, Atsumu,” and that made it worth it.

The prom king and queen ceremony was about to start. Atsumu had been nominated for prom queen, to his absolute horror. “It’s a joke,” Osamu had said. “They’re just messin’ with you.” But Atsumu wasn’t sure. He’d seen a few people whispering, and one girl even handed him a rose.

But when the votes were counted, the announcer called out: “Prom king this year is… Aran Oijirou!”

The crowd erupted. Aran, handsome in a classic black tux, walked up to the stage with his usual calm stride. He accepted the crown with a nod, and the student body cheered.

Then the announcer said, “And prom queen is… Yuki-san!”

Atsumu’s stomach dropped. Yuki. Aran’s ex-girlfriend. The one from first year, before they officially started dating. They’d dated for three months before she moved away, and Aran had been kind to her even after the breakup. Atsumu knew it was nothing. He knew.

But watching her walk up to the stage in her pink dress, accepting her crown, then turning to face Aran and curtsying—something ugly twisted in his chest.

They took a picture together. Prom king and queen. Aran’s hand barely touched her shoulder, but it was enough.

Atsumu turned away. He grabbed a cup of punch from a nearby table and downed it in one gulp. The music changed to a slow song, and when he looked back, Aran was on the dance floor with Yuki.

It was just a dance. Friends could dance. Exes could dance. It didn’t mean anything.

But then Yuki leaned in, her lips brushing against Aran’s cheek, and then closer, and then—

She kissed him on the mouth.

Atsumu’s grip on the cup tightened until the plastic cracked. Punch dripped onto his hand, red like a warning.

On the dance floor, Aran jerked back. He said something quickly, his expression changing from surprised to firm. Yuki’s face fell. Aran shook his head, said something else, and then he was scanning the crowd, searching, searching—

His eyes found Atsumu.

Aran said something to Yuki—a final word—and then he was striding across the floor, weaving between dancing couples, his crown slightly askew. He reached Atsumu, breathless.

“Atsumu, wait. That wasn’t—”

“Don’t.” Atsumu’s voice came out hoarse. “Just… don’t.”

“She kissed me. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t want it.” Aran reached for his face, but Atsumu stepped back.

“She kissed you. And you just stood there.”

“I was shocked. I pushed her away immediately. I told her I needed to find my beautiful blonde.”

The words hit Atsumu like a serve to the chest. “Your… beautiful blonde?”

Aran’s expression softened. “You. I told her I needed to find you. Because you’re the only one I want to dance with. The only one I want to kiss. Ever.”

Atsumu’s eyes were wet, and he hated it. “You said that?”

“I said that.” Aran stepped forward, gently taking Atsumu’s hands, still sticky with punch. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I should have been more careful. But I didn’t know she would—”

“I know.” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “I know. I’m just… stupid. Jealous. I saw you with her and I thought—maybe you wanted her back. Because she’s normal. She doesn’t yell at you or tease you or—”

“Atsumu.” Aran’s voice was firm, but his eyes were soft. “I don’t want normal. I want you. I’ve wanted you since we were fourteen years old, when you yelled at me for missing a spike and then apologized by giving me your last popsicle. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. And I don’t care if I have to prove it every single day.”

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. “Prove it, then.”

Aran didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled Atsumu into his arms, one hand tangling in his hair, and kissed him. Deep, thorough, tasting like victory. Around them, the music swelled, and someone let out a whoop.

When they finally broke apart, flushed and breathless, the dance floor had cleared. The entire team stood in a loose circle, watching. Ginjima had his phone out. Akagi was wiping a fake tear. Osamu was smirking.

“Finally, you two,” Suna drawled. “I was starting to think we’d have to stage another emergency.”

Atsumu flipped him off, but he was smiling. Aran laughed, big and open, and pulled Atsumu back into his arms.

“Prom king and his beautiful blonde,” Aran murmured into Atsumu’s ear. “I like the sound of that.”

“You’re such a sap.”

“You love it.”

And he was right. Atsumu did. He wrapped his arms around Aran’s neck, buried his face in his shoulder, and let the music, the lights, the warmth of the evening wash over him. For the first time, he didn’t care who was watching. Let them see. Let them all see.

Aran Oijirou was his, and he was Aran’s, and that was the only crown he would ever need.