The Prince Who Asked

The Inarizaki bus rumbled along the coastal highway, that low hum vibrating through worn seats and into tired bones. Morning sun—pale, watery—slanted through the windows, throwing gold rectangles across the sleeping team. Most of them were slumped over, heads lolling, mouths slack. Tournament was two days away, and Coach Kurosu wanted to beat traffic. That meant five in the morning, which meant nobody got enough sleep.

Except Atsumu Miya.

He sat three rows from the back, window side, knees drawn up, a worn paperback in his hands. Small book. Cover soft from handling, spine creased into a permanent curve. The title, Sleeping Beauty, was barely readable—gold lettering long flaked off. Fifth time reading it. Maybe sixth. He lost count after the third re-read, when the words started feeling like a familiar song, something to slip into when the world got too loud.

And the world was always too loud.

His lips moved silently as he traced the lines. Eyes wide. Earnest. He was at the part where the princess pricks her finger on the spindle, right before the hundred-year sleep. His heart tightened—same as always. He knew it was coming. Knew the fairy would show, the prince would fight through thorns, love would break the curse. But the anticipation never dulled. It was the waiting. That breathless pause before the magic.

He turned the page. Paper whispered against his thumb.

A shadow fell across it.

“You read that thing like it’s a Bible.”

Atsumu flinched, snapped the book shut. His head whipped up to find Suna Rintarou standing in the aisle, duffel slung over one shoulder, that usual half-lidded look. Dark hair messy from sleep. Gray hoodie, soft and worn. Smelled faintly of mint and laundry detergent.

“I—what are you—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, felt heat creep up his neck. “Don’t sneak up on people, Suna.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.” Suna gestured with his chin toward the empty seat beside him. “Mind if I sit? Everywhere else is taken.”

Atsumu glanced around. True. Bus full of sprawled limbs and dozing bodies. Osamu two rows ahead, head back, snoring softly. Ginjima and Akagi playing quiet cards across the aisle. Only empty seat was next to Atsumu.

“Uh.” He looked at his book, then at Suna. “Sure. Yeah. ‘Course.”

Suna slid in with easy grace, dropped his duffel at his feet. Didn’t immediately lean back or close his eyes. Instead, he angled toward Atsumu, knee brushing his thigh as he settled. Atsumu stiffened. Suna didn’t seem to notice.

“So,” Suna said, low and casual, “Sleeping Beauty, huh? Fifth time?”

Atsumu’s eyes widened. “How did you—did you count?”

“Saw you reading it on the way to the last practice match. And the time before that.” Suna’s lips quirked. “You’re not subtle, Miya.”

Atsumu clutched the book to his chest like a shield. “It’s a good story, okay? The—the original one. Not Disney. The one where the prince doesn’t kiss her without permission. He asks first.”

Suna tilted his head. Interest flickered in that lazy gaze. “He asks?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s voice softened. “He finds her in the tower, and he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, but he doesn’t just—take what he wants. He asks. He says, ‘May I wake you?’ And she can’t answer, ’cause she’s asleep, but he asks anyway, ’cause it’s the right thing to do.”

He stopped. Realized he’d been rambling. Heat deepened in his cheeks. He pressed the book tighter.

“It’s… romantic,” he finished lamely.

Suna was quiet. Then: “You’re a sap, Atsumu.”

“I am not!”

“You are.” No judgment. If anything, fond. “But it’s cute. Most guys don’t read fairy tales. Especially not five times.”

Atsumu didn’t know what to do with that. He stared at his lap, picking at a loose thread on his track pants. “It’s… relaxing. The words are pretty. And the ending’s happy.”

“You like happy endings?”

“Who doesn’t?”

Suna hummed. He stretched his legs out, crossed his ankles, settled deeper into the seat. His shoulder brushed Atsumu’s. “Fair point.”

The bus hit a bump. Atsumu lurched sideways. His book slipped. Suna caught it before it hit the floor, fingers closing around the worn cover. He didn’t hand it back. Instead, he flipped it open, scanned a page with mild curiosity.

“‘The thorns grew thick and dark, a wall of shadow that no man could pass,’” he read aloud. His voice was different when he read—softer, less sardonic. “‘But the prince did not despair. He had seen the princess in his dreams, and he knew that love was stronger than any curse.’”

He closed the book and handed it back. “You’ve got good taste.”

Atsumu took it. Fingers brushed. A spark—probably just static from the bus seats. But his heart stuttered anyway.

“Thanks,” he managed.

Suna leaned back, head turning toward the window. Morning light caught his profile—sharp jaw, curve of lips. He looked beautiful. Atsumu had noticed before. Everyone had. But sitting this close, with the quiet hum and the smell of mint, it was hard to look away.

“You can keep reading,” Suna said without opening his eyes. “I don’t mind. It’s nice.”

“It’s not too boring?”

“Nah. Peaceful.” Suna’s lips twitched. “Besides, I like watching you get all emotional over fairy-tale princes.”

Atsumu’s face went scarlet. “I do not get emotional!”

“You do. Your eyebrows go all scrunchy.” Suna mimed it. Atsumu swatted at his arm.

“Shut up.”

Suna laughed—low, quiet. Something warm bloomed in Atsumu’s chest. A rare laugh. The kind Suna didn’t give out freely. Atsumu felt like he’d won something precious.

He opened his book again. Didn’t read. Just stared at the same page, mind spinning. Suna was warm beside him. Solid. Present. Their shoulders touched. Their knees brushed. Every point of contact felt like a tiny flame, and Atsumu didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away.

He chose to lean in.

Not far. Just a fraction. Enough that his shoulder pressed more firmly against Suna’s. Suna didn’t move. If anything, he seemed to lean back, giving Atsumu space.

The miles rolled by. The team stirred—someone coughed, someone laughed at Ginjima’s card trick—but the world outside was gray and endless, and inside, it was just the two of them.

After a while, Atsumu’s eyes grew heavy. He’d woken at four-thirty to pack. The bus rhythm was hypnotic. His grip on the book loosened. His head dipped.

And then, gently, without a word, Suna shifted.

He turned his body, angled his shoulder, and Atsumu’s head found a resting place against his collarbone. The hoodie fabric was soft. He smelled like fabric softener and warmth. Atsumu’s breath caught. He didn’t pull away.

“You okay?” Suna’s voice was close, a low rumble against his ear.

“Mhm.” Barely a whisper. “This… this okay?”

“Yeah.” Suna’s hand came up—hesitant at first, then settled on Atsumu’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Atsumu let his eyes close.

He didn’t fall asleep—not fully. Drifted in a warm half-dream, aware of the bus’s movement, the steady beat of Suna’s heart under his ear, the gentle pressure of Suna’s thumb tracing small circles on his shoulder. More intimate than any kiss he’d ever imagined. Better.

The bus hit another bump. Atsumu shifted, hand sliding across his lap. Cold air hit his arm. He shivered.

“You’re cold,” Suna said.

“Just a little.”

Suna unzipped his hoodie in one smooth motion, shrugged it off, draped it over Atsumu’s shoulders. Still warm from his body. Smelled like him. Atsumu pulled it tighter, buried his nose in the collar.

“Suna, I can’t—”

“You can. I’m fine.”

“But you’ll be cold.”

“Then you’ll have to share.” Dry tone, but a hint of a smile.

Atsumu looked up. Blinking. Suna was watching him, gaze soft and unguarded. For a moment, they just looked. Then Atsumu smiled—real, small, shy—and pulled the hoodie tighter.

“Okay,” he said.

A few rows ahead, Osamu had woken up. He stretched, rubbed his eyes, turned to look back. When he saw his twin wrapped in Suna’s jacket, head on Suna’s shoulder, his eyebrows shot up.

“Well, well, well,” he said, loud enough to carry. “Look at that. Rintarou’s finally making a move.”

Suna didn’t miss a beat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Osamu nudged Ginjima, who looked up from his cards. “Would you look at that? That’s my brother. Being courted.”

Ginjima grinned. “Suna’s been eyeing him for months. About time.”

Atsumu’s face burned. He tried to sit up, but Suna’s arm—casual, effortless—wrapped around his shoulders and held him in place.

“Don’t let them bother you,” Suna murmured. “They’re just jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” Osamu called. “Jealous that I don’t have to watch my twin turn into a tomato every time someone says the word ‘prince’?”

“Osamu!” High and mortified.

The rest of the team was waking up now, roused by the commotion. Aran peered over the seat in front, a fond smile spreading across his face.

“Suna and Atsumu, huh?” he said. “I was wondering when this would happen.”

“It’s not happening!” Atsumu protested, but it was muffled by Suna’s hoodie, which he’d pulled up to his nose.

“It’s definitely happening,” Akagi said from across the aisle. “Look at them. They’re adorable.”

Kita, reading a farming magazine in the front seat, looked up and assessed the situation with calm, knowing eyes. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, as if to say, Good.

Suna’s hand rubbed Atsumu’s shoulder. “You’re going to have to get used to it,” he said softly. “They’re not going to stop.”

“I know.” Atsumu’s voice was small. “I just… I’m not good at this.”

“At what?”

“At… being looked at. Like that.”

Suna tilted his head, meeting Atsumu’s eyes. “I look at you like that all the time. You’ve just never noticed.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Suna’s thumb traced a path along Atsumu’s jaw, featherlight. “You’re pretty when you blush.”

Atsumu made a sound—somewhere between a squeak and a laugh. Buried his face in Suna’s shoulder. Hiding.

The team cheered. Osamu whistled. Ginjima threw a crumpled piece of paper at them, which Suna caught without looking.

“Leave him alone,” Suna said, but no bite. He was smiling.

The bus pulled into a rest stop an hour later. Coach Kurosu announced a fifteen-minute break. Everyone shuffled off to stretch legs and buy snacks. Atsumu stood up, still wrapped in Suna’s hoodie, feeling the warmth like a second skin.

Suna walked beside him into the convenience store. Atsumu hovered near the drink cooler, unsure what to get. Not really thirsty. Just needed a moment to breathe.

Suna appeared beside him, holding a can of Coke Zero.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into Atsumu’s hand. “Your favorite, right?”

Atsumu stared at it. “How did you know I like Coke Zero?”

“I pay attention.” Suna’s eyes were soft. “I pay attention to you, Atsumu.”

Atsumu’s heart swelled. Didn’t know what to say. Words felt too small. So he did the only thing that felt right.

He leaned in—quick, like a sparrow—and pressed a kiss to Suna’s cheek.

Barely a second. Brush of lips against warm skin. When he pulled back, his face was on fire. He clutched the Coke Zero like a lifeline.

Suna touched his cheek. Looked genuinely surprised. Then his expression softened into something tender and rare.

“You’re cute,” he said.

“I’m not,” Atsumu mumbled.

“You are.” Suna took the Coke Zero from his hand, opened it with a hiss, and handed it back. “Drink up. We’ve got another two hours.”

They walked back to the bus together. Side by side. When they climbed aboard, the team was watching. Osamu gave a thumbs-up. Aran winked. Ginjima pretended to wipe a tear.

Suna ignored them all. He sat down in the same seat, and when Atsumu sat beside him, Suna’s arm went around his shoulders immediately, pulling him close.

Atsumu didn’t resist. Leaned in, let his head rest on Suna’s shoulder. The hoodie was still warm. The Coke Zero was cold in his hands. And Suna’s arm was solid and real.

The bus pulled back onto the highway. Landscape changed from coastal cliffs to green fields. Sun was higher now, brighter. Inside, the team settled back into their rhythms—sleep, games, low chatter.

But Atsumu wasn’t reading.

He set the book aside, let his fingers curl around Suna’s sleeve. Suna looked down at him, questioning.

“Can I tell you something?” Atsumu asked, barely audible.

“Anything.”

“I’ve never… I’ve never had this before. Someone who wanted to sit next to me. On purpose.”

Suna’s arm tightened. “Then you’ve been missing out.”

Atsumu smiled, small and fragile. “Maybe.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Suna’s voice was low, earnest. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The words settled into Atsumu’s chest like a promise. He closed his eyes, letting the motion of the bus lull him. Suna’s thumb traced patterns on his shoulder. The world outside blurred into green and blue.

The rest of the trip passed in a comfortable haze. The team stopped teasing after a while, satisfied their work was done. Osamu gave Suna a look that said, Take care of him, and Suna nodded back.

When the bus finally pulled into the hotel parking lot, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Atsumu sat up, blinking. He’d fallen asleep for real, head tucked under Suna’s chin, body warm and relaxed.

He stretched, feeling the ache in his neck. Suna’s hoodie had slipped off one shoulder. He pulled it back up.

“We’re here,” Suna said. He was looking at Atsumu with an expression that made Atsumu’s heart stutter.

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s voice was rough from sleep.

They stood together, gathering their bags. The team was already filing off, laughing and jostling. Osamu paused at the door, looked back, and grinned.

“Don’t take too long, lovebirds.”

Atsumu threw a glare at his brother, but it lacked heat.

Suna slung his duffel over his shoulder. He stood close to Atsumu—close enough that their arms brushed.

“Atsumu.”

“Yeah?”

Suna reached out, his hand cupping Atsumu’s cheek. His thumb brushed over Atsumu’s cheekbone, gentle and reverent.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he said.

And then he leaned in.

Atsumu’s breath hitched. The kiss was soft, tentative—a question more than an answer. Suna’s lips were warm and dry, and he pulled back just enough to look at Atsumu, eyes searching.

Atsumu’s heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. He opened his mouth. No words came.

“Was that okay?” Suna asked.

Atsumu nodded, frantic. “Yeah. Yes. More than okay.”

Suna’s smile was slow, beautiful. He leaned in again, this time with more certainty. His hand slid into Atsumu’s hair, and the kiss deepened—just a little. Still innocent. Still sweet. But full of promise.

When they broke apart, they were both breathing a little faster.

Atsumu’s cheeks were pink. His eyes bright. He looked at Suna like he was the prince from his favorite book—the one who asked before he kissed.

“Come on,” Suna said, taking his hand. “Let’s go get our rooms.”

He didn’t let go.

Atsumu followed, hand warm in Suna’s, the Coke Zero still clutched in his other hand—half-drunk and forgotten. At the door of the bus, the team was waiting. Osamu grinning like an idiot. Aran clapped Suna on the shoulder. Ginjima gave a little bow.

“Welcome to the club,” Akagi said.

Kita simply said, “Good.”

Atsumu ducked his head, embarrassed, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He didn’t want to. Suna’s grip was steady and sure, and for the first time in a long time, Atsumu felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The prince had come through the thorns. And he had asked.

Atsumu smiled—small and shy—and squeezed Suna’s hand.

The adventure was just beginning.