A Flutter in Late Spring

The gymnasium echoed—squeaky shoes, polished wood. Suna Rintarou messed up a receive. Easy one too, the kind he’d made a thousand times. Ball skidded past his fingers, thudded against the wall, rolled under the bleachers. Nothing. Minor error in a two-hour practice.

But Atsumu Miya lost it.

“What the hell was that, Suna?” His voice cut through the warm air, sharp and jagged. Hands up, fingers splayed. “How many times I gotta tell ya? Stay low! Stay low! It ain’t that hard!”

Suna blinked. His usual flat look flickered with surprise. He straightened, brushed dust off his knee. “I know. Misjudged the angle. It happens.”

“It shouldn’t happen!” Atsumu’s eyes were wild, veins faint at his temples. He stepped forward, and the team froze. Ginjima stopped mid-sprint. Aran lowered his water bottle. Even Kita tilted his head from the sideline.

Osamu, near the net with a towel around his neck, let out a long sigh. “Oi, Atsumu. Calm down. Just practice.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Atsumu whirled on him, voice cracking. The team flinched. He never yelled at Osamu like this—they bickered constantly, traded insults like currency, but this was different. Raw anger, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than the court.

Osamu’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything. Just held Atsumu’s gaze, steady and unblinking, until Atsumu’s shoulders sagged. The fire in his eyes guttered out, replaced by something fragile and exhausted. He turned away, muttering, “Forget it. Just… forget it.”

Practice resumed, but the air was thick. Suna and Ginjima exchanged a glance. Aran shrugged. Kita said nothing, but his eyes tracked Atsumu’s every move.

---

The next few days were a slow unraveling.

Wednesday, Atsumu found a wilted flower—a small pink carnation that had fallen off a bouquet someone left on the bench near the locker room. He stared at it for a long moment, his face crumpling. Then, to the absolute horror of everyone within earshot, he started crying. Not the dramatic wailing he’d done as a kid, but quiet, hitching sobs that shook his frame. He crouched down, picked up the flower, cradled it in his palms like it was precious and lost.

“What’s wrong with him?” Suna whispered to Osamu, who was watching from the door with a neutral expression.

“Dunno. Maybe he’s finally losin’ it.” But Osamu’s voice was flat, not mocking. He was studying Atsumu the way he studied opponents—calculating, searching for tells. The dark circles under Atsumu’s eyes were impossible to miss. The way his hands trembled when no one was looking. The hollow sound of his laugh when he forced it.

Thursday, Atsumu snapped again. Ginjima accidentally bumped into him in the narrow hallway near the gym, sending Atsumu stumbling into the wall. Light bump—barely enough to rattle a glass. But Atsumu spun around, face contorted, and screamed, “Watch where you’re goin’, Ginjima! Are you blind?”

Ginjima recoiled, hands up. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously not!” Atsumu’s voice echoed down the hall. A few underclassmen peeked out of classrooms. Kita appeared beside Ginjima, steady as a lighthouse in a storm. He placed a hand on Ginjima’s shoulder, then looked at Atsumu with quiet, unjudging eyes.

“Atsumu,” he said. Just his name. Softly.

Atsumu’s breath hitched. He opened his mouth, closed it, then turned and walked away without another word. His footsteps were quick, almost fleeing.

Osamu leaned against the lockers, arms crossed. “He’s been like this all week. Think he’s just tired? Exams comin’ up?”

Kita’s gaze followed Atsumu’s retreating form. “Maybe. But we should keep an eye on him.”

---

The morning of the fifth day, Atsumu threw up.

Warm-up laps. He was running at the back of the pack, and without warning, he veered off toward the trash can near the door. Doubled over, hands gripping the rim, and retched. The sound was wet and painful, echoing in the quiet gym.

The team slowed to a stop. Aran started forward, but Kita held up a hand. “Give him space.”

Atsumu heaved again, then spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was pale, beaded with sweat. He straightened, swayed, and then continued his lap as if nothing happened. No one said a word. But the air thickened with unspoken questions.

Osamu watched from the sideline, jaw tight. He’d seen his brother sick before—childhood flus, the occasional hangover after sneaking too much sake at training camp. But this was different. Not a one-time thing. It’d been building for days, maybe weeks.

After practice, Osamu cornered Atsumu in the locker room. The others had already left—Kita had ushered them out with a quiet, “Let him be.” But Osamu stayed.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked, voice low.

Atsumu sat on the bench, still in his practice jersey, staring at his hands. He didn’t look up. “Nothin’. Just tired.”

“Bullshit.” Osamu sat down next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “You been cryin’ over flowers and pukin’ your guts out. You’re not tired. You’re somethin’ else.”

Atsumu’s hands clenched into fists. “Just leave me alone, Osamu.”

“No.”

The word hung between them. Atsumu’s breath hitched, and for a moment, Osamu thought he was gonna cry again. Instead, he just shook his head, jaw trembling.

“I can’t… I can’t talk about it,” Atsumu whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll hate me.”

Osamu’s heart stumbled. He’d never heard his brother sound so small. “I ain’t gonna hate you, dummy. You’re my twin. We’re stuck together, remember?”

Atsumu let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Yeah. Stuck together.”

---

Two days later, Osamu found him.

The team had been searching for Atsumu after he disappeared midway through practice. Kita sent everyone to look, his calm voice carrying a thread of urgency. “Check the storage rooms. The locker rooms. The roof.”

Osamu headed for the small storage closet behind the gym, the one where they kept old banners and broken equipment. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open.

Atsumu was curled up in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around himself. His face was buried against his knees, but Osamu could hear the muffled sobs, the ragged breaths. The room smelled of dust and rust and something else—something acrid and scared.

“Atsumu?” Osamu’s voice came out softer than he intended. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, plunging them into dim light.

Atsumu looked up. His eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks blotchy. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—maybe longer. “Osamu…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been awful. I know I’ve been a burden. I didn’t mean to—I just—I didn’t know what else to do.”

Osamu crouched in front of him, his knees popping. “What are you talkin’ about? What’s goin’ on?”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. He opened his mouth, closed it, then pressed his palm against his stomach. The gesture was small, almost unconscious. But Osamu saw it.

His blood went cold.

“Atsumu,” he said slowly, “when was the last time you took your pills?”

The question hung in the stale air. Atsumu’s face crumpled. He shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t know. A week? Two? I lost track. I was so busy with exams and practice and—and I forgot. But I thought it would be fine. I thought I’d remember. I didn’t think…” He choked on a sob. “I didn’t think I’d get pregnant.”

The word hit Osamu like a spike to the chest. He sat back on his heels, mind racing. “You’re sayin’… you might be…”

“I don’t know!” Atsumu’s voice rose, desperate. “But I’ve been sick every mornin’. I’m so tired. And my scent—it’s changin’. Even if nobody else noticed, I can tell. And I’m scared, Osamu. I’m so scared.”

Osamu reached out and grabbed his brother’s wrist. He didn’t know what to say. He was a setter, not a miracle worker. But the sight of Atsumu—his arrogant, loud, infuriating brother—reduced to this was more than he could bear.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked, his voice rough.

Atsumu laughed. It was a broken, ugly sound. “Because I didn’t want to be a burden. You’ve got your own life, your own future. You don’t need me draggin’ you down with my stupid mistakes.”

“You’re not a mistake.” The words came out before Osamu could stop them. He pulled Atsumu into a hug, tight and fierce. Atsumu stiffened for a second, then collapsed into him, sobbing into his shoulder. Osamu held him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed against his back. “You’re an idiot. But you’re not a mistake. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Atsumu’s fingers dug into Osamu’s jersey. “What if I really am? What if there’s a baby?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.” Osamu’s voice was steady, even though his heart was pounding. “I got your back. Always have.”

---

They stayed in the storage room until Atsumu’s sobs quieted to hiccups. When they finally emerged, blinking in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, the entire team was waiting. Kita stood at the front, arms crossed, but his expression was soft, not stern. Behind him stood Suna, Ginjima, Aran, and a few others. No one spoke.

“We heard,” Kita said quietly. “Not everything. But enough.”

Atsumu shrank back, hiding behind Osamu. But Kita stepped forward, and Osamu felt a wave of calming pheromones wash over him—warm and steady, like a blanket. Kita’s alpha presence was gentle, careful not to overwhelm.

“You don’t have to hide,” Kita said. “Whatever’s happenin’, you’re still part of this team. And we take care of our own.”

Aran nodded, stepping forward. “If you need to miss practice for appointments, I can cover your setting drills. And if you need help with schoolwork, I’ll tutor you. No questions asked.”

Ginjima added, “And if anyone gives you crap, they’ll answer to me.”

Suna shrugged, but there was a small, genuine smile on his face. “I’ll keep bringin’ you those weird energy drinks you like. Even if they’re disgustin’.”

Atsumu’s lip wobbled. He looked at them—these boys who had no reason to care, who could have walked away and left him to deal with his mess alone. But they were still here. They were all still here.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.

Kita shook his head. “You don’t have to deserve it. You just have to accept it.”

---

The next morning, Osamu dragged Atsumu to the drugstore. They bought a pregnancy test in awkward silence, and Atsumu locked himself in the bathroom at home while Osamu waited outside, pacing.

When the door opened, Atsumu was holding the stick. His face was pale, but his eyes were dry.

“Positive,” he said.

Osamu let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Atsumu, pulling him close. “Okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Atsumu mumbled into his chest. “I’m an omega. I’m supposed to be careful. I’m supposed to know better.”

“You forgot. It happens. People make mistakes.” Osamu pulled back, gripping Atsumu’s shoulders. “And whatever you decide to do—keep it, not keep it—I’ll be there. But you gotta stop blamin’ yourself.”

Atsumu looked down at the test in his hand. The little pink lines stared back at him, undeniable. A tiny life. His and someone else’s. The father could be anyone—he’d been careless, and now he was paying the price.

But he wasn’t alone. For the first time in days, weeks, maybe months, he felt the weight of isolation lift, just a little.

---

The team held an impromptu meeting that evening at Kita’s house. They sat in a circle in his living room, the scent of green tea and Kita’s calming pheromones filling the air. Atsumu sat in the middle, flanked by Osamu and Aran. The rest surrounded them like a shield.

“We can’t tell the coach,” Osamu said. “Or the school. Not yet. Too many questions.”

Kita nodded. “Agreed. For now, we keep it amongst ourselves. Atsumu, you need to see a doctor. I have a cousin who works at a clinic in the city—she’s discreet.”

Atsumu nodded, his hands trembling around a cup of tea. “What about… if I keep it? I mean, what do I do? I still have school. Volleyball. My whole life is planned out.”

Aran leaned forward. “You can still play. Lots of omegas compete in high school and even after. You might need to take breaks, but it’s not impossible. And if you need help with classwork, I meant what I said. I’ll tutor you.”

Ginjima grinned. “And I’ll be the cool uncle who teaches the kid how to spike a ball before they can walk.”

Suna snorted. “You’d probably drop them.”

“Would not!”

The bickering was familiar, and Atsumu felt a fragile smile creep onto his face. He looked at Osamu, who was watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or hope.

“What?” Atsumu asked.

“Nothin’.” Osamu shrugged. “Just thinkin’. You’d be a good parent. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Don’t push it.”

But the corners of Osamu’s mouth turned up, just a little.

---

Two weeks later, Atsumu stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hands resting on his still-flat stomach. He’d seen the doctor. The baby was healthy. Due in late spring—after nationals, after the season ended. Timing was… not ideal. But it was happening.

He heard a knock on the door. “Oi, you’ve been in there forever. Practice starts in ten.”

“I’m comin’.”

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door. Osamu was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu paused. “Samu?”

“What?”

“Thanks. For not leavin’.”

Osamu pushed off the wall and walked past him, but not before reaching out and ruffling Atsumu’s hair. “Don’t get all sappy on me. We’ve got a match tomorrow.”

But as they walked to the gym together, shoulders brushing, Atsumu felt lighter than he had in weeks. The team was waiting—Kita at the door, holding it open; Suna and Ginjima already on the court, warming up; Aran adjusting his kneepads. A motley crew of misfits and loudmouths, but they were his.

And when Atsumu took his place behind the service line, the familiar weight of a volleyball in his hands, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

The baby kicked—a faint flutter, barely perceptible. He smiled.

“One more time,” he murmured, and tossed the ball into the air.