Inarizaki's It Couple

The gym smelled like sweat, rubber, and that weird floor wax they use. Sunlight cut through the high windows, throwing long stripes across Inarizaki’s court. Practice had been a killer—sprints, drills, a full scrimmage that had everyone gasping like fish. Coach finally called water, and the team collapsed wherever they could, towels around necks, water bottles tilted up.

Kita Shinsuke sat against the wall, legs stretched out, a towel looped around his neck. He wasn't breathing as hard as the rest—never did. That calm of his was practically a legend. He drank water slow, scanning the room with that quiet captain authority. Didn't need to yell.

Ginjima and Aran sidled up, grinning like they'd just pulled off something. They flopped down on either side of him, boxing him in. Ginjima had a sweatband shoved up on his forehead; Aran was still panting, but both of them wore that look that spelled trouble.

“Oi, Kita-san,” Ginjima started, elbowing him. “You’ve been quiet. Something on your mind?”

Kita didn't look at him. “Just the scrimmage. Our receive timing was off.”

“No, no, no.” Aran leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not volleyball. Your love life.”

Kita’s hand paused mid-sip. He lowered the bottle slow, face unchanged. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“See, that’s the problem,” Ginjima said, slapping his knee. “You’re always so serious. Never talk about girls—or guys, whatever. You’re a third-year. Never once mentioned a lover.”

“Not everyone needs to announce their personal affairs,” Kita said flat.

Aran snorted. “Translation: you don’t have one.”

Ginjima nodded. “I bet you’ve never even kissed anyone. Probably don’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth.”

It was light banter, the kind teammates throw around all the time. But something landed wrong. Kita’s jaw tightened just a bit. He was used to being the steady one, above petty stuff. But there was a nerve—a small, stubborn pride that didn’t like being painted as inexperienced, as bad at something.

“And if I did have a lover?” Kita said, voice dropping a degree cooler. “What then?”

Ginjima and Aran exchanged a glance, then burst out laughing. “Oh, come on,” Ginjima wheezed. “You? Kita-san, you’re so stiff you’d probably ask for a schedule before holding hands. And in bed? Terrible.”

“Awful,” Aran agreed, wiping a tear. “No rhythm. Just counting and form checks.”

Kita’s fist clenched against his thigh. Heat crept up his ears—a rare flush he fought to hide. He was the captain. Couldn't let them see they'd gotten to him. But the image of himself as some wooden, passionless partner stung more than he wanted to admit.

“I have a lover,” he said, the words out before he could stop them.

The laughing stopped. Both stared at him, mouths slightly open. Then the smirks returned.

“Prove it,” Ginjima said, arms crossed.

“Yeah,” Aran added. “Bring them here. Right now. Or we’ll know you’re lying.”

Kita’s heart hammered. He'd backed himself into a corner. The whole team was still scattered around—some stretching, some chatting, some still drinking. He scanned the room frantically, looking for an out. And then his eyes landed on Atsumu Miya.

Atsumu was standing near the water cooler, alone for once, tilting his head back to drink. Sweat plastered his blond hair to his forehead, jersey clinging to his lean frame. He was the eye of any storm he entered—boisterous, arrogant, impossible to ignore. But in this quiet moment, he looked almost vulnerable, lost in thought.

Reckless. Insane. But Kita had never backed down from a challenge.

He stood up, ignoring Ginjima and Aran’s eyes on him. Legs heavy, but he walked with purpose, crossing the gym in measured strides. The chatter faded to a dull buzz. All he could see was Atsumu, still drinking, unaware of the train barreling toward him.

Kita reached him just as Atsumu lowered the bottle. He didn’t hesitate—couldn’t afford to. He looped an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders, pulling him close. The setter stiffened, water sloshing onto the floor.

“Love,” Kita said, voice steady despite the tremor in his chest. Atsumu’s eyes went wide. “Play along,” he whispered, low. “Please.”

For a split second, he thought Atsumu might shove him off, expose the lie with a laugh. But Atsumu Miya was a performer. His surprise melted into a grin—mischievous, dazzling, dangerous.

“Oh, honey,” Atsumu said, loud enough for half the gym to hear. “You’re so needy today.”

And then he kissed him.

Not a peck. Not a quick press. Atsumu grabbed the front of Kita’s jersey and pulled him into a full, open-mouthed kiss, with enough enthusiasm to make the whole team fall silent. Kita’s brain short-circuited. He’d expected a nod, a wave, maybe a hand on the cheek. Not this. Not the warm pressure of Atsumu’s lips, not the faint taste of sports drink and salt.

Ginjima dropped his water bottle. Aran’s jaw went slack.

But Atsumu wasn’t done. He pulled back just enough to plant another kiss on Kita’s cheek, then his forehead, then a loud, smacking one on his nose. Each kiss left a faint pink mark—that cherry lip balm Atsumu always wore.

“You’re so cute when you’re possessive,” Atsumu cooed, voice dripping with mock affection. And then, to seal the deal, he leaned in close to Kita’s ear and let out a loud, deliberate moan.

Theatrical. Almost absurd. A full-throated “Ahhh~” that echoed through the gym. The kind of sound you make in private, not in front of twenty gaping teammates. But it did its job. It painted a picture. Said, Yes, Kita Shinsuke knows exactly what he’s doing. In bed. Very well.

Silence lasted three seconds. Then the gym erupted.

Suna Rintarou, who had been watching with deadpan amusement, let out a snort of laughter. Omimi dropped his towel. The first-years looked shell-shocked. The libero, Michinari, actually fell over backward.

“Holy shit,” Ginjima breathed.

Aran was pointing, speechless, face cycling through shock, disbelief, and grudging respect. “You… he… that’s…”

Kita, still frozen, felt the heat bloom across his cheeks. The pink lipstick marks were probably all over his face now. He could feel them, tacky and warm. Atsumu kept an arm slung around his waist, grinning like a cat that had caught the whole flock.

“Satisfied?” Kita managed, rougher than he’d intended.

Ginjima held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. You win. You have a lover. And apparently he’s very… vocal about your skills.”

The team laughed, a wave of relieved chatter washing over them. Suna was already typing on his phone, probably texting everyone who wasn’t there. The mood lifted, teasing redirected.

Kita extracted himself from Atsumu’s grip as smoothly as he could, heart still pounding. “Thank you,” he muttered.

Atsumu winked, all bravado. “Anytime, captain. But you owe me an explanation.”

Practice resumed, but Kita’s focus was shattered. Every time he looked at Atsumu, he remembered the kiss—the press of lips, the warmth, the absurd moan. He’d never been so embarrassed. And yet, a small, treacherous part of him didn’t entirely hate it.

After practice, they found themselves alone in the equipment room. The rest had gone to the showers, but Kita had lingered, pretending to check the ball pump. Atsumu appeared in the doorway, still in his sweaty jersey, arms crossed.

“Alright, spill,” Atsumu said, playful tone fading into something more serious. “What was that all about?”

Kita set down the pump. He looked at the floor, then at Atsumu’s chest, then forced himself to meet his eyes. “Ginjima and Aran were teasing me. Said I didn’t have a lover. That I’d be bad in bed.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows shot up. “And you decided to use me as your fake boyfriend?”

“You were the closest person who might… go along with it.” Kita’s voice dropped. “I should have asked first. Sorry. I put you in an awkward position.”

Atsumu was quiet for a moment, then laughed—not his usual loud, brash laugh, but something softer. “Awkward? That was the most fun I’ve had all week. Did you see Suna’s face? Priceless.”

Kita allowed himself a small, relieved exhale. “So you're not upset?”

“Nah.” Atsumu stepped closer, invading his space. “But you know, if we’re gonna pretend, we gotta be consistent. You can’t just kiss me once and never again. The team’ll get suspicious.”

Kita blinked. “You want to keep this up?”

Atsumu shrugged, but there was a glint in his eye. “Why not? It’s fun. And it’ll shut them up for good. Besides…” He reached out and brushed a thumb across Kita’s cheek, wiping away a smudge of pink. “You owe me for the lipstick.”

Kita’s breath caught. “What about after? When we graduate? We can’t pretend forever.”

“Then we’ll figure it out then.” Atsumu grinned, stepping back. “For now, let’s just be Inarizaki’s hottest couple. Deal?”

Absurd. A disaster waiting to happen. But Kita found himself nodding. “Deal.”

And so it began. Small things—sitting together at lunch, sharing water bottles during breaks, walking to the train station side by side. At first, all for show. Atsumu would drape an arm over Kita’s shoulder during practice, whisper something in his ear that made the captain’s ears turn red. Kita, ever dutiful, would bring Atsumu an extra onigiri in the mornings, saying his boyfriend needed to eat more.

The team bought it completely. Ginjima and Aran never teased Kita about his love life again. Instead, they started treating them as a unit—“the captains”—and even started teasing Atsumu about being whipped. Suna took pictures. The coach raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

But something shifted in the quiet moments. Walking home under the streetlights, the act started to blur. Atsumu’s jokes became gentler. Kita’s stern facade softened. They started talking about real things—volleyball, dreams, fears. Kita learned Atsumu was terrified of being ordinary, that he pushed himself so hard because he was afraid of being forgotten. Atsumu learned Kita didn’t just want to be a captain; he wanted to be someone who mattered.

One afternoon, after an exhausting practice, they sat on the gym steps watching the sunset. Rest of the team gone. Air cool, sky painted orange and pink.

“Hey, Kita-san,” Atsumu said, not looking at him. “Does this still feel fake to you?”

Kita stared at the horizon. “No.”

“Me neither.” Atsumu turned to face him, his usual cockiness replaced by something raw. “I think I actually like you. Like, really like you. And I don’t know what to do with that because this was supposed to be a joke.”

Kita’s heart hammered. He reached out, slowly, and took Atsumu’s hand. Warm and calloused, familiar from a thousand high-fives, but now electric.

“It was never a joke to me,” Kita said softly. “I was scared to admit it, because you’re… you. Loud and dramatic and impossible. But I think I’ve been falling for you since that first kiss.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. Then he laughed, bright and genuine, leaning his forehead against Kita’s. “So we’re both idiots who didn’t know how to say it?”

“Seems that way.”

Atsumu kissed him again—soft, slow, real. No performance. No moans. Just the quiet press of two people who had finally stopped pretending.

The next day, they walked into the gym hand in hand. The team noticed immediately. Suna raised his phone. Ginjima wolf-whistled. Aran gave a thumbs-up.

And Atsumu Miya, Inarizaki’s star setter, looked at his captain and smiled like he’d won the whole world.

“Told you,” Atsumu said, loud enough for everyone. “We’re Inarizaki’s it couple.”

Kita squeezed his hand, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Atsumu said, and pulled him into another kiss, right there in front of the whole team.

The gym erupted in cheers, catcalls, laughter. Suna got the picture. The coach pretended to be annoyed but was smiling behind his clipboard.

And for the first time, Kita didn’t feel the need to prove anything. He had his team, his volleyball, and his love—loud, dramatic, impossible, and all his.