The Kind of Pretty

The hallway at Inarizaki High School hit you with a mix of floor wax, sweat, and someone’s cheap perfume—cloyingly sweet. Miya Atsumu wasn’t the source of that yet. He rounded the corner near the stairwell, strawberry milk carton half-empty, planning to ambush his boyfriend Hikaru before practice. His steps slowed when he caught Hikaru’s voice, low and laughing, tangled up with his gym buddies’ usual cadence.

“Cute? Yeah, Atsumu’s cute. But like… cute in a puppy way. Not the kind of pretty you’d want to show off. You know? Like, you wouldn’t put him on a poster.”

Hit him like a spike he didn’t see coming. Atsumu froze, carton sweating in his palm. Snickers from Hikaru’s friends. Something about his laugh being too loud. Another about talking with his mouth full.

He didn’t wait. Turned, walked to the nearest bathroom, locked himself in a stall, and sat on the toilet lid. Stared at the graffiti—someone drew a badly shaped dick next to “Kita-senpai is a god.” Didn’t even laugh. Just pressed his palm to his chest and listened to his heart thud, stupid and steady.

Not pretty enough to show off.

Those words dug in deep. He thought about every time Hikaru pulled away from his touch in public, called him “my friend,” looked at his reflection like he was weighing him against something. Then he pulled out his phone, typed we’re done, don’t talk to me, and blocked the number before any response popped up. Sat in that stall for another twenty minutes, planning revenge.

Not on Hikaru. On his own face.

---

Three days later, Osamu walked into their shared room and stopped dead.

A figure stood in front of the full-length mirror, back to the door. Plaid miniskirt barely covering thighs. Cropped white T, a sliver of stomach showing. Heeled boots that added four inches. And the hair—normally soft, unremarkable brown—now a shock of platinum blonde, spiky and messy, like a magazine cover that got chewed up.

“What the actual hell,” Osamu said.

The figure turned. It was Atsumu. Face caked in makeup: heavy black liner, shimmery pink shadow, foundation thick enough to stop a bullet, lips glossed to a mirror shine. Gold chain around his neck, black velvet choker with a tiny silver heart.

“Don’t you dare call me Tsumu,” Atsumu said, voice flat. “I’m Barbie now.”

Osamu blinked. Then snorted. It was like watching a cat put on a frilly dress and glare at you.

“Barbie? You look like you got attacked by a glitter bomb at a drag show.”

“It’s called fashion, Samu. You wouldn’t understand.” Atsumu turned back to the mirror, adjusting the skirt hem. “Hikaru said I wasn’t pretty enough to show off. So now I’m gonna be the prettiest person in this whole damn school. Prettier than every girl, every guy, every teacher, every janitor. So pretty people will need sunglasses to look at me.”

Osamu set down his bag, crossed his arms. “You broke up with Hikaru?”

“Obviously.”

“And this—this is your response?”

“Yes. Leave me alone. I have to reapply my highlighter.”

Osamu watched him. Atsumu’s shoulders were tight, jaw clenched. But once Tsumu got rolling, you couldn’t stop him until he slammed into something. So Osamu just shrugged, grabbed a rice ball from the convenience store bag, and said, “Suit yourself, Barbie. Don’t break your ankle in those heels.”

Atsumu flipped him off without turning around. Looked almost elegant with the glossy nails.

---

The transformation spread through Inarizaki like wildfire. By end of week, everyone knew Miya Atsumu, the twin setter, was now a blonde miniskirt-wearing bombshell. Rumors ranged from “he lost a bet” to “he’s a secret model” to “he’s having a mental breakdown.” Atsumu ignored them all. Walked through halls with his chin up, trailing roses and heavy sweetness behind him.

Boys whistled. Girls whispered. Some called him a slut, others gorgeous. He absorbed it all with serene detachment, like a queen surveying her court.

But his schedule changed. No more study sessions—needed time to “maintain his beauty.” Stopped eating lunch with the team, instead nibbling a single salad with no dressing, an apple sliced into perfect crescents, a can of Coke Zero. Claimed it was for the “aesthetic.” Osamu watched him push the apple around his plate like a chore and said nothing.

First sign something was really wrong came at practice.

Kita pushed them through quick sets, spikes, blocks. Atsumu jogged on court in his normal jersey—he had the sense not to wear a skirt to volleyball—but something was off. Movements sluggish. Eyes kept drifting to the mirror on the wall. Between sets, he pulled out a compact and reapplied lip gloss.

“Atsumu,” Kita said, quiet but firm. “Focus.”

“I am focused.” Snapped the compact shut. “Just making sure I don’t look like a greasy mess.”

Suna, nearby, raised an eyebrow. “You wore half a pound of makeup to practice. You’re not greasy. You’re practically enameled.”

“Shut up, Suna. Your face is boring.”

Suna shrugged. But Aran caught Osamu’s eye from across the court, expression tight with worry. Osamu just shook his head and mouthed It’s a phase. He wasn’t sure he believed it.

Drill continued. Atsumu set a ball to Osamu—too high, too lazy. Osamu had to jump at an awkward angle just to tip it over, and it landed weak.

“Sorry,” Atsumu said, no apology in his voice. Already reaching for his lip gloss again.

Osamu walked up and grabbed his wrist. “Tsumu. Snap out of it.”

“I told you, don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I want when you’re being a dumbass.” Squeezed his wrist, just enough to make Atsumu look at him. “You’re phoning it in. You love volleyball. What the hell is going on?”

For a second his mask cracked—eyes wide, vulnerable—then he yanked his hand free. “I’m fine. Just tired. Being this pretty is exhausting.”

He walked away, heels clicking on the gym floor—he’d changed back into them after the drill. Osamu watched him go, worry coiling tighter in his chest.

---

That night, Atsumu didn’t come home until late. Osamu was studying—or trying to—when his phone buzzed with a text from Suna: Party at Omi-kun’s place. Your twin is there. Wearing a dog collar.

Osamu stared at the screen. Then grabbed his jacket and keys.

Found the party easily. House party spilling onto the lawn, red Solo cups everywhere, bass thumping through the walls. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring drunk guys clapping him on the shoulder yelling “Hey, it’s the other twin!”

Inside, air thick with sweat and cheap alcohol. Bodies writhing in the living room. Someone threw up in a potted plant near the stairs. Osamu scanned the room, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Then he saw him.

Atsumu perched on a low couch in the middle of the crowd. Black crop top, ripped jeans so tight they looked painted on, and around his neck: a black leather dog choker with a silver ring in front. Laughing, head tipped back, as a group of third-year seniors crowded around him. One of them—lazy smirk, bad skin—had his hand on Atsumu’s bare knee.

Atsumu didn’t push it away.

Something hot and sharp lanced through Osamu’s chest. He started moving.

As he got closer, he saw Atsumu lean forward, whisper something in the ear of the guy next to him. The guy grinned, slid a bill into Atsumu’s hand. Atsumu pocketed it, stood up swaying slightly on his heels, climbed onto the bad-skin guy’s lap and started moving—a lazy, grinding dance. Several people whistled.

Osamu’s vision went red at the edges.

He was about to shove through the last ring of people when a sleazy senior sidled up to him, reeking of whiskey and bad intentions. Recognized Osamu’s face and let out a low, ugly laugh.

“Lucky you, having that sexy blonde as your brother,” the guy said, licking his lips. “If he were my brother, I’d fuck him every night. Full-on incest. Can you imagine? Twin on twin action?”

Osamu didn’t think. His fist connected with the guy’s jaw—crack. The senior stumbled back, crashed into a coffee table, went down hard, knocking over a forest of cups. Party noise dipped for a second, then surged back up, everyone staring.

Osamu didn’t care. Grabbed Atsumu by the arm, yanked him off the guy’s lap.

“Let go of me!” Atsumu shrieked, thrashing. Voice high and brittle. “You ruined my performance, you asshole!”

“We’re leaving.”

“No! I’m not done! I was making money!”

Osamu dragged him through the crowd, ignoring stares, whispers, laughter. Atsumu kicked and screamed, heels scraping the floor. When they reached the front yard, Atsumu wrenched his arm free and swung a clumsy punch at Osamu’s shoulder.

“You can’t control me! You’re not my mom!”

Osamu grabbed his cheek—the soft, plush part just below the eye—and pinched. Hard.

Atsumu yelped. Eyes watered.

“You’re being a dumbass, Tsumu. Let’s go home.”

Atsumu’s mouth opened and closed. The fight left him, and he looked small, shivering in the cold night air. Choker glinting under the porch light.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

They walked to Osamu’s car in silence.

---

The ride back was quiet. Atsumu stared out the window, watching streetlights blur past. Makeup smudged, eyeliner running into raccoon smears. He looked like a doll left out in the rain.

Osamu didn’t say anything until they were inside, door locked, world shut out. Then he pointed to the bed.

“Sit.”

Atsumu sat. Curled his legs up, hugging his knees, choker still around his neck. Shoulders shook once, twice, and then the dam broke.

He sobbed. Ugly, heaving sobs tearing out of his chest like they’d been waiting for permission. Osamu sat down across from him, cross-legged on the floor, and waited.

“He said—Hikaru said I wasn’t pretty enough to show off.” The words came out in gasps. “Said I was cute like a puppy. Like I was embarrassing. So I—I thought if I made myself prettier, if I was the most beautiful person in school, then no one could ever say that again. But everyone just—they look at me like I’m a joke. Like I’m a thing. And I hate it. I hate it so much.”

Osamu let him cry. Waited until the sobs quieted into sniffles, then reached up and tugged at the choker.

“Take this off. You’re not a dog.”

Atsumu fumbled with the buckle, hands shaking. When it came free, he dropped it on the floor like it was burning him.

Osamu studied him for a long moment. Then said, “You were always pretty, Tsumu. You didn’t need to change a thing.”

Atsumu looked up, eyes red, lips quivering. “Really?”

“Really. You know who else is pretty? Saeko-nee. That’s a compliment, by the way. But you—” Osamu paused, and a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. “Now you look like a deranged strawberry. Blonde and red-eyed and blotchy.”

Atsumu let out a strangled laugh. Wet and ugly, but real.

“A deranged strawberry? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“I’m a chef, not a poet. Shut up.”

Osamu stood up, walked to the mini-fridge, pulled out a bowl of onigiri—his stash, made earlier that day. Set it on the desk in front of Atsumu.

“Eat, idiot. You’re not fat. You’re just a hungry gremlin.”

Atsumu stared at the rice balls. Stomach gave an audible growl. He picked one up, took a bite, and made a sound half sob, half moan.

“Oh my god, this is so good.”

“Of course it is. I made them.”

They sat in silence, Atsumu demolishing the onigiri like he hadn’t eaten in days. When he finished the last one, he set the bowl down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I missed your cooking, Samu.”

“I missed you not being an idiot.”

“I’m still an idiot. Just a less pretty one now.”

Osamu snorted. “You’re still pretty, dumbass. Even with your raccoon eyes and strawberry tears.”

Atsumu laughed again, lighter this time. Kicked off his heels and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Blonde hair spread out on the pillow like a halo of straw.

“I’m washing all this off tomorrow,” he said quietly. “The makeup. This hair’s staying, though. I actually like it.”

“It’s not the worst look on you,” Osamu admitted. “Just lose the dog collar and stilettos.”

“Deal.”

A comfortable silence. Osamu grabbed a blanket and threw it at Atsumu’s face.

“Go to sleep, Barbie. You’ve got practice in the morning.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Fine. Go to sleep, Strawberry.”

Atsumu threw a pillow at him. Missed by a mile. Osamu caught it and tossed it back.

“I love you, Samu,” Atsumu mumbled into the blanket.

“I know. Now shut up.”

Atsumu’s smile was soft, barely visible in the dark. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in days, felt like he could breathe.

---

The next morning, Atsumu stood in front of the bathroom mirror and washed his face. Makeup came off in streaks—pink and black and brown—running down the drain like a bad decision finally undoing itself. When he was done, his face was bare, clean, dotted with a few small breakouts from all the product.

He stared at himself.

Just his face. The same one he’d had before. Same freckle near his eye. Same slight asymmetry in his smile. Just his face.

And it was fine.

He pulled on his Inarizaki jersey, familiar fabric soft and worn. Slipped on his regular sneakers. Grabbed his bag and walked out, past Osamu eating toast at the kitchen counter.

“You look normal,” Osamu said.

“I am normal. Let’s go.”

They walked to school together, side by side. October air crisp, smelling of leaves and car exhaust. A few students stared as they passed, whispering about the blonde who transformed back overnight. Atsumu ignored them.

At the gym, the team was already warming up. Kita looked up when Atsumu walked in, and the smallest flicker of relief passed over his stoic face.

“Glad you’re back,” was all he said.

“I never left,” Atsumu said, but with a grin, not a sneer.

Aran clapped him on the shoulder. Suna lobbed a ball at his head. He caught it one-handed, and for the first time in weeks, his reflexes felt sharp.

Practice was good. Hard, but good. Atsumu’s sets crisp, his movements fluid. He dove for a ball he would have let roll past the day before, and when he got up, covered in dust and sweat, he laughed.

Osamu spiked one of his tosses so hard it bounced off the back wall.

“Nice set, Strawberry.”

“Nice spike, Gremlin.”

They grinned at each other, identical expressions of pure, uncomplicated joy.

After practice, Atsumu found a quiet corner of the gym and pulled out his phone. Stared at Hikaru’s blocked contact for a long moment. Then deleted it.

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Not pretty enough to show off.

Still stung, but smaller now. Quieter. Like a mosquito bite instead of a knife wound. He realized Hikaru was an asshole, and being pretty had never been the point. He’d always been enough. He just forgot.

“Oi, Barbie! You coming for onigiri or not?”

Osamu’s voice echoed from the hallway. Atsumu opened his eyes and smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t rush me.”

He stood up, straightened his jersey, and walked out to join his brother—the only person whose opinion ever really mattered. They bickered all the way to the convenience store about what kind of filling to buy, who had the better hair, whether Atsumu’s new blonde looked like a haystack.

It was loud. It was stupid. It was home.