The Miya Princess

The first day back after winter break, Inarizaki High School buzzed with whispers. Atsumu Miya, the legendary setter known for his sharp tongue and sharper serves, walked through the gates looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine. His blonde hair was longer, cascading past his shoulders in soft waves. A delicate silver chain glittered at his neck, and his uniform fit differently—tailored, perhaps, or maybe it was just the way he carried himself now. His makeup was subtle but undeniable: a hint of gloss on his lips, a touch of mascara framing his amber eyes. When he spoke, his voice was softer, breathier, almost lilting.

“Mornin’, Osamu,” Atsumu said, his tone sweet as honey.

Osamu, his twin, nearly dropped his bento box. “What the hell, ’Tsumu?”

Atsumu just smiled, a coy, practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What? Don’t I look pretty?”

Pretty wasn’t the word. Stunning was. And the whole school noticed. By lunch, the nickname “Miya princess” had spread like wildfire. Boys who’d never given Atsumu a second glance now stared openly. Girls whispered, some envious, others intrigued. Atsumu seemed to bask in the attention, twirling a lock of hair around his finger as he walked through the halls.

But Osamu saw through it. He’d known his brother his whole life. This wasn’t Atsumu being confident—this was Atsumu hiding. The clothes, the makeup, the voice—it was a costume. And under it, Osamu could see the cracks. The way Atsumu’s hands trembled when no one was looking. The way he flinched when someone touched him unexpectedly. The way he laughed too loud, too bright, like he was trying to convince himself he was fine.

“You don’t have to do this,” Osamu said quietly as they walked home together. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Atsumu’s smile faltered for just a second before he plastered it back on. “Pretend? I’m not pretendin’. This is me now.”

“Bullshit.” Osamu grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. “I’m your brother. I know you. Somethin’ happened over break, didn’t it?”

Atsumu’s eyes went wide, and for a moment, Osamu saw the fear behind them. Then Atsumu pulled away, his voice sharp. “Drop it, Osamu. Just… drop it.”

Osamu didn’t drop it. He couldn’t. He started walking Atsumu to class, waiting for him after practice, making sure he always had someone by his side. When a group of guys from the baseball team made crude comments about the “Miya princess,” Osamu stepped in front of his brother, his voice cold. “Say that again, and I’ll break your jaw.” They backed off. But Osamu knew he couldn’t be there every second.

Volleyball practice was Atsumu’s sanctuary. On the court, he was still the fierce, commanding setter they all knew. His serves were brutal, his sets flawless. But even there, something had shifted. The way he moved was different—more fluid, more careful. His shorts seemed shorter, his shirt tighter. And Kita Shinsuke noticed.

Kita had watched Atsumu grow from a loud, obnoxious first-year into a brilliant player and a complicated young man. He’d always thought of Atsumu as a little brother—someone to guide, to correct, to protect. But this new Atsumu stirred something else in him. Something he couldn’t ignore.

It started during practice. Atsumu bent over to pick up a ball, and the curve of his hips caught Kita’s eye. The way his waist narrowed, the way his uniform clung to him—Kita’s breath hitched. He looked away, scolding himself. This was Atsumu. His kohai. His friend. But his gaze kept drifting back.

After practice, Atsumu sat on the bench, exhausted. His makeup was smudged, his hair a mess. He looked vulnerable, almost fragile. Kita sat down beside him.

“You played well today,” Kita said.

Atsumu glanced at him, a flicker of the old mischief in his eyes. “Just well? I was amazing, Kita-san.”

Kita smiled. “Amazing, then.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Atsumu’s voice dropped, soft and uncertain. “Kita-san… do you think I’m pretty?”

Kita’s heart clenched. “I think you’re beautiful,” he said, and the words surprised even him. Atsumu’s eyes widened, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. Kita quickly added, “But I also think you’re still the same person you’ve always been. The makeup, the clothes—they don’t change who you are.”

Atsumu looked down, his fingers twisting in his lap. “What if I don’t know who that is anymore?”

Kita wanted to reach out, to take his hand. But he held back. “Then you take your time finding out. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

From that day on, Kita found himself seeking Atsumu out. He’d sit with him during breaks, walk with him to practice, offer quiet words of encouragement. The other team members noticed. “Kita-san’s been spending a lot of time with Atsumu,” Suna remarked one day. Osamu just grunted, but his eyes were watchful.

One evening, after everyone else had gone home, Atsumu stayed late to practice his serves. Kita stayed too, watching from the sidelines. The gym was quiet, the only sounds the thud of the ball and Atsumu’s soft grunts. Finally, Atsumu stopped, breathing hard. He turned to Kita, his expression raw.

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “All the time. I don’t know why I started dressing like this. I just… I felt like I needed to be someone else. Someone people would look at and not see the old me. The me that…” He trailed off, his voice breaking.

Kita stood and walked over to him. Slowly, carefully, he took Atsumu’s hand. “The old you is still here. And he’s still worthy of love. Of protection.”

Atsumu’s eyes glistened. “Even if I don’t know who that is?”

“Especially then.” Kita squeezed his hand. “I’ll be here. Whatever you need.”

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe. He leaned into Kita, resting his head on his shoulder. Kita wrapped an arm around him, holding him close.

They stood like that for a long time, the gym silent around them. And in that moment, Atsumu knew: no matter what he looked like, no matter who he became, he was safe. He was loved. He was home.