Combo Drill

Afternoon practice at Inarizaki was the usual symphony of squeaky shoes and sharp smacks, with the occasional bark from a coach cutting through. Sunlight poured through the high windows, painting long shadows across the court where the team drilled. The air smelled like rubber, sweat, and effort.

Atsumu Miya stood at the service line, balancing a ball in his palm, that cocky grin already plastered on his face. He’d just aced three serves in a row—precision missiles that left his teammates scrambling. “Too easy,” he announced, then tossed and launched another jump serve that screamed past Ginjima’s desperate dive.

“Show-off,” Osamu muttered from across the net, voice flat but with a hint of amusement. He leaned against the net post, towel draped around his neck, watching his twin preen.

Suna slipped up beside Osamu, phone already out—not that he was supposed to have it during practice, but Suna played by his own rules. “Funny thing,” Suna said, loud enough for Atsumu to hear. “He acts like he’s the best thing since sliced bread, but I saw him trip over his own feet during warm-up stretches.”

Atsumu’s grin flickered. “I did not trip.”

“You absolutely did,” Osamu confirmed, deadpan. “Looked like a newborn giraffe learning to walk.”

“I was adjusting my ankle brace!”

“Sure,” Suna drawled, snapping a quick photo of Atsumu’s reddening face. “This is going in the group chat. ‘Atsumu Miya: volleyball genius, bipedal disaster.’”

The teasing kept coming, and Atsumu’s temper flared—but the prickling embarrassment burned worse. He hated being the joke, especially when his own twin joined in. Cheeks on fire, he threw his hands up. “You two are the worst! I’ll make you regret that!”

He dropped the ball and took off, sprinting after Suna, who yelped and dodged behind a stack of practice mats. Osamu, laughing for once, looped around the other way, and soon the three of them were weaving between players, ducking under nets, nearly colliding with Omimi, who just sighed and stepped aside with practiced resignation.

“Atsumu, calm down!” Kita called from the sideline, but even he sounded more amused than stern.

You could hear the pout in Atsumu’s voice. “They started it!”

Aran had been quietly setting up a drill on the far side, but the commotion pulled his attention. He watched Atsumu’s dramatic chase—the way his boyfriend (secret boyfriend, he reminded himself) flailed exaggeratedly, his ears turning pink, that pout so endearing it made Aran’s chest ache. He knew that pout. It was the same one Atsumu wore whenever Osamu stole the last onigiri or a serve didn’t land perfectly. And Aran knew exactly how to fix it.

He set down the ball cart and jogged over.

“Oi, Aran, get him!” Suna shouted as he dodged past, using Aran as a human shield.

But Aran didn’t reach for Suna. Instead, he pivoted smoothly, intercepted Atsumu mid-stride, and scooped him up in a gentle tackle. Atsumu let out a surprised “Wha—?” before Aran pressed a quick, tender kiss to his forehead.

“Mwah,” Aran said, just loud enough for Atsumu to hear.

Atsumu froze, eyes wide. “Aran! What are you—they’re watching!”

“I don’t care,” Aran murmured, and then he kissed Atsumu’s right hand—the one that set magic into every ball. “There. Better?”

Atsumu’s pout melted into a bashful smile, but he still tried to pull away. “No! I gotta get ‘em back!”

Osamu and Suna had stopped to watch. Osamu’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline while Suna’s smirk turned wolfish. “Ohho?” Suna said. “What’s this? Atsumu getting baby-talked?”

Aran’s eyes narrowed playfully. He released Atsumu but stayed close, one hand resting on the small of his back. Then, in a move that surprised everyone, Aran suddenly sprinted after Osamu and Suna.

“Hey!” Osamu yelped, grabbing Suna’s arm and hauling him behind a gym cart. “What’s gotten into him?”

“Don’t know, don’t care—run!” Suna hissed.

And so began an absurd game of cat-and-mouse. Aran was faster than he looked, his long legs eating up the court. He chased the two instigators with a determined gleam in his eyes, while Atsumu trailed behind, laughing and shouting, “Get ‘em for me, Aran!”

The gym erupted. First-years dove out of the way. Kita folded his arms and sighed heavily. The coaches exchanged glances; one muttered, “Let them burn off steam, I guess.”

Aran cornered Osamu near the bleachers, but Osamu ducked under his arm and scrambled away. Then Suna made the mistake of taunting, “You can’t catch us, big guy!”—which only made Aran’s focus intensify.

“Oh, I will,” Aran promised, his voice low and good-natured.

He caught up to Suna beside the scorekeeper’s table, but instead of grabbing him, Aran simply stopped, turned, and planted a loud, theatrical kiss on Atsumu’s cheek as Atsumu ran past. “Mwah!”

Atsumu stumbled, nearly crashing into the table. “Aran! You’re supposed to be chasing them!”

“I am,” Aran said, grinning. “But I can multitask.”

Osamu had taken refuge behind Ginjima, who was trying to run a passing drill and completely failing to stay focused. “What’s even happening?” Ginjima asked, bewildered, as Suna crouched behind him.

“Just go with it,” Suna panted.

Aran didn’t even glance at them. His eyes were locked on Atsumu, who was now trying to hide his flustered smile behind a hand. The chase slowed, turned into a dance. Aran would jog a few steps, Atsumu would dart away, and then Aran would catch up just long enough to steal another kiss—on the temple, the nose, the knuckles. Each one came with a soft “Mwah” that echoed in the high-ceilinged gym.

“You’re impossible,” Atsumu whispered the third time Aran captured his wrist and pressed his lips to the inside of it.

“And you’re beautiful when you’re flustered,” Aran replied, voice warm as summer.

The rest of the team had stopped practicing entirely. They stood in clusters, mouths agape, watching their star ace and their star setter engage in what could only be described as a romantic chase scene straight out of a shoujo manga.

“Are they…?” Omimi started.

“I think they’re dating,” whispered a first-year.

“No way,” said another.

Ginjima turned to Osamu, who had emerged from hiding. “Did you know about this?”

Osamu shrugged, a ghost of a smirk on his face. “Maybe.”

Suna just clicked his phone camera again.

Meanwhile, Aran had finally cornered Atsumu in the quiet alcove near the storage room, behind a stack of padded mats. The rest of the gym seemed to fade away. Atsumu’s back was against the mats, his breath coming quick—not from exertion, but from the intensity of Aran’s gaze.

“You know,” Aran said softly, stepping closer until there was barely a breath between them, “every time I see you, something happens inside me.”

Atsumu swallowed. “What kind of something?”

“Like a spark. A little flame at first.” Aran’s hand came up to cup Atsumu’s cheek, his thumb stroking the high cheekbone. “But then you smile, or you laugh, or you pout at Osamu, and it grows. It becomes a big roaring flame.”

“Aran…” Atsumu’s voice was barely a whisper.

“You set my soul on fire, Atsumu.” Aran’s words were low and earnest, his dark eyes never leaving Atsumu’s. “I could be in the middle of a match, focused on the ball, and then I catch a glimpse of you, and everything else goes quiet. There’s just you. Just this.”

He leaned in and kissed Atsumu—softly, slowly, with all the tenderness he’d been holding back during practice. Atsumu’s hands fisted in Aran’s jersey, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, and for a long moment, there was nothing but the warmth of lips, the faint taste of sweat and sports drink, and two hearts beating together.

When they broke apart, Aran rested his forehead against Atsumu’s. “I love you,” he breathed.

“I love you too,” Atsumu murmured back, voice thick with emotion.

Then Aran did something that made Atsumu’s breath catch. He bent down, slid one arm under Atsumu’s knees and the other around his back, and lifted him straight into the air like he weighed nothing.

Atsumu let out a startled laugh, arms wrapping around Aran’s neck. “What are you doing?!”

“I can feel it now,” Aran said, his voice full of wonder. He spun them slowly, Atsumu’s feet dangling, the gym lights spinning into a blur. “The fire. It’s everywhere. It’s you.”

Atsumu laughed, bright and genuine, and Aran laughed with him. They stood there, Atsumu in Aran’s arms, sharing a goofy, happy chuckle that echoed off the walls.

Then Atsumu’s laughter died.

Because they were not alone.

He turned his head slowly, and his stomach dropped. The entire team—Kita, Ginjima, Omimi, the first-years, the managers, even the coaches—were gathered at the edge of the practice area, frozen in various states of shock. Some had dropped their water bottles. One first-year had a volleyball halfway through a toss, now forgotten midair.

Suna had his phone up, recording.

Osamu had his arms crossed, looking smug.

And Kita—Kita Shinsuke, the calm, composed captain—had his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline.

“Uh,” said Atsumu.

Aran gently set him down, but kept a hand on his lower back. He faced the team with an expression that was equal parts sheepish and proud.

“So,” Aran said. “This is Atsumu and me. We’re together.”

Dead silence.

Then a first-year whispered, “Since when?”

Aran glanced at Atsumu, who was turning the color of a tomato. “Since middle school,” Aran said.

Pandemonium broke loose.

“Middle school?!” Ginjima shouted. “That’s four years!”

“Four years and you never told us?!” Omimi added.

“I knew it,” Suna said, not even bothering to hide his grin. “I knew it. The way you two look at each other during matches—it’s disgusting.”

“You did not know,” Osamu retorted. “You just guessed.”

“Same thing.”

Atsumu buried his face in his hands, groaning. “This is so embarrassing.”

Aran pulled him into a side hug, pressing a kiss to his hair. “It’s okay. They were going to find out eventually.”

“Not like this!”

Kita stepped forward, and everyone quieted. He looked at Aran, then at Atsumu, then back at Aran. His expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward—just barely.

“I suppose this explains the extra laps you two always run together,” Kita said.

Atsumu’s head shot up. “You knew?!”

“I suspected.” Kita’s voice was calm. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Osamu snorted. “They’re about as subtle as a brick through a window.”

Suna held up his phone. “I got the whole thing. The lift. The fire speech. The kiss. It’s all here. This is gold.”

“Delete it,” Atsumu begged.

“Absolutely not.”

Ginjima was shaking his head, but he was smiling. “I can’t believe you two. All those times you said you were ‘working on combo drills’ after practice…”

“We were!” Atsumu insisted. “Just… also dating!”

The tension broke into laughter. The first-years were whispering excitedly among themselves. Omimi clapped Aran on the shoulder. Even the coaches looked amused, though one muttered something about "keeping focus on volleyball."

Aran wrapped both arms around Atsumu from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. “So,” he said softly, just for Atsumu, “you okay with everyone knowing now?”

Atsumu leaned back into him, the last of his embarrassment melting away. He looked at his team—nosy, loud, ridiculous—and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun.

“Yeah,” he said, tilting his head to meet Aran’s eyes. “I guess I am.”

Chaos swirled around them—Suna already editing his video, Osamu pretending to be grossed out, Kita restoring order with quiet authority. But in the middle of it all, Aran and Atsumu stayed tangled together, sharing a secret smile.

Practice ended late that day. No one could concentrate. And somewhere in the background, you could still hear Suna’s voice crowing, “I’m putting this on the team group chat. ‘Aran Oijirou: ace, poet, boyfriend.’”

Atsumu’s outraged shout was followed by Aran’s warm laugh.

And the Inarizaki gym, for one perfect afternoon, was filled with more love than volleyball.