Princess of Inarizaki

The first day of the new school year at Inarizaki High started like any other—kids shuffling between classrooms, the usual chaos, that energy that comes with a fresh volleyball season. Nobody expected the most dramatic thing to happen in the boys' locker room.

Atsumu Miya stood in front of his open locker, the cool air raising goosebumps on his—her—arms. She'd worn the girls' uniform that morning. The navy skirt felt weird against her thighs, the white blouse way softer than the stiff shirts she used to wear. Her hair, already past her shoulders after summer, was tied back with a simple black ribbon.

"Yo, Atsumu! You gonna be late for—" Suna Rintarou stopped, eyes snapping open. He blinked. Took in his teammate wearing the girls' uniform with that same casual confidence she wore everything else.

"I came out over the summer," Atsumu said, turning to face him with a grin. "Told the coach already. I'm a girl."

Suna stared another long moment. Then shrugged. "Cool. Skirt suits you better than those baggy pants you used to wear."

"That's what I've been sayin'!"

News spread fast through the team, but not the way Atsumu half-expected. No awkward silences, no uncomfortable questions. The Inarizaki boys' volleyball team—intense on the court, absolute chaos off it—just adjusted.

"Alright, Princess, set me up!" yelled Ginjima during warm-ups. The nickname stuck.

Ginjima, Kita, Aran, Suna, even the first-years who didn't know any better all called her "Princess" or "Tsumu" like it was nothing. Captain Kita had just nodded when she told him, said "Understood," and asked if she needed anything for practice.

The only person who couldn't handle it was the one she figured would be her biggest ally.

Osamu Miya, her twin, the other half, went completely silent.

Not mean about it—she'd braced for insults, the kind of brutal honesty only a sibling can deliver. Instead he just avoided her. Morning practice? Far end of the court. Lunch? Ate with the second-years. Walking home? A full arm's length away, eyes fixed ahead.

"You got a problem with me now or somethin'?" she finally demanded one evening, a week in. They were in the kitchen of their shared room, Osamu carefully arranging onigiri on a plate like she didn't exist.

"Nope," Osamu said, not looking up.

"Then why won't ya talk to me?"

"I'm talkin' to ya now."

"That don't count! You're bein' weird!"

His hands stilled over the rice, shoulders tightening for a second. Then he placed another onigiri with surgical precision. "Ain't bein' weird. Just don't got nothin' to say."

Such an obvious lie that even their mom, watching TV in the living room, snorted.

Atsumu crossed her arms. Her new chest pressed against her sleep shirt in a way that still distracted her mid-argument. Estrogen since summer, changes coming faster than expected. Her face had softened, jawline losing its edge, cheekbones more prominent. Voice still deeper than most girls her age but lighter now, less abrasive.

And her breasts. God, they were coming in like they had something to prove.

"Fine," Atsumu huffed, grabbing an onigiri. "Be a weirdo. See if I care."

"I care," Osamu muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothin'."

---

Three months in, the changes were undeniable.

Her breasts had settled into a full C-cup, a weight she was still getting used to. Face rounded out, skin clearing up—even Suna did a double-take. Her hair, thick and shiny, now reached the middle of her back, catching gym lights like a shampoo commercial.

"Damn, Princess," Aran said one day, watching her serve. "You look different every time I see ya."

"That's called puberty, blockhead," Atsumu shot back, smiling.

Only problem was her sets.

Volleyball had always been instinct—she didn't think about setting, she just did it. But her new body threw off her calibration. Center of gravity shifted. Reach different. Muscles in her arms and shoulders changed composition.

Sets still precise—she was Atsumu Miya, after all—but slower. Had to think about movements that used to be automatic.

"Tsumu," Kita said during a break, calm as always, "your sets are still finding their range. That's to be expected."

"I know, I know," she said, toweling off. "Just frustratin'."

In the corner, Osamu did receiving drills with Suna. Hadn't made eye contact with her once.

---

Six months in, during a routine practice match.

Atsumu played setter for the first-string team, movements finally feeling natural again. Adjusted her footwork, learned to compensate. Sets nearly back to former glory. The team was on fire—slap of hands on leather, squeak of shoes.

Ball arced over the net after a rally, and she sprinted, hair flying. Out of position, ball dropping fast.

"Got it!" she yelled, lunging.

Osamu came from the opposite side, eyes locked on the same ball. They collided. Tangle of limbs and momentum. In the chaos of trying to dig, Osamu's hand shot out for balance.

And landed square on Atsumu's left breast.

Gym went silent.

His hand frozen there, palm pressed against her chest through the practice jersey. Sports bra padding did nothing to hide what he was touching. His face went through a transformation—confusion, then dawning horror, then a shade of purple that bordered on comical.

"Osamu," Atsumu said, voice carrying through the silent gym, "your hand's on my boob."

Silence lasted exactly one second before the whole team erupted.

Ginjima doubled over, slapping his knees. Suna's phone was already out, recording. Aran laughed so hard he leaned against the wall. Even Kita's stoic facade cracked into something like a smile.

Osamu yanked his hand back like he'd been burned. "I— That's— Ya ran into me!"

"You grabbed my tit," Atsumu said, sitting up with an evil grin. "In front of everyone. On camera, probably."

"I didn't grab nothin'! It was an accident!"

"Sure it was, Samu. Sure it was."

Osamu made a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper, then stalked off the court. Laughter followed him all the way to the locker room.

---

The locker room situation had been a point of contention long before that.

Atsumu kept using the boys' locker room out of practicality. Girls' locker room was on the other side of the gym, and she was comfortable with her team. Changing in front of them felt natural.

Team didn't seem to mind. In fact, they seemed to enjoy it a little too much.

"Damn, Princess, where'd ya get that bra?" Rintarou asked one day, not even hiding his staring. Atsumu stood in front of her locker in nothing but a lacy burgundy bra and practice shorts, completely unbothered by the half-naked boys around her.

"Online," she said, snapping the clasp. "They got good sales."

"It's fancy," Ginjima added, pulling his jersey over his head. "Real fancy."

"Ya gotta treat yourself," she said, shrugging into her own jersey.

Across the room, Osamu tried to change in the smallest possible space, back pressed against a locker, eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling like staring hard enough would make it all disappear.

He'd been doing this for months, ever since changes became noticeable. Couldn't bring himself to look at her directly anymore. Not because he didn't accept her—he did, in a way that surprised even himself. But because she was his sister now, and somehow that made everything different.

Before, they'd been brothers. Shared a room, shared baths, seen each other in every state of undress without a second thought. They were the same.

But now, when Osamu accidentally caught a glimpse of Atsumu in her bra, he felt like he'd seen something he wasn't supposed to. His sister was a girl. A real girl, with curves and softness and things that made his brain short-circuit. And she was changing in front of a bunch of boys who openly admired her underwear.

Made him want to punch something.

"Oi, Atsumu," he finally said one day, voice tight. They were walking home from practice, evening air cool against flushed faces. "Ya gotta stop changin' in the boys' locker room."

She stopped, turned with theatrical offense. "Excuse me?"

"It ain't proper," he said, rubbing his neck. "Yer a girl now. Can't just... change in front of everyone."

"Why not? They don't mind."

"Because I mind!"

Words came out louder than he intended, echoing off the quiet street. A few houses down, a dog started barking.

Atsumu's eyebrows shot up. Then a slow grin spread. "Oh, I see. Big brother Samu is jealous."

"I ain't jealous!"

"Ya are! Ya don't want all the other boys seein' yer little sister in her pretty lingerie."

"Shut up!"

"It's okay," she said, stepping closer, poking him in the chest. "I got it. Ya think I'm too pretty for them."

"I think yer too annoyin' for anyone," Osamu growled, swatting her hand away. "And I don't like how they look at ya."

"So ya admit they're lookin' at me."

"That ain't— I didn't say— Ya twistin' my words!"

Atsumu laughed, bright and genuine, and something in Osamu's chest loosened despite himself. "Samu, ya big softie. Ya know I'm just messin' with ya."

"I know," he muttered. "Doesn't make it less annoyin'."

They started walking again, tension easing for the first time in months. She bumped her shoulder against his. He let her.

"I'll think about it," she said. "The locker room thing."

"...Thanks."

"But only because ya asked so nicely."

"I didn't ask nicely. I told ya to stop."

"Semantics."

---

Second incident happened faster than anyone could react.

Another practice match, a week after the first groping. Team had been relentless—calling Osamu "Mr. Hands" and "Gropin' Samu" and a dozen other nicknames. He'd endured with clenched fists and muttered threats, face red every time.

But volleyball was his sanctuary. Until his sister ran directly into his path.

Ball coming fast, powerful spike from Aran that Atsumu tried to dig. Osamu moving to cover the net, eyes tracking the ball, when her shoulder connected with his chest and they both went down.

This time his hand landed on her chest with absolutely no room for interpretation.

"Seriously?" her voice from underneath him. "Again?"

Osamu scrambled backward so fast he crashed into Suna, who already had his phone out.

"Third time's the charm," Suna said, hitting record.

"It's the second time!" Osamu yelled.

"Ya gonna go for a hat trick?" Ginjima called.

"That's not— I didn't— She ran into me!"

"Sure, Samu," Atsumu said, sitting up, adjusting her jersey with the air of someone who'd been through this before. "Whatever helps ya sleep at night."

Gym filled with laughter again. Osamu made a sound of pure frustration that only made them laugh harder.

---

After practice, Osamu found Atsumu sitting on the steps outside the gym, bag packed, hair still damp from the shower she'd taken in the girls' locker room. She'd made the switch after their conversation, though she'd told him about it in excruciating detail.

"The girls' locker room is so much nicer, Samu. They got better lighting and the showers actually have pressure. And they got this fancy soap that smells like flowers. Maybe I shoulda switched sooner."

"I don't wanna hear about yer fancy soap," Osamu had grumbled, but he'd felt a weight lift.

Now he sat next to her, concrete warm from afternoon sun. School quiet, most students gone. In the distance, track team doing cool-down laps.

"Look," he started, voice rough. "About earlier. I'm sorry."

Atsumu glanced over, eyebrow raised. "Which part? First time or second time?"

"Both. All of it. I didn't mean to... ya know."

"Grope me?"

"Will ya stop sayin' it like that?!" Osamu's face went red again, and she laughed, soft, without any teasing edge.

"It's fine, Samu. I know ya didn't mean it. Ya got good reflexes."

"I got idiot reflexes," he muttered.

"Yeah, that too."

They sat in silence, watching the sun dip lower. Osamu picked at a loose thread on his shorts.

"I missed ya," he finally said.

Atsumu turned to look at him. "What?"

"Before. When I was bein' weird. I missed... this." He gestured vaguely between them. "Talkin' to ya. Fightin' with ya. Eatin' dinner while ya complain about everything."

"I don't complain about everything."

"Ya complain about everythin'."

She smiled. "Okay, maybe I do. But ya missed it."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I did."

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Atsumu leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder, like when they were kids and the world felt too big.

"I missed ya too, dummy," she said. "I thought ya hated me or somethin'."

"I could never hate ya, Tsumu. Yer my twin. Always gonna be my twin."

"Even if I'm a girl now?"

Osamu was quiet, considering. "Yer still the same person," he said slowly. "Still annoyin' and loud, still hog the bathroom. Ya just got... different parts now."

Atsumu snorted. "Ya make it sound so romantic."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

They bickered for a few more minutes, falling into their old rhythm. Felt good. Felt right.

"I promise I'll stop gettin' in yer way on the court," she said eventually. "And I'll keep usin' the girls' locker room. Wouldn't wanna give ya a heart attack."

"It ain't about that," he said, scratching his head. "It's just... ya look too good in those fancy bras. It's distractin'."

"Samu!" Her face lit up with mischief. "Did ya just compliment me?"

"I did not."

"Ya said I look good!"

"I said the bra looked good! There's a difference!"

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"Ya know what? I take it back. Yer the worst sister ever."

"I'm yer only sister."

"Then yer the worst one by default."

She laughed, loud and unguarded. Osamu found himself smiling despite his embarrassment. This was how it was supposed to be.

"Hey, Samu," she said as they stood, brushing off shorts. "Thanks. For bein' okay with this."

He shrugged, hands in pockets. "Wasn't gonna stop bein' yer brother just 'cause yer a girl now. That'd be stupid."

"And since when are ya not stupid?"

"Yer pushin' it."

"I'm always pushin' it."

They started walking home, streetlights flickering on. Night warm, air thick with summer and possibility.

"Ya know what I want right now?" Atsumu said, linking her arm through his. He tensed but didn't pull away.

"To shut up for five minutes?"

"To eat one of yer onigiri. Haven't had one in months 'cause yer always hidin' 'em from me."

"I ain't hidin' 'em from ya. I'm hidin' 'em from the raccoon that lives in our kitchen."

"And who might that raccoon be?"

"Ya."

Atsumu gasped in mock offense. "I cannot believe my own brother would call me a raccoon."

"I said what I said."

"I'm tellin' Mom."

"Go ahead. She calls ya a raccoon too."

"I'm gettin' new siblings."

"Too late. Yer stuck with me."

They argued all the way home, voices carrying through quiet streets, loud and obnoxious and perfectly themselves. Inside, their mom heard them coming from a block away and smiled, shaking her head.

Twins were back to normal.

Well, as normal as the Miya twins ever got.