Roses on the Midnight Bus

The charter bus hummed along the highway, headlights cutting through the twilight. Inside, the Inarizaki volleyball team was a mess of noise—shouting, laughing, replaying the match with wild hands and bad acting. The win had been clean, a sweep in the semis, and the adrenaline still buzzed through the aisle like static.

Atsumu Miya didn't notice any of it.

He was slumped against the window, head tilted at some genuinely painful angle, mouth open, breathing slow. Osamu’s black jacket was draped over him like a blanket, sleeves hanging past his fingers. He’d passed out about an hour into the eight-hour drive and hadn't moved since.

“Oi, Samu, your twin’s drooling on your jacket,” Suna said from across the aisle, phone loose in his hand. Voice flat, but his eyes glinted.

Osamu glanced up from his phone two rows ahead. He’d given Atsumu the jacket when he noticed the bus’s AC was set to arctic and Atsumu was shivering even asleep. “Let him be. He played like shit in the first set, then carried us in the third. He’s earned it.”

“He always plays like shit in the first set and carries us in the third,” Suna said. “That’s just Atsumu.”

“Exactly.” Osamu went back to his phone.

The noise kept going—Ginjima and the others were arguing whether the other team’s libero actually touched the final spike—but Atsumu slept on. His face was slack, peaceful, the usual sharpness softened into something almost innocent. Blond strands had escaped his ponytail, curling against his cheek. In the dim light, with city glow bleeding through the windows, he looked younger. Prettier.

Kita Shinsuke sat near the front, a travel mug of herbal tea cooling in his hands. He’d been watching Atsumu off and on for three hours. Not because he was worried—though he was, a little—but because there was something soothing about seeing him quiet. Still. Rare, for Atsumu.

Kita let himself smile, small and private, then turned back to the road.

---

Four hours later, the bus had quieted. Match replays exhausted, snacks eaten, most of the team settling into drowsy conversations or their own attempts at sleep. The highway stretched ahead, dark and endless, dotted with the occasional passing car.

Atsumu stirred.

He blinked, eyes unfocused, registered the unfamiliar weight on his shoulders. Osamu’s jacket. Smelled like onigiri and practice gym—comforting. He shifted, winced as his neck protested, and sat up.

Across the aisle, Suna looked up. “Oh, Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

“Shut up,” Atsumu mumbled, no heat. He rubbed his eyes, blinked again, spotted Osamu a few rows ahead, and shuffled up.

“Samu.” Voice still rough. He tugged the jacket off and held it out. “Thanks.”

Osamu took it without looking. “Keep it. You’re still shivering.”

Atsumu hadn’t noticed, but now he felt the cold prickle on his arms. He wrapped the jacket back around himself, pulling the collar up. “Mm. Thanks.”

Osamu grunted.

Atsumu stood there awkward, then turned to head back—but Kita was suddenly there, materialized from the front with a paper cup.

“You’re awake.” Low, calm. He held out the cup. “I saved you some tea. Still warm.”

Atsumu’s cheeks went pink. “Ah, Kita-san, you didn’t have to—”

“I know.” Kita’s mouth curved. “But I wanted to.”

Atsumu took the cup. Fingers brushed. Warmth seeped into his cold hands. He brought it to his lips, sipped. Herbal, light, perfectly sweetened. He made a small sound.

“Good?”

“Yeah.” His voice came out softer than he meant. He cleared his throat. “Really good. Thanks.”

Kita leaned against the seat next to him, close enough that Atsumu caught the faint scent of his hair—clean, like soap and fresh air. “You played well today. The final set was yours.”

Atsumu ducked his head, embarrassed. He got praise all the time—coaches, teammates, opponents. But from Kita, it felt different. Heavier. “I messed up the first set. Gimme got blocked three times ‘cause I was predictable.”

“You adjusted,” Kita said. “That’s what matters.”

Atsumu’s blush deepened. He took another sip to hide his face. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” Kita’s eyes crinkled. “You’re a good setter, Atsumu. A great one. But you know that already.”

“Yeah, but… when you say it, it…” Atsumu trailed off. When you say it, it makes me want to be better. When you say it, it feels real.

Kita waited, patient, like he had all the time in the world.

“It just… sounds nicer,” Atsumu finished lamely.

Kita’s smile widened. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Atsumu’s ear, featherlight. “I’ll keep saying it, then.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. His heart was suddenly very loud. He stared into his tea, hoping the steam would camouflage the heat rising in his face.

From across the aisle, Suna watched the whole thing with sharp, knowing eyes. Didn’t say anything, but a small smirk played on his lips.

---

The card game started an hour later, when everyone had stirred from naps and the energy needed a new outlet. Ginjima produced a deck from his bag, and before long, a circle had formed around the middle of the bus—players kneeling on seats, leaning over headrests, shouting about rules.

Atsumu sat on the floor, cross-legged, deck in his hands. He loved card games, especially when he was winning. And he was winning. His competitive streak had fully woken up, and he grinned as he laid down a winning hand.

“Ha! Told ya I’m the best at this.”

“You got lucky,” Omimi said from behind him.

“Luck is a skill.”

Kita sat beside him, close enough that their knees touched. He’d been quiet during the game, watching, smiling. But now, as Atsumu reached forward to collect the cards, Kita’s hand drifted to rest on Atsumu’s lower back, just above the waistband of his shorts.

Atsumu’s hand froze mid-reach.

It was a light touch, almost absent-minded. Kita’s palm was warm, even through the jacket. He didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care.

Atsumu swallowed hard and forced himself to keep collecting cards. His fingers trembled. He was grateful everyone’s attention was on the game.

The next round, Kita’s hand slid from his back to his side, thumb brushing against his ribs. Atsumu’s breath hitched. He fumbled his cards, nearly dropped them.

“You okay, Miya?” Ginjima frowned.

“Yeah, fine.” Too quick. Voice cracked. He cleared his throat and ignored the amused glance Suna shot him from across the circle.

Kita’s hand moved again, this time to Atsumu’s chest, fingers splaying lightly over his heart. Atsumu was certain the whole bus could feel it pounding. He made a tiny, strangled sound and tried to focus on the cards in his hand, but the numbers blurred.

“Your play,” Kita said, perfectly calm, like he wasn’t currently setting Atsumu’s nervous system on fire.

“Right.” Atsumu squeaked. He picked a card at random and threw it down.

“That’s not how the game works,” Omimi said flatly.

“I know how the game works!”

By the third round, Kita’s hand had drifted lower, resting on the small of Atsumu’s back, then tracing a lazy path down to his hip. And then, with deliberate slowness, his palm came to rest on Atsumu’s ass.

Atsumu made a noise like a tea kettle about to boil.

He was bright red from ears to collarbone, clutching his cards like a lifeline. He couldn’t look at Kita. He couldn’t look at anyone. He was hyperaware of that warm hand, the casual intimacy, the fact that they were surrounded by their entire team.

Omimi’s eyes widened. He looked at Kita, then at Atsumu, then back at Kita. “Kita-san,” he said slowly, “are you…?”

Kita didn’t remove his hand. Didn’t even blush. “Yes?”

“You’re touching Atsumu’s ass.”

Atsumu made another strangled noise.

“I’m aware,” Kita said, and there was a thread of amusement in his voice.

The bus went silent. Even the driver glanced in the rearview mirror.

Suna leaned back, crossing his arms, looking like he’d just gotten the best entertainment of the trip. “Finally,” he muttered.

“What do you mean, ‘finally’?” Osamu demanded, turning around. He looked from Atsumu’s flaming face to Kita’s calm expression. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Atsumu said, about three octaves too high.

“Nothing,” Kita echoed, but his hand gave Atsumu’s ass a very deliberate squeeze.

Atsumu yelped.

“Okay, that’s definitely something,” Ginjima said, eyes wide.

Omimi reached over and tapped Kita on the knee. “Kita-san, you can’t just… do that in front of everyone.”

Kita tilted his head, considering. “Why not? It’s my hand. It’s his ass.”

“KITA-SAN!” Atsumu buried his face in his hands.

Suna was openly laughing now, shoulders shaking. “This is the best bus ride of my life.”

Omimi tried again. “But propriety—”

“Only my mom can tell me what to do with my hands,” Kita said, soft but firm. “And my dad. And maybe one other person in the future.”

He glanced at Atsumu as he said it.

Atsumu peeked through his fingers, eyes wide.

The team exchanged looks. Slowly, the pieces clicked. The tea. The jacket. The way Atsumu turned into a blushing mess every time Kita so much as looked at him.

“Oh my god,” Ginjima said. “Are you two…?”

“We’re not,” Atsumu said quickly. “We’re not anything.”

“Not yet,” Kita agreed, and there was a promise in those words that made Atsumu’s heart stutter.

---

The bus pulled into a convenience store an hour later. Planned stop—half the team needed to stretch, the other half was hungry. The store was bright and generic, a glowing island in the darkness of the highway rest area.

Everyone filed out, grateful for solid ground. Atsumu lingered near the bus, pulling the jacket tighter. The night air was cool, the parking lot mostly empty except for their bus.

Kita was the last to step off. He landed lightly, then fell into step beside Atsumu. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” Atsumu admitted. “I could eat a whole cow.”

“There’s not a whole cow in there, but they might have an onigiri.”

“Samu’s onigiri are way better.”

Kita smiled. “He’s not here to hear that.”

Atsumu grinned, some of his usual swagger returning now that they were outside and the team wasn’t staring. “Good. Let him know I said his onigiri are mid.”

They walked toward the store, shoulders brushing. Atsumu felt warm again.

Inside, the team scattered. Some went for snacks, others for drinks. Atsumu made a beeline for the hot food counter, but Suna grabbed his arm before he could order.

“Come outside for a second.”

“What? I’m hungry.”

“It’ll take two minutes.”

Atsumu sighed but followed. Suna led him to the side of the store, where Osamu was waiting. And next to him was a small street vendor, a pop-up stall with buckets of fresh flowers arranged in a rainbow.

“What’s this?” Atsumu frowned.

“You’re an idiot,” Osamu said flatly. “So I’m helping you.”

“Rude.”

Suna ignored him and gestured at the flowers. “Pick some. For Kita.”

Atsumu’s protest died in his throat. “What?”

“You like him,” Suna said. “He likes you. Everyone knows. So quit being a chicken and give him flowers.”

“I’m not a chicken!”

“You literally just squeaked when he touched your butt.”

“That was—that’s different—”

Osamu shoved a bundle of pink roses into Atsumu’s hands. “Just take these. Suna picked ’em.”

“I helped,” Suna said.

Atsumu stared down at the flowers. Soft, delicate, just beginning to open. Pink. His favorite color. And Kita’s too, he realized, though he’d never said it out loud.

“Fine,” he muttered, but his voice was soft.

Osamu clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble. “Don’t mess it up.”

“I never mess things up.”

“You messed up my rice cooker last week.”

“That was an accident!”

Suna was already walking back toward the store, but paused to look over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

Atsumu clutched the flowers and took a deep breath.

Inside, the team had gathered near the checkout counters, bags of chips and bottled tea in hand. Kita stood by the window, looking out at the night, a can of warm sake in one hand.

He turned when Atsumu walked in, and his eyes immediately went to the flowers. A soft, knowing smile crossed his face.

Atsumu walked straight up to him. Heart pounding, but voice steady. “These are for you.”

“Pink roses,” Kita said, taking them gently. “They’re beautiful.”

“I—well—Suna and Samu helped pick ’em. But I wanted to give ’em to you. ‘Cause—‘cause you’re—I mean, you give me tea, and you’re always nice, and you said nice things about my setting, and—”

“Atsumu.”

“—I don’t know how to say it, but I like you, Kita-san. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. And I don’t know if you feel the same, but I just thought—”

Kita reached into his jacket and pulled out a second bouquet. Red roses. Dark, velvety, tied with a simple white ribbon.

Atsumu’s mouth fell open.

“I was going to give you these,” Kita said. “I bought them from the same vendor, before you came out. I had a feeling you might need the encouragement.”

Atsumu stared at the red roses. Then at Kita. Then back at the roses.

“You… bought me flowers?”

“I was waiting for the right moment.” Kita’s voice was soft, warm. “This seems like a good one.”

Atsumu’s vision blurred. He sniffled, not quite crying, but dangerously close. “You’re—you’re supposed to let me give you flowers first.”

“Why?”

“Because—because that’s how it works! I’m the one who should—”

Kita stepped forward, close enough that their chests almost touched. He held the red roses out, and Atsumu took them automatically, fingers brushing.

“I didn’t want to make you wait,” Kita said.

The team had gone silent, watching from behind the snack aisles. Omimi was holding a bag of chips like a holy relic. Suna was filming on his phone. Osamu looked like he was trying very hard not to smile.

Atsumu looked down at the red roses in his hands, then up at Kita’s calm, steady gaze. His heart was racing, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like panic. It felt like possibility.

He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Kita’s cheek.

Quick. Shy. Barely a brush of his lips against warm skin.

But when he pulled back, Kita’s cheeks were faintly pink, and his smile had turned into something soft and real.

“That’s a yes, then,” Kita said.

Atsumu nodded, unable to speak.

The bus erupted.

Ginjima let out a whoop that echoed across the parking lot. Omimi dropped his chips. The younger players cheered, and even Osamu cracked a smile. Suna lowered his phone, smirked, and gave Atsumu a thumbs-up.

Atsumu embarrassed, ducks his head, hiding his face against Kita’s shoulder. Kita’s arm came up to wrap around him, steady and warm.

“We’re never going to hear the end of this,” Atsumu mumbled into his jacket.

“Probably not,” Kita agreed, but he didn’t sound sorry.

They stayed like that for a moment, the team’s noise washing over them like a wave. Then the driver honked the horn, signaling it was time to go.

They filed back onto the bus, and Atsumu took the seat next to Kita without hesitation. Kita leaned the red roses against the window, the pink ones cradled in his lap. Atsumu sat close, thighs pressed together, hands intertwined in the darkness.

The bus pulled back onto the highway, lights of passing cars flickering across their faces.

“So,” Kita said quietly, “does this mean I can hold your hand in front of everyone now?”

Atsumu laughed, breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it does.”

Kita’s fingers tightened around his.

“Good,” Kita said. And then, because he couldn’t resist: “And maybe I’ll hold other things, too.”

“KITA-SAN.”

The team groaned, but they were laughing.

Atsumu was laughing too, his face burning, his heart full.

The bus hummed on, carrying them home through the night, and Atsumu Miya, for the first time in his life, didn’t mind being the center of attention. Not when Kita’s hand was in his, warm and steady, like he’d always belonged there.