Runway Roses and Rice Balls

The first sign that something was deeply, spectacularly wrong came on a Tuesday morning, when Atsumu Miya strolled into Inarizaki High School looking like he’d been swapped out for a chic, slightly menacing doppelgänger.

His hair—normally a chaos nest of sun-streaked blond he’d finger-comb once before sprinting out the door—was now cool ash-blond platinum, painstakingly styled into soft waves that framed his face. His eyes, still sharp and mischievous, were lined with a thin, precise wing of black eyeliner. His lips had a faint, glossy tint. He wore a cropped cream-colored cashmere sweater that ended just above his navel, high-waisted light-wash jeans, and white sneakers that probably cost more than everything in Osamu’s kitchen pantry combined. Dangling from one shoulder was a small quilted handbag with a gold chain, which he kept adjusting with practiced nonchalance.

The hallway went dead silent.

First-years whispered. Second-years gawked. A third-year from the track team dropped his water bottle. And Osamu, sitting on a bench near the gym entrance with a rice ball in hand, took one long look at his twin brother, then slowly put the rice ball down. Couldn't trust his gag reflex.

“What,” Osamu said flatly, “the hell is that.”

Atsumu flipped his glossy hair over one shoulder and smiled—pure, unadulterated, theatrical confidence. “It’s called style, Samu. Somethin’ you wouldn’t know if it bit you on the ass.”

“You look like you’re about to walk a runway and then curse out the judges on live TV.”

“Thank you. That’s the vibe.”

Osamu’s eyes narrowed. Seventeen years of living with Atsumu—every tantrum, every victory, every late-night cry about volleyball and inadequacy and the desperate need to be the best. He knew his brother’s tells. And right now, despite the swagger, Atsumu’s fingers were trembling just slightly as he adjusted the strap of that ridiculous bag.

Something was up. Something big.

Inarizaki’s volleyball team, gathered for morning practice, had a range of reactions. Suna Rintarou raised one eyebrow and took a photo. Ginjima Hitoshi opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a goldfish. Akagi Michiru let out a low whistle. Aran Ojiro, team captain, put his head in his hands and muttered something about “another phase.”

“Atsumu,” Aran said, voice strained with patience, “you have practice in ten minutes. Are you… wearing makeup?”

“Yeah? So? It’s not gonna affect my serves.” Atsumu dropped his designer bag on the bench—he had a matching gym bag now, sleek black leather—and pulled his practice jersey over his head. Except it wasn’t a normal pull. He’d tied a knot at the hem so the fabric barely covered his ribs, exposing a strip of toned stomach above his waistband. The sleeves had been cut off, showing off the lean muscle of his arms. He’d even painted his nails—glossy pale nude, matching his lip tint.

The team stared.

“He’s gone full Tokyo fashion victim,” Suna said, snapping another photo.

“It’s called self-expression,” Atsumu snapped, but his ears were turning red. “Can we just practice? I didn’t come here to get my picture taken by a cactus with legs.”

Suna’s expression didn’t change. “I’m posting these later.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Too late. They’re already in the group chat.”

Practice was, against all logic, incredible. Atsumu served with his usual venom, set with his usual precision, and spiked with his usual reckless grace. The cropped jersey didn’t hinder his movement; if anything, he seemed more agile, more deliberate, like every jump and pivot was part of a performance. The team grudgingly admitted—to themselves, never to his face—that he looked pretty good. Confident. Charismatic.

But every few minutes, Atsumu’s gaze flickered to the far side of the gym, where Kita Shinsuke was quietly running through his own warm-up drills.

Kita was the team’s moral compass, its quiet center. He didn’t raise his voice or demand attention; he just existed, steady and unmovable, and everyone orbited around him naturally. He moved through his stretches with the same methodical attention he gave to everything: farming, studying, captaining when Aran was off court. His dark hair was slightly damp from his morning run, falling across his forehead. His expression was serene, focused.

He had not, Atsumu noticed with growing frustration, looked at him once.

Not when Atsumu walked in with the bag. Not when he tied the jersey knot. Not when he executed a perfect jump serve that nearly took Ginjima’s head off. Kita’s eyes were fixed on the ball, on his own form, on the floor. Atsumu might as well have been wearing a paper bag for all the attention he got.

He set the ball a little harder than necessary.

“Oi, Miya,” Akagi said, catching the spike with a grunt. “You okay? You’re bein’ a little extra today.”

“I’m always extra,” Atsumu said, tossing his hair again. “You’re just now noticin’.”

But he saw it. Out of the corner of his eye. During a water break, Kita walked past him to refill his bottle, and as he passed, his bicep flexed—just a fraction, just enough for the muscle to bunch under his sleeve before relaxing. So subtle anyone else would have missed it. But Atsumu didn’t. His heart did a full cartwheel and then some.

He noticed me. He noticed.

Atsumu spent the rest of practice in a dazed, giddy haze he attributed entirely to his athletic brilliance and not at all to the quiet boy with the serious eyes.

---

Over the next two weeks, the transformation escalated.

The ash-blond hair stayed, but now it was sometimes pulled back with a silk scrunchie. The makeup got more elaborate—glitter on the inner corners of his eyes, a soft blush across his cheekbones. He wore a skirt to school one day. A short, pleated black skirt, paired with an oversized knit sweater and chunky platform boots. He walked through the halls like he owned them, chin high, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the strap of his bag.

The volleyball team had, by this point, split into two camps. Camp One: amused observers who found the whole thing hilarious. This group included Suna, Ginjima, and most of the second-years. Camp Two: deeply concerned older siblings who felt like they should maybe intervene. This group was essentially just Aran.

Osamu, as always, was in a category of his own.

He cornered Atsumu after school one day, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him into an empty classroom. Atsumu yelped and protested, but Osamu was stronger when he was irritated, which was always.

“Alright,” Osamu said, crossing his arms. “Spill.”

“Spill what? I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Atsumu adjusted his skirt—still not used to the hemline—and avoided eye contact.

“Don’t give me that. You’ve been dressin’ like a fashion magazine exploded on you for two weeks, and you keep starin’ at Kita like he’s the last onigiri in the store. You’re tryin’ to impress him, aren’t you?”

Atsumu’s face went from pale to red in about two seconds. “What—no—that’s—shut up!”

“So it’s true.”

“I said shut up!”

Osamu sighed, long and heavy, and rubbed his temples. “Tsumu. You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“A massive, certified, gold-medal-grade idiot.”

“I know.”

“But…” Osamu paused, and his voice softened, just a notch. “Kita’s a good guy. He’s observant. He’s not gonna fall for some flashy show. He’s gonna want the real you.”

Atsumu’s shoulders sagged. He looked down at his carefully painted nails—a soft lavender today, with tiny white stars on the accent nails. “I know that too,” he said, quieter. “But I don’t know how else to get his attention. He’s so… unflappable. How do you get someone like that to look at you?”

Osamu didn’t answer. He just gave his brother a look that was half pity, half exasperation, and walked out.

---

The courtesies began the next day.

Atsumu started bringing Kita his favorite onigiri from the convenience store—the one with the salmon filling and the little seaweed strip. He’d place it on Kita’s bench before practice, casually, like it had materialized there. “Oh, hey, someone left that,” he’d say, and then walk away before Kita could respond.

He adjusted the net height when Kita was about to serve. He refilled Kita’s water bottle without being asked. He even, once, picked a stray thread off Kita’s jersey and then pretended he hadn’t done it, his face burning.

Kita accepted each gesture with the same polite, neutral expression. “Thanks,” he would say, reaching for the onigiri or the bottle. That was it. No smile, no lingering glance, no hint of reciprocation. Just “thanks,” delivered in that flat, calm voice, and then he would turn back to whatever he was doing.

Atsumu was slowly losing his mind.

The team, of course, had become an impromptu cheering section. They’d started calling him “Princess” during practice, chanting it when he made a particularly good play. “Go, Princess! Get that ball!” They whooped when he shanked a receive and then blamed the wind. Suna had compiled a photo album titled “Atsumu’s Glow-Up: A Love Story,” and had taken to showing it to opposing teams during tournament warm-ups.

“Don’t mess with my twin,” Osamu warned them one day, but he was smiling just a little. “But yeah, Kita’s a good person. He’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Figure what out?” Akagi asked.

“Figure out that Atsumu’s been tryin’ to ask him out for a month by wearin’ a skirt and paintin’ his nails.”

“Oh, we know. We’re just enjoyin’ the show.”

Atsumu threw a volleyball at Akagi’s head. It missed, but only because Kita walked past at that exact moment, and Atsumu’s aim went haywire.

---

Three weeks in, and still nothing.

Atsumu was frustrated. No—he was furious. He had changed his entire aesthetic. He had spent hours on YouTube tutorials learning how to do winged eyeliner. He had bought a handbag that cost more than his monthly allowance. He had worn a skirt to school, in front of three hundred people, with a confidence he did not feel, and Kita Shinsuke had looked at him exactly once—and that was only to ask if he could pass the salt at lunch.

So Atsumu escalated.

The day he wore a bracelet with Kita’s jersey number—a delicate silver chain with a tiny “1” charm—the entire team stopped breathing.

“That’s the number,” Ginjima whispered.

“I know,” Suna whispered back.

“He’s wearing his crush’s number.”

“I have eyes.”

“We should say something.”

“No. Let him cook.”

Kita noticed. He had to have noticed. He was standing two feet away, doing his pre-practice stretches. His gaze flickered to Atsumu’s wrist, lingered there for a fraction of a second, and then moved on. No comment. No change in expression.

Atsumu could have screamed.

---

The practice match that day was supposed to be a warm-up for the upcoming tournament—first-string versus second-string, nothing serious. But Atsumu was playing like a man possessed. His serves were vicious. His sets were pinpoint. His spikes were so aggressive that Aran kept telling him to calm down before he injured someone.

“I’m fine,” Atsumu snapped, wiping sweat from his forehead. His makeup was still miraculously intact, but his hair had started to frizz from the exertion. “I’m always fine.”

“You’re bein’ reckless,” Kita said quietly from across the court.

Atsumu froze. It was the first direct comment Kita had made to him—not a “thanks” for an onigiri, not a nod for adjusted net. An actual observation. You’re being reckless.

“I’m not,” Atsumu said, but his voice came out breathy.

The play resumed. The ball came hard and fast from the second-string side—a sharp, angled spike aimed at the gap between Atsumu and Suna. Atsumu dove for it, but his foot caught on nothing, his body tilted wrong, and he knew he was going to miss. He was going to shank this receive, and the ball was going to hit the floor, and everyone would see that he wasn’t perfect, that he was just a boy in a cropped jersey trying too hard to be seen—

He stumbled. His ankle twisted. He started to fall, hands flailing, the world tilting sideways.

And then strong hands caught him.

Firm, warm hands, gripping his waist and steadying him before he could crash to the ground. Atsumu blinked, dazed, and found himself staring up into Kita’s calm, dark eyes. Kita had moved faster than anyone had seen him move in months, crossing the court in a blink to catch him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The gym was silent. The ball bounced away, forgotten.

Kita’s grip on Atsumu’s waist didn’t loosen. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and quiet, meant only for Atsumu’s ears. But in the silence, everyone heard.

“You’re trying too hard.”

Atsumu’s heart stopped.

“I already see you,” Kita finished.

Atsumu’s face went through approximately seventeen shades of red in three seconds. His mouth opened and closed. He made a sound that was somewhere between a squeak and a whimper.

The team erupted.

“OHHHHHHH!”

“KITA SAID IT!”

“FINALLY!”

“SOMEONE GET THAT ON VIDEO!”

Osamu, standing on the sidelines with his arms crossed, let out a long, slow breath and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “Took him long enough.”

---

Practice ended in chaos. Atsumu couldn’t look Kita in the eye. He busied himself with packing his designer bag, folding his towel, pretending the past five minutes hadn’t happened. But his fingers were shaking, and he kept dropping his water bottle.

“Atsumu.”

Kita’s voice. Direct. Calm.

Atsumu looked up. Kita was standing in front of him, still in his practice jersey, hair slightly damp from the exertion. He looked the same as ever—serene, composed—but there was a softness around his eyes that Atsumu had never seen before.

“After you’re done changing,” Kita said, “meet me by the gate. We can talk.”

“Talk?” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “Talk about what?”

Kita’s lips twitched. Just a little. Almost a smile. “About ice cream.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving Atsumu standing there like a statue, clutching his bag to his chest, heart pounding so loud he could barely hear the team’s hooting and hollering behind him.

---

They met by the gate fifteen minutes later. Atsumu had changed out of his practice clothes and back into a skirt—a different one, a soft flowy lavender number that matched his nail polish. He’d reapplied his lip gloss and fluffed his hair, because if he was going to die of embarrassment, he was going to die looking good.

Kita was leaning against the gate, waiting. No judgment in his eyes. Just patience.

“Walk with me,” Kita said, and started down the street.

Atsumu followed, his platform boots clicking against the pavement. They walked in silence for a few blocks, past a convenience store and a small park, until they reached a little ice cream shop with painted blue shutters and a chalkboard advertising seasonal flavors.

Kita held the door open for him.

Inside, the shop was quiet and cool. Atsumu ordered a scoop of matcha and black sesame. Kita got a simple vanilla. They sat at a small table by the window, and for a long moment, Atsumu stared at his ice cream like it held the secrets of the universe.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “For makin’ it so obvious. For bein’ so… extra.”

Kita took a bite of his vanilla. Chewed. Swallowed. Set his spoon down.

“Don’t apologize for how you express yourself,” he said. “I like the style. It suits you. You look good.”

Atsumu’s blush returned full force. “R-really?”

“Really. But I also liked the old Atsumu. The one who yelled at his teammates and threw tantrums and served the ball like it personally offended him. That Atsumu was already someone worth noticing.”

Atsumu’s spoon clattered against the side of his bowl. “You… you noticed me? Before?”

Kita’s expression softened. It was subtle—a loosening of the muscles around his eyes, a slight curve to his mouth. “I’ve been noticing you for a while. I just didn’t think you’d want me to say anything.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you to say anythin’?” Atsumu’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Because I’m not flashy. I’m not loud. I’m not the type of person who throws themselves into someone’s life and demands attention. I thought maybe you wanted someone… more exciting.”

Atsumu stared at him. The matcha ice cream was melting, pooling green and black in the bowl, but he didn’t care.

“You’re the most excitin’ person I’ve ever met,” Atsumu said, and his voice shook, but he meant every word. “You’re calm and steady and you never get rattled, and when you look at me, I feel like I’m the only person in the room. You don’t have to be loud. You just have to be you.”

Kita looked down at his vanilla ice cream. His ears, Atsumu noticed with a jolt of pure joy, were slightly pink.

“Okay,” Kita said quietly. “Then let’s try this. You and me. Ice cream dates and volleyball and whatever else comes after.”

Atsumu couldn’t stop the grin that split his face—wide, unreserved, utterly ridiculous. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The rest of the ice cream was eaten in warm, comfortable silence. When they left the shop, Kita reached out and took Atsumu’s hand—gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Atsumu’s painted nails curled around his fingers, and for a moment, everything was perfect.

---

The news spread through Inarizaki like wildfire.

The team was ecstatic. Suna’s photo album expanded to include shots of Atsumu and Kita eating lunch together, Atsumu’s head resting on Kita’s shoulder while Kita read a farming magazine. The teasing didn’t stop—if anything, it got worse—but now it was laced with genuine affection.

“Princess finally got her prince,” Akagi would say, and Atsumu would throw a towel at him while Kita calmly handed him a new one.

Atsumu still dressed up sometimes. He liked the skirts and the makeup and the way it made him feel powerful and pretty. But he also started wearing his old clothes again—the baggy hoodies, the ripped jeans, the simple practice tees. Sometimes he’d wear the bracelet with Kita’s number over a sweater. Sometimes he’d wear the handbag with his old sneakers. He was a collage of contradictions, and he loved it.

Kita, for his part, became more openly affectionate. He’d brush Atsumu’s hair out of his eyes during practice. He’d save him a seat at lunch. And whenever Atsumu blushed—which was often—Kita would deliberately flex a bicep, just to watch his boyfriend’s face turn even redder.

“You’re doin’ that on purpose,” Atsumu accused one afternoon, sitting on the gym floor after practice.

“Maybe,” Kita said, and didn’t deny it.

Osamu watched them from across the court, shaking his head. “Disgusting,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

Suna took a photo.

The Inarizaki volleyball team, stronger than ever, moved toward the national tournament with a new energy. And at the center of it all were Atsumu and Kita—the loud, glittering setter and the quiet, steadfast captain—proving that sometimes, the best things in life come in unexpected packages.