The Cat Towel Incident

The afternoon sun sliced through Inarizaki’s high windows, dumping golden rectangles across the gym floor. Practice ended an hour ago. Nobody left. The air still smelled like sweat and floor wax and that faint sweetness from the sports drinks someone abandoned on the bench.

The team sprawled in a loose circle near center court—some sitting, some flat on their backs, a few still lobbing a volleyball between them like they had nothing better to do. Kita sat cross-legged, hands folded, watching with that patient look he always had, like he’d seen everything twice. Suna propped himself on his elbows, half-lidded, scrolling through his phone. Ginjima sat cross-legged, already grinning like he was cooking something up. And the Miya twins took opposite ends—Atsumu legs stretched out, leaning back on his palms, Osamu a few feet away, arms crossed, wearing the face of a guy who’d already decided he was too good for this.

“We’re not doing anything productive,” Ginjima said, slapping the floor. “Let’s play a game.”

Suna didn’t look up. “Define ‘productive.’”

“Something fun. Like truth or dare.”

A murmur rippled through the group. A couple of the younger guys perked up. Kita gave a small nod, like he was mentally evaluating the game’s structural integrity.

“I’m not playing,” Osamu said flat.

“You’re always not playing,” Atsumu shot back, grinning across the circle. “That’s why yer boring.”

“Boring’s fine by me.”

“Too bad. Yer playing.” Atsumu turned to Ginjima. “I’m in. Truth or dare’s my game.”

Ginjima clapped his hands together. “Alright, rules: we go clockwise. First person picks truth or dare. If they pick dare, the group votes on what they have to do. If they pick truth, the asker chooses the question. Simple.”

“Who goes first?” asked Akagi, who’d been silently stretching but now looked invested.

“I’ll go,” Ginjima said, then fixed his eyes on Atsumu. “Atsumu, truth or dare?”

Atsumu’s smile widened. “Dare. Obviously.”

The group erupted into chatter. Ginjima raised his voice to be heard. “Okay, dare: you have to dance sensually to a song of your choice—or you get a bucket of ice water dumped on you.”

“Ice water?” Atsumu sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. “Who’s got ice water?”

“We have a cooler over there,” Akagi said, pointing to a red cooler near the entrance. “Leftover from practice. Still some ice.”

“Perfect,” Atsumu said, already standing. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders. “But I’m not takin’ the water. I’ll dance.”

Osamu sighed from the ground. “Here we go.”

“Someone pick a song,” Atsumu demanded, scanning the circle. “Something with a beat. Gimme somethin’ good.”

Suna looked up from his phone, swiped a few times, and a bass-heavy track started playing through a portable speaker someone had pulled from a bag. The rhythm was slow and sultry, a pulsing synth line that filled the gym. The kind of song you heard in clubs, not high school gymnasiums.

Atsumu closed his eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over him. Then he moved.

He started simple—a loose sway of his hips, his arms lifting fluid. His feet slid across the wood like he’d been dancing his whole life. Playful at first, almost mocking, his face a mask of exaggerated concentration. The team laughed, some catcalling.

But then something shifted.

Atsumu let his head fall back, exposing the pale line of his throat. His hands moved up his own sides—slow, deliberate—fingertips grazing his ribs, tracing the curve of his waist. The laughter died down as the team watched, suddenly uncertain.

His movements got smoother, more controlled. He rolled his hips in a slow, languid circle, his back arching like a cat stretching in sunlight. His fingers tangled in his hair, then dragged down his own chest, smoothing over his shoulders, his arms, his waist. The gym was silent except for the music and the quiet shuffle of his feet on the wood.

Ginjima’s mouth hung open a little. Akagi had gone very still. Even Suna had put his phone down, watching with an unreadable expression.

It was the softness that caught them off guard. Atsumu had always been wiry—quick, sharp, all angles and energy. But in that moment, his face lost its cocky edge. His eyes were half-closed, lips parted, his features delicate and almost feminine in the warm light. His jawline, usually so sharp, seemed softer. His hands were long and fine-boned, curling and unfurling like smoke.

And his waist—God, his waist. The jersey he wore was loose, but as he twisted and stretched, it pulled taut against his body, revealing a slender frame that curved in ways that made several of the boys suddenly look at the floor.

Atsumu spun, a quick turn, and when he faced the group again, he dropped into a slow, deliberate crouch, his thighs spreading, his hands trailing up his own legs. The fabric of his shorts pulled tight. Someone made a strangled noise.

Osamu was watching his brother now with a look of profound, familial embarrassment. He rubbed his face with one hand.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he muttered.

But Atsumu wasn’t done. He rose, swaying his hips from side to side, his arms making sinuous shapes in the empty air. He was performing—some part of him was always performing—but there was a realness to it now. The way his fingers danced, the way his eyes caught the light, the way his body moved like water over stones.

Suna spoke, his voice dry but not unkind. “He’s actually good at this.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Osamu said.

Then, just as the song approached its climax, Ginjima lunged sideways, grabbed the bag of ice from the cooler—the ice had mostly melted into slush—and hurled it at Atsumu.

Cold water exploded across Atsumu’s back. He gasped, stumbling forward, his dance forgotten. The icy shock made him yelp, and he spun around, eyes wide, hair dripping, jersey soaked through and clinging to his torso like a second skin.

The team erupted into laughter—loud, relieved laughter that broke the strange spell.

“What the hell, Ginjima!” Atsumu shouted, but he was laughing too, shaking out his wet hair like a dog, sending droplets flying.

“The dare had two options!” Ginjima called back, doubled over. “You chose dance, but I never said I wouldn’t throw the water anyway!”

“You’re a menace!”

Someone tossed him a towel, but Atsumu waved it off. He stood in the middle of the circle, dripping, his white jersey now completely transparent. The fabric clung to his chest, outlining every contour, and the team noticed.

They noticed because they couldn’t help it.

The wet jersey molded to a shape that was not what they had expected. Atsumu’s chest had always looked flat under the baggy practice gear, but now—with the wet cotton sticking—there was a gentle curve, a soft swell that was unmistakable. His nipples were visible, dark and hard from the cold, and the fabric outlined the shape of his pectorals in a way that looked, well, full.

The laughter died. A few boys blushed deeply. Akagi looked away, suddenly fascinated by the rafters. Ginjima went red from his neck to his ears. Suna raised an eyebrow, but a small smile tugged at his lips.

Atsumu caught their reactions immediately. His grin turned sly.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, voice dripping with false innocence. He looked down at his own chest, then back up. “Never seen a guy with tits before?”

There was a strangled noise from one of the first-years.

Atsumu laughed, bright and unashamed. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he grabbed the hem of his jersey and pulled it over his head. He wrung it out, water splashing onto the floor, and then he stood there—bare-chested except for a thin, tight compression tank that he wore underneath. It was cut like a sports bra, high under the arms, covering just enough to be indecent. The fabric was black and snug, and it left his shoulders and collarbone completely bare.

The compression held his chest taut, but it couldn’t hide the fullness. The curve of his bust pushed against the fabric, soft and very obviously there.

Atsumu cupped his own chest with both hands, jiggling it playfully. “C’mon, boys. Ain’t no shame in lookin’. They’re just tits.”

“Oh my God,” Osamu said, burying his face in his hands.

“What? I’m comfortable in my body,” Atsumu said, spreading his arms wide. He was soaking wet, bare-chested, and utterly triumphant. The late afternoon light caught the droplets on his skin, and he looked like some kind of chaotic water sprite.

The team was caught in a strange tension—half embarrassed, half amused, and wholly uncertain how to respond. Atsumu had always been like this, pushing boundaries, testing limits. But this was new.

Kita cleared his throat. “Atsumu, maybe put a shirt on.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Atsumu turned, letting himself be fully seen. His back was lean, shoulder blades sharp. But from the front, the soft swell of his chest remained the center of attention.

“Alright,” Atsumu said, grabbing the towel someone had offered and draping it over his shoulders like a cape. “My turn. I dare someone—how about you, Ginjima? I dare you to touch my chest.”

Ginjima’s face went from red to scarlet. “What? No.”

“That’s the dare. Touch ‘em. Just once.” Atsumu stepped closer, hands on his hips, wearing a grin so wicked it could cut glass.

Ginjima backed away like Atsumu was holding a live grenade. “Absolutely not.”

“Scared?”

“I’m not scared, I’m—that’s weird, Atsumu.”

“Why’s it weird? They’re just body parts. Part of me. You guys touch each other all the time during practice. Slap each other’s butts, wrestle, whatever. This ain’t any different.”

“It is different.”

Atsumu looked around the circle, making eye contact with each teammate in turn. Akagi shook his head frantically. Suna just stared, face unreadable. A first-year looked like he was praying.

Only Osamu met his brother’s eyes, and there was a flicker of something in his gaze—not anger, not embarrassment, but a quiet, protective exasperation. He stood up.

“Atsumu,” Osamu said, his voice low. “That’s enough.”

But Atsumu didn’t stop. He stepped closer to Ginjima, who had now retreated almost to the wall. “C’mon, Gin. Just a little poke. I dare you.”

Ginjima’s hands were up as if warding off a ghost. “I’m not touching your—they’re your—you’re a dude, Atsumu.”

“And? I’ve got tits. They’re real. They’re attached to me. Touch ‘em or admit you’re uncomfortable.”

“I am uncomfortable!”

“Good! That’s the point.” Atsumu’s voice softened, but the teasing didn’t leave his eyes. “Yer all actin’ like I’m some kinda freak. I’m not. It’s just skin.”

The gym fell silent. Ginjima’s frantic breathing was loud in the quiet. Atsumu stood before him, patient, almost tender. He wasn’t mocking anymore. He was waiting.

Ginjima looked around at his teammates, searching for rescue. Suna gave him a helpless shrug. Kita watched with calm attention, saying nothing. Osamu stood with his arms crossed, face tight.

Slowly, Ginjima lowered his hands. He let out a long breath.

“Fine,” he said, barely a whisper. “But if you laugh, I’m gonna kill you.”

“I won’t laugh.”

Ginjima stepped forward. The team held their breath. He raised his hand, trembling slightly, and then he pressed his palm—just once, quick, barely a second—against the curve of Atsumu’s left pectoral.

It was soft. Warm. Human.

Ginjima snatched his hand back as if burned, stumbled away, and crashed into Akagi. Both boys went down in a heap.

And then the laughter exploded.

Atsumu doubled over, howling. Osamu shook his head, but his shoulders were shaking. Suna let out a low, appreciative chuckle. Even Kita allowed a small smile.

“There!” Atsumu cried, still laughing. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Ginjima, red-faced and half-buried under Akagi, managed to shout, “You are the weirdest person I have ever met!”

“Thank you!” Atsumu wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his own chest like a prize. “Now, who’s next?”

Osamu finally moved. He grabbed the towel from Atsumu’s shoulders and flung it over his brother’s head, rubbing it vigorously. “You’re done. Put the jersey back on.”

Atsumu sputtered, fighting him off. “Hey! I’m the center of attention!”

“You’re a menace,” Osamu said, but his tone was fond. He wrestled Atsumu into a dry practice jersey from his bag, pulling it over his head with about as much gentleness as one would use on a cat. Atsumu emerged, hair a mess, grinning like he’d won.

“Alright, alright,” Atsumu said, now decently covered. “Game continues. But next round, no ice water.”

Suna raised a hand. “I dare you to eat a whole lemon without making a face.”

“That’s easy.”

“We’ll see.”

The tension dissolved into chatter and laughter. Someone handed out sports drinks. Akagi was still complaining about being used as a crash pad. Ginjima sat in a corner, muttering about psychological trauma, but he was smiling.

Atsumu settled back onto the floor, his shoulder brushing Osamu’s. His twin didn’t move away.

“You’re ridiculous,” Osamu said under his breath.

“I know.” Atsumu leaned back, looking around at his team. They were still laughing, still talking, still accepting him. No one had looked at him with disgust or pity. They had been awkward, yes, but they had stayed. They had let him push, and they had pushed back with laughter.

He felt warm, all the way through.

Osamu nudged him. “Next time, warn me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Osamu didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either.

The game went on until the sun dipped below the windows and the gym grew dim. They finally packed up, still joking, still talking, the evening air cool against their skin. Atsumu walked out with his arm slung around Ginjima’s neck, teasing him about his screaming reflex. Ginjima pretended to punch him. Suna filmed it on his phone.

Inarizaki’s volleyball team filed out into the twilight, loud and warm and whole.