Sakusa A.

Morning light cut through the hotel curtains, slicing across Atsumu Miya’s face. He blinked, stretched—a slow, catlike thing that made his spine pop. Today was the day. Final match of the Volleyball World Cup, Japan versus Argentina. He'd never felt more alive—or more terrified.

He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. His hand drifted to his lower abdomen—automatic now, like breathing. No bump yet, just a softness that hadn’t been there before. A secret warmth that made his heart stutter every time. Barely eight weeks, and the nausea and fatigue were brutal. The team doctor covered for him with an "ankle sprain" excuse. Atsumu played through it anyway. No way he was missing this match. Not when Kiyoomi was in the stands. Not when the whole world was watching.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and padded to the bathroom, bare feet silent on the carpet. The mirror greeted him with sleep-rumpled hair sticking up in twelve directions. He smiled—a soft, private thing reserved for when no one else was looking.

"Alright, 'Tsumu," he muttered. "Let's do this right."

The grooming was ritualistic, almost meditative. He started with his nails, painting them a deep, glossy red. The color reminded him of the Japanese flag, of the fire in his chest when he stepped onto the court. He worked slow, methodical, blowing on each finger before moving to the next. Red nails had become his signature—a small rebellion against the idea that a man couldn't be both fierce and feminine. He loved how they looked when he served, a flash of color against the white ball.

Next came his lips. A thin layer of cherry gloss, sweet and familiar. He pressed his lips together, satisfied with the subtle shine. Blush next—pale pink dabbed onto the apples of his cheeks, blended upward toward his temples. He wasn't trying to look like someone else. Just the best version of himself. The version that could step onto a world stage and be unapologetically Atsumu Miya.

His hair took longest. He'd grown it out over the past year, soft waves past his ears. He used a curling iron to add definition, coaxing strands into gentle, bouncy curls framing his face. When he was done, he sprayed a light mist of vanilla and coconut perfume across his collarbones and wrists, the scent blending with the cherry gloss. He caught his reflection and nodded. Good enough to win a match. Good enough to tell the world.

He dressed in his team warm-up gear, but before pulling on the jersey, he paused. He'd requested a special jersey for today, printed weeks ago in secret. He lifted it from the hanger and held it up. The back read SAKUSA A. in bold black letters. He traced the name with his finger, a shiver running through him. This was the name he was going to carry forward, into whatever came next. He pulled it over his head, the fabric settling against his skin like a promise.

The bus ride to the stadium was electric. His teammates buzzed with nervous energy, going over plays and shouting encouragement across the aisle. Atsumu sat by the window, earbuds in, listening to a playlist he'd made for mornings like this—pumping, aggressive beats that made his blood hum. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass and smiled again. Red nails. Cherry gloss. Pale pink blush. Curled hair. Sakusa A. He was ready.

When they arrived, the roar of the crowd was already a living thing, vibrating through the concrete floor and up into his bones. He followed the team into the locker room, where they did final stretches and huddled together. The coach's speech was short and fierce. Play for each other. Play for Japan. Play like you have nothing to lose.

Atsumu's stomach fluttered—but not nerves. Something else. Something that made him want to laugh out loud. He was playing for more than just a win today. He was playing for a new beginning.

The game began, and time dissolved into a blur of spikes, blocks, and serves. Argentina was tough—tall blockers and a devastating left-handed hitter. But Japan was relentless. Atsumu set with a precision that felt almost supernatural, his hands finding every attacker like guided by an invisible thread. He dove for balls, chased down shanks, served with a ferocity that made the crowd roar.

In the second set, he took a hard fall after a block, landing on his side. For a moment, a cold spike of fear—nothing to do with his ankle, everything to do with the fragile life inside him. He scrambled to his feet, waving off the concerned looks. "I'm fine," he said, voice sharp. "Keep goin'."

He touched his abdomen briefly, a silent reassurance, then launched into the next rally. He played like a man possessed, as if every point was a declaration of love and hope and defiance.

The final point came on a serve Argentina couldn't handle. The ball thudded into the net, the referee's whistle slicing through air. Japan had won. The stadium exploded—a tsunami of sound washing over Atsumu as his teammates mobbed him. He was laughing, crying, shouting, all at once. He hugged everyone—Kageyama, Hoshiumi, Yaku—their sweat and joy mingling in a messy, triumphant tangle.

But even in the chaos, his eyes searched the stands. He found Osamu first, sitting a few rows behind the bench with Suna and the rest of the Miya family. Osamu's eyes were wide, fixed on his jersey. He nudged Suna, whose eyebrows shot up. They exchanged a look—long, loaded, did you see that?—but neither spoke. Atsumu knew they had questions. They'd get answers soon.

His parents were there too, his mother clutching a handkerchief, his father's face a mask of stoic pride. They hadn't seen the name on the back yet. They would, soon.

The post-match ceremony was a blur of medals and bouquets and flags. Atsumu stood in the middle of his team, face aching from smiling, body thrumming with an exhaustion that felt like victory. The emcee called for players to give interviews, and a few regulars stepped up—Kageyama with his usual terse answers, Hoshiumi with his bright, energetic commentary. Then the emcee called Atsumu's name.

He stepped forward, and the crowd quieted. Cameras swiveled toward him, the red light blinking on. He took a breath, steadying himself. His heart pounded so hard he was sure it would show on camera.

He began with the usual platitudes. "Thank you to everyone who supported us. This win means a lot to Japan, and I'm honored to be part of this team. We trained hard, and it paid off."

Polite applause. He paused, throat tightening. This was it. The moment he'd rehearsed a hundred times in the mirror, with Kiyoomi's steady gaze as his only audience.

"And personally, I have some happy news," he said, voice wavering just a little. He squared his shoulders and looked directly into the nearest camera. "Kiyoomi—Sakusa—is going to be a father. I'm pregnant."

For one breath, silence. The kind that happens when everyone processes something that doesn't quite fit the expected narrative. Atsumu's heart stalled. Had he said it wrong? Was he supposed to—?

Then the stadium erupted.

Not polite applause. A roar, a thunderous wave of cheers and whoops and whistles crashing over him from every direction. People standing, waving flags, shouting congratulations. His teammates surged around him, clapping his back, lifting him off his feet. He laughed, breathless and teary, and let himself be carried by the joy.

In the stands, the camera panned to Sakusa, sitting with the rest of the MSBY Black Jackals. Kiyoomi's face was unreadable at first, as always—but then he smiled. A real, full, crinkly-eyed smile that transformed his whole face. So rare, so precious, that Atsumu felt his own tears spill over. The crowd saw it too, and a new wave of cheers rolled through the stadium.

On the sidelines, Osamu and Suna were already pushing through the crowd, shoving past security and officials. Osamu reached him first, wrapping his twin in a bear hug that knocked the wind out of him.

"You idiot," Osamu muttered into his hair. "You absolute idiot. You coulda told me."

"I just did," Atsumu said, voice muffled against his brother's shoulder.

"I saw the jersey, dumbass. But I didn't wanna say anythin' in case I was wrong." Osamu pulled back, eyes suspiciously bright. "You're really havin' a baby?"

"Yeah," Atsumu said, voice breaking. "I'm really havin' a baby."

Suna stepped in, giving a more restrained but no less heartfelt hug. "Congrats, Miya. You're going to be a great dad." His voice was dry, but his smile was warm.

Atsumu's parents made their way down to the court, his mother sobbing openly, his father's stoic facade cracking into a proud, teary grin. His mother grabbed his hands. "Atsumu, honey, why didn't you tell us? We would have been there for you!"

"I wanted to wait," he said, squeezing her fingers. "I wanted to have a moment. And I wanted to do it here, where everyone could see. So nobody could say it wasn't real."

His father put a hand on his shoulder, grip firm. "We're proud of you. Both of you. That takes guts."

The interviews wound down, the crowd began to thin, and the stadium lights dimmed to a softer glow. Atsumu finally managed to break away from the well-wishers, body aching with exhaustion and happiness. He found a quiet corner near the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, leaning against the cool concrete wall, trying to catch his breath.

That's where Sakusa found him.

He came out of the tunnel, still in civilian clothes—black jacket, dark jeans, a mask covering the lower half of his face. But his eyes were soft, the way they only ever were when he looked at Atsumu. He walked up without a word and wrapped his arms around him, gentle and careful, as if Atsumu were made of glass.

"You were amazing," Sakusa murmured into his hair.

"Yeah, I know," Atsumu said, voice muffled against Sakusa's chest. "Did you see my serve in the third set? Unstoppable."

Sakusa laughed—a low, rare sound vibrating through Atsumu's body. "I saw everything." He pulled back just enough to look at Atsumu's face, his thumb brushing a stray tear from his cheek. "Are you okay? No nausea? No pain?"

"Kiyoomi, I'm fine. I just announced our baby to the whole world. Let me have a minute."

Sakusa's hands moved down to rest on Atsumu's lower abdomen—a possessive, gentle touch. "You know I'm going to be overprotective now."

"I'm countin' on it," Atsumu said, leaning into him. They stood there for a long moment, the sounds of stadium cleanup echoing around them—workers sweeping confetti, the distant hum of a vacuum. The air smelled like sweat, popcorn, and victory.

"I love you," Sakusa said quietly. "And I love them." He pressed his forehead against Atsumu's. "Thank you for sharing this with me. For sharing us."

Atsumu closed his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him. "We're a family now," he whispered. "For real."

Later that night, after the celebration dinner and calls to relatives and the endless stream of congratulations on his phone, Atsumu finally went home. Their home—a small apartment they'd bought together a year ago, with a nursery still an empty room waiting to be filled. He collapsed onto the couch, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion he'd been holding at bay all day.

Sakusa brought him a glass of water and a plate of rice crackers, then sat down beside him, pulling Atsumu's legs across his lap. He began to massage Atsumu's calves, thumbs digging into sore muscles.

"You're still thinking about the match," Sakusa said.

"Mmm." Atsumu stared at the ceiling. "I keep replayin' that last serve. Could've been faster."

"It was perfect."

"Did you see my nails? They matched the team colors."

"I did. They're red."

"Cherry red," Atsumu corrected. "There's a difference."

Sakusa smiled again—that rare, precious thing Atsumu would never take for granted. "Cherry red," he repeated, leaning down to kiss Atsumu's forehead. "My cherry red, world-class setter."

Atsumu blushed, the pink matching his earlier blush. He shifted, pulling his jersey up just enough to see the lettering again: SAKUSA A. It looked even better under the soft living room light.

"I'm gonna frame this jersey," he said. "Hang it in the nursery. So the kid knows they were there. For the biggest game of my life."

Sakusa's hand slid to his stomach, covering it completely. "They were there. They felt every spike, every jump, every cheer."

"They probably have good reflexes already," Atsumu said, grinning. "Gonna be a volleyball prodigy."

"Or a violinist," Sakusa said dryly. "We'll let them choose."

Atsumu laughed, then yawned, the sound swallowed by sudden heaviness in his eyelids. Sakusa eased him down onto the couch, draping a blanket over him.

"Sleep," he said. "Tomorrow we visit your parents. And then we start planning."

"Plannin' what?"

"The future. The nursery. The name. Everything."

Atsumu's eyes fluttered closed. "Sounds good. But I already know the name."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. Atsumu Jr."

"No."

"Okay, Sakusa Jr."

"No."

"Fine. You pick. I'm too tired."

Sakusa kissed his temple. "I love you. Rest."

Atsumu was already half asleep, his hand resting on his stomach, the warmth of Sakusa's palm still lingering there. He dreamed of the match, of confetti falling, of the crowd cheering. And then he dreamed of a tiny hand wrapped around his finger, holding on tight.

The next morning, he woke early, sunlight streaming through the curtains. He lay still for a moment, feeling the quiet hum of life inside him. He reached for the jersey draped over the back of a chair, brought it to his face, and breathed in the scent of cherry gloss and victory.

He looked at the name on the back again. Sakusa A. Not just a jersey. A promise. A new chapter.

He smiled, heart full to bursting, and whispered to the empty room, "We did it, kid. We really did it."

And somewhere in the kitchen, Sakusa was making breakfast, humming a tune that sounded almost like a lullaby.