The Language of Love

The locker room had gone quiet. Just the distant hiss of water and the occasional clatter of a shoe someone kicked. Inarizaki’s volleyball team had finished practice almost twenty minutes ago, and everyone was changed, bags packed, waiting on one guy who seemed to think time stopped when he got in the shower.

“How long’s he been in there?” Ginjima leaned back on the bench, arms crossed. “I’m starting to think he drowned.”

“He didn’t drown.” Osamu’s voice was flat, but underneath it was that familiar mix of annoyance and something softer—protective, maybe, or just used to his twin’s drama. “He’s being dramatic. As usual.”

Then from the shower room, a low sound started drifting through the tiles. Not the usual off-key humming or the random pop song Atsumu sometimes sang when he thought no one was listening. This was different. The notes curled and stretched, warm and foreign, like they didn’t belong in a high school locker room.

Aran looked up. “Is he… singing in Arabic?”

“Sounds like it.” Suna didn’t look up from his phone, but his thumbs stopped moving for a second. “Didn’t know he could do that.”

“Neither did I,” Osamu muttered. He didn’t sound angry. Almost curious.

The melody went on, rising and falling, so tender it felt out of place here. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Each note carried something that made the rest of them slow down. Even the air seemed to hold still.

Ginjima let out a low whistle. “Okay, that’s actually really pretty.”

“Shut up,” Osamu said, but his voice was barely a whisper. He was listening too.

The song shifted. Water stopped running. A beat of silence, then Atsumu’s voice swelled again—alone, raw, completely captivating. The words were foreign, but you didn’t need to understand them to feel it. Longing. Tenderness. That aching sweetness that made the room feel warmer.

Aran exchanged a glance with Suna. Suna raised an eyebrow but said nothing, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Osamu just shook his head slowly. No malice. Just that look of yeah, that’s my brother.

---

The rest of the team gave up pretending to do anything else. They sat in a loose circle on benches and floor, bags everywhere, the kind of quiet that comes from spending too many hours together.

“So,” Ginjima said, pulling out his phone, “how long do you give him? I’m saying twenty more minutes.”

“Ten,” Suna said, still scrolling. “He’s got a pattern.”

“That’s not a pattern,” Osamu said. “That’s him being extra.”

“Same thing.” Suna barely finished before Osamu threw a towel at him.

Aran caught it mid-air, tossed it back with a gentle laugh. “Let him take his time. It’s not like we’re in a hurry.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ginjima said. “I’ve got a history assignment due tomorrow.”

“You’ll survive.” Aran’s voice was patient—he always smoothed things over. “Besides, you don’t get to hear someone sing like that every day.”

Suna finally looked up. “No you don’t.” His eyes were sharp but not unkind. “That was… actually impressive.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

The shower started again—a quick rinse, then silence. The door creaked, and everyone’s attention snapped toward it.

---

When Atsumu stepped out of the shower room, the locker room went dead silent.

He was wearing knee-high black boots with a thick heel that made him stand two inches taller. They laced all the way up, shiny and new. Over them, a deep burgundy pleated skirt—sharp pleats, carefully pressed—and sheer black tights that caught the fluorescent light. His face was done: a sweep of dark eyeliner that made his eyes look fierce, a subtle shimmer on his cheekbones, a glossy tint on his lips that matched the skirt.

His damp hair was slicked back from his face. He carried a small clutch purse under his arm.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Ginjima’s phone hit the floor.

Osamu’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like he’d swallowed a tennis ball.

Aran recovered first, voice steady and warm. “That’s… quite the outfit, Atsumu.”

“Thank you.” Atsumu lifted his chin, practiced poise. “I put a lot of thought into it.”

“Where the hell are you going dressed like that?” Osamu’s voice cracked on the last word. He coughed.

Atsumu’s gaze flicked to his brother, and for a second the bravado softened. A small, almost shy smile. “I have an audition.”

“An audition?” Aran leaned forward. “For what?”

“The Voice Kids.” The words came out quiet but heavy.

Suna set his phone down completely. “The singing competition? The one on TV?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s fingers tightened on his clutch. “I’ve been practicing for a while. Thought I’d… try.”

The locker room went silent again, but this time it wasn’t disbelief. It was softer. A shift in the air.

Osamu stood up first. He walked over to his brother, close enough to be almost touching, and looked him up and down. Then, very slowly, he reached out and straightened the collar of Atsumu’s jacket.

“You look good,” Osamu said, gruff. “Don’t mess it up.”

Atsumu’s eyes widened, just a fraction. “You’re not gonna tell me it’s stupid?”

“It’s not stupid.” Osamu’s hand dropped. “It’s just… unexpected.” He paused. “But you’ve always been like that.”

Aran stood up next, a grin spreading across his face. “We’re coming with you.”

“What?” Atsumu blinked. “No, you don’t have to—”

“We want to.” Ginjima scrambled to his feet. “You think we’re gonna miss seeing you on TV?”

One by one, the rest of the team stood. Suna pocketed his phone, his expression unreadable but his stance relaxed. “I’m curious. And Kita would never forgive me if I didn’t go.”

Atsumu’s lips parted. For a second the confident mask cracked, and something raw and grateful shone through. “You guys are serious?”

“Dead serious,” Aran said. “Now come on. Don’t want you late.”

Atsumu hesitated, then let out a breathy laugh. “Fine. But don’t blame me if I outshine everyone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Suna said dryly, and the tension broke into laughter.

---

The theater was medium-sized, its marquee lit up with bright letters: The Voice Kids – Open Auditions. Inside buzzed with nervous energy—parents hovering, coaches adjusting outfits, young singers pacing and practicing scales.

The Inarizaki volleyball team filed in like a small army. Matching jackets, all that height—hard to miss. Atsumu walked at the front, his boots clicking on the polished floor, head high.

A staff member directed him to check-in. He filled out the forms with steady hands.

The team found seats in the audience, close to the stage but not too close. Suna sat next to Osamu. Aran slid in beside Ginjima. A few others fanned out, filling a whole row.

From the corner of his eye, Atsumu spotted a familiar figure near the back of the hall, standing in the shadows. Kita Shinsuke, calm and composed as always, arms crossed, a small quiet smile on his lips.

Atsumu’s heart stuttered. He hadn’t told Kita he was doing this. But Kita always knew.

Suna, sitting next to Osamu, gave a lazy wave in their direction. Osamu muttered something that made Suna’s lips twitch.

The auditions started. One by one, young singers took the stage—some nervous, some bold. A few earned murmurs of approval. Others got polite applause and gentle rejection. The atmosphere was tense but hopeful.

When Atsumu’s name was called, the team collectively straightened.

He walked onto the stage with the confidence of someone who’d been performing for years. The lights were bright. Three judges looked at him with polite curiosity.

“Name and age?”

“Atsumu Miya. Seventeen.”

“And what are you going to sing for us today?”

Atsumu took a breath. In the audience, he could see the blurry shapes of his teammates, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on him. He could see Kita, still as a statue. And somewhere, Osamu—probably looking annoyed but caring anyway.

He smiled. “‘Betwanes Beek,’ by Warda.”

A murmur rippled through the judges. The older woman with silver-streaked hair leaned forward. “That’s a classic. Are you fluent in Arabic?”

“No,” Atsumu said, perfectly honest. “But I learned it anyway.”

Her eyebrows rose, but she gestured for him to begin.

The music started—a soft, melancholic oud melody that smelled like distant shores. Atsumu closed his eyes for a moment, let the rhythm settle into his bones. Then he opened his mouth, and the first note floated out like a prayer.

It was soft, barely above a whisper, but it filled the entire theater. The audience, the judges, even the crew backstage—they all stopped moving. The melody wrapped around them, warm and aching, each word a brushstroke of color in the air.

Betwanes beek, ya habibi, betwanes beek…

His voice grew. Not louder, but richer. He’d practiced this song for months—alone in his room, in the shower, on the rooftop of the gym when the stars were out. Learned each phrase by ear, mimicking the cadence and the emotion until it felt like his own.

And now, under the lights, it was.

He let himself feel it—the longing, the tenderness, the aching sweetness. He thought of Kita. Of quiet mornings and gentle touches. He thought of his teammates, their unwavering support. He thought of Osamu, who pretended not to care but always showed up.

The chorus came, and he let his voice soar. The high notes rang clear and pure—not strained, not desperate. Just beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made you forget to breathe.

In the audience, the older judge pressed a hand to her chest. Her eyes glistened.

Aran felt his throat tighten. Ginjima gripped the armrest so hard his knuckles went white. Suna had stopped pretending to be indifferent—his jaw was slack, his dark eyes fixed on the stage.

Osamu was very, very still. He didn’t blink.

And in the back, Kita Shinsuke—who had never once doubted Atsumu’s worth—let a single tear slip down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

The song swelled to its final notes. Atsumu held the last note, long and tender, like a star hanging in the air. Then he let it fade, soft as a sigh.

Silence.

For a full three seconds, nobody moved. Then the theater erupted.

The judges were on their feet. The audience followed. Applause roared through the hall, loud enough to shake the walls. The older judge was crying openly, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Atsumu stood in the center of the stage, breathing hard, heart pounding. He looked out at the sea of faces—blurred with tears he hadn’t realized he was crying.

He saw his team. They were cheering, yelling his name, pumping their fists. Aran was wiping his eyes. Ginjima looked like he’d just seen a miracle.

And there, in the back, Kita raised his hand in a small wave. His lips moved—words Atsumu couldn’t hear, but he knew them.

I’m proud of you.

Atsumu smiled, wide and real, as the judges announced his name. He had won.

---

The celebration afterward was loud and messy and perfect. They found a small ramen shop near the venue, crowded around a table way too small for all of them, but nobody cared. Noodle bowls clattered, chopsticks flew, laughter rang out like music.

Atsumu sat between Kita and Osamu, still in his skirt and boots, makeup slightly smudged from tears and stage heat. Kita’s hand rested on his knee under the table—a quiet anchor.

“You were amazing,” Kita said, low, meant only for Atsumu.

Atsumu leaned into him, just slightly. “Thanks for being there.”

“Always.”

Across the table, Suna was teasing Osamu about something, and Osamu was blushing, shoving a piece of pork into Suna’s mouth to shut him up. It worked for about three seconds.

“So,” Aran said, raising his glass of water, “to Atsumu Miya, the Voice Kid.”

“To Atsumu!” the team roared, glasses clinking.

Atsumu ducked his head, a rare flush creeping up his neck. “You guys are embarrassing.”

“Deal with it,” Ginjima said, grinning. “You’re famous now.”

“Not yet,” Atsumu said, but he was smiling. “Maybe one day.”

Osamu slung an arm around his shoulder. “One day? You already are, you idiot.”

For a moment, there was only warmth. The ramen steam curling in the air, the clatter of dishes, the easy rhythm of voices overlapping. Atsumu looked around the table—at his brother, his team, his boyfriend—and felt something settle in his chest, soft and steady.

He didn’t need a trophy to know he was loved.

But the trophy was nice too.

---

Later that night, when the team finally dispersed and the streets were quiet, Atsumu walked hand in hand with Kita under the streetlights. The city hummed softly around them, the sky a deep clear indigo.

“You really learned Arabic for that song?” Kita asked.

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s voice was sleepy, content. “Took me months. Had to listen to it a hundred times.”

“It showed.” Kita squeezed his hand. “Every note was perfect.”

Atsumu stopped walking. He turned to face Kita, the streetlight casting half his face in gold. “I meant it, you know. Every word.”

Kita’s eyes softened. “I know.”

They stood there for a long moment, the night air cool against their skin. Then Kita leaned in and kissed him—soft and sure, like the closing note of a song.

When they pulled apart, Atsumu was smiling like he’d won the world.

And maybe he had.

The rest of the team, scattered across the city, carried the memory of that night with them—the sound of Atsumu’s voice, the sight of him on stage, the way he’d made something foreign feel familiar, and something beautiful feel possible.

Because that was Atsumu Miya. Unpredictable. Extraordinary. And somehow, theirs.