The Last Afternoon

The Inarizaki High School gymnasium smelled like sweat, floor wax, and whatever spicy thing Suna had smuggled in from the convenience store. Afternoon sunlight sliced through the high windows, dumping long golden rectangles across the polished wood. Practice was supposed to be happening. Nets up. Balls racked. Captain Kita had checked the schedule that morning—yeah, confirmed time.

But it was the last day before spring break, and the team had made an executive decision.

"No," Osamu said, firm, when Kita suggested drills.

Kita blinked once, slow, like his brain was buffering. "Then what are we doing?"

"Team bonding," Suna said, already dragging a projector from the storage closet. "Morale, you know."

Ginjima appeared with a laptop. Akagi produced an alarming pile of snacks from his bag—onigiri, chips, several bags of candy that looked lifted from a convenience store. Aran found blankets somewhere. The first-years looked uncertain for maybe three seconds before diving in.

Kita sighed. "Fine. One afternoon."

The cheer that went through the team bounced off the rafters.

Now they were scattered across the gym floor like debris after a storm. Blankets and towels everywhere. Shoes kicked off. Atsumu had claimed the best spot, sprawled on his back, head propped on his gym bag, arms folded behind his head. The projector was rigged to a portable screen from the AV room, and the laptop's home screen glowed against the wall.

"Alright," Suna said, cross-legged, scrolling through YouTube. "What are we watching?"

"Action movie," Aran suggested.

"Boring," Ginjima said.

"Horror," Osamu offered. A few first-years made protest sounds.

"Weak," Osamu said flatly.

"Karaoke," Atsumu said, sitting up with sudden energy. "Let's watch karaoke videos. Bet I could sing better than anyone on those."

"You can't sing," Osamu said.

"I can too!"

"You sound like a cat getting stepped on."

"Shut up, Samu!"

"Guys, guys," Suna interrupted, still scrolling. "Let me find something good."

He clicked through recommendations—gaming videos, vlogs, compilations. The team watched thumbnails flicker past. Then Suna stopped.

"Wait," he said. "What's this?"

He clicked. The thumbnail showed a small kid in a sparkly costume, mid-spin on a bright stage. The title read: DANCE STAR WINNER – JUNIOR DIVISION.

"I don't know," Akagi said, leaning forward. "But that kid's outfit looks expensive."

Suna pressed play.

The footage was grainy, clearly from a camera nearly a decade old. A stage with flashing lights. A host with a microphone. The camera panned to the side of the stage, where a tiny figure stood waiting, shifting weight from foot to foot with barely contained energy.

Atsumu, still lounging on his bag, went very still.

The camera zoomed in. The kid was maybe eight, blond hair that was obviously not his natural color—too bright, almost golden. He wore a turquoise sequined costume that caught stage lights and threw them back in dazzling fragments. A tiny bow tie. A matching sash. His face slathered in stage makeup—eyes lined with dark pencil, lips painted glossy red.

"Just some random kid from a competition," Suna said. "I dunno why—"

"That's Atsumu."

Osamu's voice cut through, flat and disbelieving. Everyone turned. He was staring at the screen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

"That's Atsumu," he repeated.

The gym went silent. Then chaos.

"WHAT?"

"THAT'S OUR SETTER?!"

"The sequins—"

"The MAKEUP—"

"MIYA!"

Atsumu had gone red from his neck to the tips of his ears. He scrambled upright, reaching for the laptop. "Turn it off! Turn it off right now!"

"No way," Suna said, holding the laptop out of reach. "No way. We're watching this."

The video continued. The eight-year-old on screen took his mark. The music started—something Latin, with a driving beat and horns. And then the child began to dance.

Atsumu—tiny, heavily made-up Atsumu—moved with a confidence that seemed impossible for someone so small. Hips swaying. Feet moving in sharp, precise steps. He turned, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing with a flourish, his expression fixed in a pouty, serious stage face that was trying very hard to look mature and coming off instead as adorable.

"Holy shit," Aran breathed.

"He's actually good," Ginjima said, sounding genuinely impressed.

The dance was a salsa routine, complete with spins and turns and at one point a dramatic dip that the eight-year-old executed entirely on his own, dropping into a backbend and popping back up without missing a beat. The audience clapped enthusiastically. The camera guy zoomed in on his face, and the child winked.

"Oh my god," Akagi said. "He winked."

"I'm scarred," a first-year muttered.

"I'm proud," Suna corrected.

Atsumu had buried his face in his hands. "This is the worst day of my life."

"Why did you never tell me about this?" Osamu demanded. His voice had gone strange—almost betrayed. "We shared a womb, Atsu. We shared a ROOM. How did I not know you did dance competitions?"

"It was a phase!"

"You were EIGHT. That's not a phase, that's a career."

"It was ONE competition!"

The video ended with the child on stage accepting a glittering trophy, bowing to the applause, and blowing a kiss to the camera. The team erupted. Laughter, cheers, whistles. Someone—it sounded like Suna—was playing victory music from Mario on his phone.

"Play it again," Ginjima demanded.

"NO," Atsumu said.

"Again, again, again!" Akagi chanted.

"Please," Aran added, and Atsumu looked at him with betrayal because Aran was supposed to be the nice one.

Suna replayed it. The team watched it a second time, then a third, analyzing every moment. They pointed out the bow tie. The hair. The way tiny Atsumu had grabbed the trophy and held it above his head like a champion. By the fourth viewing, Atsumu had stopped protesting and was just lying face-down on his blanket, groaning.

"I can't believe this," Osamu kept saying. "I can't believe you hid this."

"Can you still dance?" Akagi asked, leaning forward with bright eyes.

Atsumu's groan intensified.

"Come on," Suna said, grinning. "Show us. One dance."

"No."

"Live performance," Ginjima said, and the team took up the chant. "Live performance! Live performance!"

Atsumu lifted his head. His face was still red, but something flickered behind his eyes—a spark of the showmanship that had carried that eight-year-old through a championship routine.

"Fine," he said, and the team went quiet. "But I'm not doing it in my practice clothes."

He stood up. Dusted himself off. Walked over to his gym bag, left near the wall, and unzipped it with deliberate slowness.

The team watched in stunned silence as he pulled out a cascade of sparkly fabric. Turquoise. Sequin-covered. It caught the light and threw it back in a thousand tiny reflections.

"Is that—" Osamu started.

Atsumu held up the costume. It was smaller than the one in the video—he'd clearly replaced it at some point, sized up for his growing body—but unmistakably the same style. Bandeau top. Short skirt with fringe. And tucked beneath it, a long blond wig that shimmered like spun gold.

"You kept it," Osamu said, barely above a whisper.

"Of course I kept it," Atsumu said, and there was something almost defensive in his tone. "It's sentimental."

"You have STAGE MAKEUP in there too, don't you?"

Atsumu's answer was to pull out a makeup bag. It was pink.

The team lost it.

"USE THE CURTAIN!" Aran shouted, pointing to the divider across one side of the gym. "We'll set it up!"

"We don't need to set it up, it's already—"

"GO!"

Atsumu disappeared behind the curtain with his bag. The team scrambled to arrange themselves—the projector pushed aside, the screen moved, the blankets rearranged into a rough semicircle. Someone turned off the overhead lights, leaving only the dim spill from the hallway and the screen's glow. Someone else pulled up Latin music on the laptop.

"Should we pick a partner for him?" Akagi asked. "It's a ballroom dance, right? He needs a partner."

"He did it alone in the video," Suna pointed out.

"Yeah, but that's boring. We should volunteer someone."

"Me," several people said at once.

"No," Suna said. "We need someone who's not going to make it weird."

"Make what weird?"

The curtain rustled. Everyone fell silent.

Atsumu stepped out.

The gym went quiet.

He was transformed. The long blond wig fell in soft waves past his shoulders, catching the dim light and glowing like something out of a magazine spread. The makeup was done with surprising skill—winged eyeliner, red lipstick, a dusting of shimmer on his cheeks. The costume fit him perfectly, tight across his chest, the fringe on the skirt brushing against his thighs. He'd added bangles to his wrists. Heel sandals that raised him a few inches.

He looked like he'd stepped out of a competition stage.

Someone—it might have been Osamu—made a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke.

"Don't," Atsumu said, pointing at his twin. "Don't say anything."

"I wasn't gonna say anything."

"You were gonna say something."

"I was gonna say you look good, actually."

Atsumu blinked. The team blinked. Osamu looked like he'd surprised himself.

"I mean," Osamu amended, "you look stupid. But also... good. Stupid-good."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Atsumu said, and he sounded genuinely touched.

"Shut up."

"Alright, alright," Suna cut in, clapping his hands. "Partner. Who's it gonna be?"

The team debated. Aran was too big, someone argued. Ginjima would trip. Akagi would laugh too much. The first-years were vetoed for being too young and too likely to die of embarrassment.

"We need someone calm," Suna said. "Someone who's not gonna crack under pressure. Someone who can follow instructions and not freak out."

Every head turned slowly toward Kita.

The captain was sitting at the edge of the blanket semicircle, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees. He'd been watching the proceedings with his usual calm expression, a cup of tea cooling beside him. He looked up when he noticed everyone staring.

"What?" he said.

"You're the dance partner," Suna announced.

"I don't dance."

"You don't have to dance. You just have to stand there and let Atsumu dance at you."

"That sounds uncomfortable."

"It'll be fine," Atsumu said quickly. Too quickly. His voice had gone up an octave. "I'll lead. You just gotta... follow. And not let me drop you."

Kita considered this. His gaze moved over Atsumu—the costume, the wig, the nervous energy vibrating through his frame. Something flickered in his eyes. If you didn't know Kita, you'd miss it entirely. But Atsumu knew Kita. He caught the slight softening around the edges of his mouth.

"Alright," Kita said, and stood up.

The team erupted.

Atsumu's heart was suddenly trying to escape his ribcage. This was fine. Totally fine. He'd danced in front of crowds before. Performed at competitions, showcases, even the regional finals one year when his partner got sick and he had to do the entire routine solo. This was nothing.

Except it was Kita.

Kita, who was level-headed and calm and always knew the right thing to say. Kita, with the kindest eyes Atsumu had ever seen. Kita, who Atsumu had absolutely, completely, catastrophically fallen for somewhere between the first practice of the season and now—not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

"Where do you want me?" Kita asked.

Atsumu's brain short-circuited. "Uh. The middle of the floor. On the blanket. So I don't slip."

Kita walked to the center of the semicircle and stood there, hands at his sides, waiting. Atsumu took a breath. He could do this. Done it a hundred times.

He pressed play on the laptop.

The music started—slow at first, a build-up of strings and percussion. Atsumu closed his eyes. Let the rhythm settle into his bones. When he opened them again, the nerves were gone. Replaced by something else. Confidence. Showmanship. Joy.

He began to move.

The first few steps were simple—a hip sway, a roll of his shoulders, arms rising in a graceful arc. Then the beat kicked in, and he launched into the routine.

It was different from the salsa in the video. This was something more mature, more sensual. Movements sharp and fluid at once, his body rolling through the rhythm like water over stones. He circled Kita, trailing his fingers along Kita's shoulder, then pulling back with a toss of his wig. His hips moved in tight, controlled circles. His face was fixed in an expression of playful confidence, his red-lipsticked mouth curved in a half-smile.

The team was dead silent.

Atsumu danced closer to Kita. He placed his hands on Kita's shoulders, guiding him into a basic step—forward, together, back. Kita followed, stiff at first, then gradually relaxing as Atsumu's confidence seemed to bleed into him. They moved together, the gap between them shrinking with each pass.

Atsumu turned, pressing his back against Kita's chest, looking over his shoulder with a look that could have melted steel. He rolled his hips in a slow wave, his body moving against Kita's in a way that made several members of the team look away very quickly.

"Oh my god," Akagi whispered.

"Shut up," Ginjima hissed, "I'm trying to watch."

"Are you blushing?"

"SHUT. UP."

Atsumu spun out of Kita's arms, his fringe lifting, the sequins catching the light. He dropped into a low lunge, one hand on the floor, the other tracing a line up his own body—up his stomach, across his chest, over his collarbone. He rose, slow and deliberate, keeping his eyes locked on Kita the entire time.

Kita's composure was cracking. His ears were red. His breathing had gone shallow. He was watching Atsumu with an intensity that made Atsumu's stomach flip.

This was good. Great. Best idea Atsumu had ever had.

The music built to its crescendo. Atsumu moved into the final sequence—a series of rapid spins, arms extended, body a blur of turquoise and gold. He ended with a flourish, dropping into a dip that he guided Kita into, leaning back with one leg lifted, his wig trailing toward the floor.

Silence.

Then the gym erupted.

Cheering. Whistling. Someone stomping feet. Suna clapping so hard his hands had to be hurting. Aran laughing in disbelief. The first-years losing their minds, waving arms and shouting compliments. Even Osamu was smiling, a reluctant, crooked thing he couldn't quite hide.

Atsumu held the dip for a moment longer, looking up at Kita. The captain's face was hovering above his, close enough that Atsumu could see the individual flecks of gold in his eyes. Kita's hand was firm on his back, supporting him.

"You're good at this," Kita said, his voice quiet.

Something warm bloomed in Atsumu's chest. "Thanks."

"You're also heavy."

"Wha—KITA!"

The team laughed as Atsumu scrambled upright, swatting at Kita's arm. But he was grinning, and Kita was smiling back, and for a moment the rest of the gym fell away.

"Not bad, Atsu."

Osamu's voice cut through the warmth. Atsumu turned to find his twin standing at the edge of the semicircle, arms crossed, expression complicated.

"Not bad," Osamu repeated. "You're actually kinda cool."

It was the closest Osamu would ever get to a compliment, and Atsumu knew it. His face went red again, but this time from happiness.

"I know," he said, sticking his tongue out. "I'm amazing."

"Don't push it."

"Too late."

The team settled back onto their blankets, the tension of the performance melting into easy camaraderie. Someone ordered pizza. Someone else found a compilation of cats falling off things. The projector was turned back on, and the screen filled with grainy footage of orange tabbies missing their jumps.

Atsumu sat down on his blanket, still in costume, the wig tickling his shoulders. Too hyped to change. Too happy. He watched the cats tumble and the team laugh, and he let himself feel it—the warmth, the acceptance, the joy of being seen.

Kita sat down beside him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough.

"You should do that more often," Kita said, not looking at him.

"Do what?"

"Dance."

Atsumu's heart did a little skip. "You think so?"

"You're talented. It's wasted if you keep it hidden."

The words hit Atsumu harder than he expected. He looked at Kita's profile—the steady line of his jaw, the quiet certainty in his eyes. Kita always spoke like that. Like he knew things. Like he saw things in people that they didn't see in themselves.

"Maybe I will," Atsumu said softly.

Kita turned, and their eyes met. The corner of his mouth lifted.

"Good."

Atsumu's face felt hot. He looked away, grinning at the floor. The pizza arrived twenty minutes later, and the team descended on it like starving wolves. Someone put on a documentary about deep-sea creatures, and the conversation devolved into arguments about whether anglerfish were scary or just misunderstood.

Atsumu leaned back on his hands, the fringe of his skirt brushing against the blanket. His legs were tired. His feet ached. He'd probably be sore tomorrow.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this happy.

Osamu dropped down beside him, a slice of pizza in each hand. He held one out to Atsumu without looking.

"Thanks," Atsumu said, taking it.

"Don't make it weird."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They ate in silence for a moment. Atsumu watched the anglerfish drift across the screen, its bioluminescent lure glowing in the dark.

"I'm proud of you," Osamu said, so quietly that Atsumu almost missed it.

He turned, but Osamu was already looking away, biting into his pizza with aggressive nonchalance.

Atsumu smiled.

"Thanks, Samu."

The gym was warm. The team was loud. The pizza was exactly the right amount of greasy. Spring break stretched ahead, infinite and full of possibility, and for now, in this moment, everything was perfect.

Atsumu let himself enjoy it.