The Other Kind of Practice

The video call timer read forty-two minutes, and Atsumu Miya was already a mess.

His phone was propped against his pillow, angled to catch the desk lamp’s warm glow. The camera framed his flushed face, his bitten lips, the sweat already beading at his hairline. On the other end, Kita Shinsuke’s voice came through tinny but steady—a low murmur of encouragement that made Atsumu’s toes curl into the sheets.

“You’re doing so well, ‘Tsumu. Just breathe for me. You can wait a little longer, can’t you?”

Atsumu whimpered. His hand stilled where it had been working, and he pressed his forehead against his forearm. “Shinsuke, that’s—that’s not fair. You said I could—”

“I said you could when you were ready.” Kita’s voice was calm, unhurried—the same tone he used to redirect a wayward set during practice. But Atsumu knew him now. He could hear the edge beneath the stillness, the same hunger that had Kita’s own breaths coming a little heavier through the speaker. “And I want to watch you fall apart. But I want you to wait for me first.”

Atsumu groaned, low and long. His thighs trembled. The cheap earbuds he’d bought specifically for these calls picked up every sound, and he was acutely aware of how loud his breathing was in the quiet of his bedroom. Wednesday evening. Osamu had study group at the library until eight. Suna was at practice. The house was empty except for him and the soft, crackling distance between Inarizaki’s vice captain and its captain.

“You’re mean,” Atsumu breathed, but there was no heat in it. Only want.

Kita’s soft laugh was like warm water. “I know. You’ll forgive me.”

Atsumu closed his eyes. He let himself sink into the rhythm Kita set—slow, deliberate, punctuated by murmured praise that made his chest ache. This was their secret. The careful, hidden intimacy that existed only in the space between their phone screens and the hours they stole after sunset. No one at school knew. No one could know. Atsumu was still figuring out how to tell the world he was a boy, and Kita—steady, patient, perfect Kita—was the only one who saw him whole.

“Okay,” Kita said, softer now. “Now. Let go for me.”

Atsumu did.

He cried out, a broken sound he immediately tried to swallow, but Kita hushed him through the speaker. “Let me hear you. Don’t hold back.”

So he didn’t. He let the pleasure roll through him, hips bucking into his own hand until he collapsed onto his side, chest heaving. For a moment, only the sound of his ragged breaths and the faint rustle of Kita adjusting his phone on his end.

“Good,” Kita said, and Atsumu could hear the smile in his voice. “You were perfect.”

Atsumu laughed breathlessly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

He was about to respond—something sappy and stupid, the kind of thing he’d never say in person because his face would catch fire—when the door to his bedroom slammed open.

The sound was so violent against the quiet that Atsumu’s entire body seized. His hand flew to the phone, fumbling to end the call, but his fingers were clumsy and slow, still trembling from his climax. Before he could tap the red button, Osamu Miya stood frozen in the doorway, a bag of convenience store snacks dangling from one hand, his expression shifting from annoyance to shock to horror in a single heartbeat.

Behind him, Suna Rintarou had already turned around, one hand raised to shield his eyes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Suna said flatly.

Atsumu yanked the earbuds out. Kita’s voice—concerned, questioning—spilled into the room tinny and distant from the phone’s speaker. “’Tsumu? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Osamu stared.

Atsumu stared back.

The phone, still live, still showing Kita’s concerned face on the screen, glowed on the pillow.

“Who the hell is that?” Osamu’s voice was tight, dangerous. He took a step into the room, and Atsumu scrambled to grab his phone, pressing it against his bare chest as if that could hide the evidence.

“N-nobody! It’s nobody, get out!”

“That was a guy’s voice.” Osamu’s eyes were wide, processing. The snacks crinkled in his grip. “You were—you were doing that—and there was a guy—” He turned to Suna, who still had his back to them. “Suna, did you hear that? Tell me you heard that.”

“I’m not getting involved,” Suna said, but he sounded less detached than usual. More careful. “Osamu, we should probably leave.”

“Leave? My twin brother is—is being—with some guy—” Osamu’s face had gone red, then white, then red again. He looked like he might either throw up or throw a punch. “Atsumu, who was it? Who the hell was that?”

Atsumu’s heart hammered. He clutched the phone tighter, fumbling to end the call with his thumb. “It’s none of your business. You don’t get to barge in here and—”

“I knocked! You didn’t answer, so I figured you were asleep, and I was trying to be considerate by bringing you a snack, you ungrateful—”

“You clearly didn’t knock hard enough!”

“I knocked, I swear I knocked,” Osamu said, turning to Suna again, desperate. “Tell him I knocked.”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Suna said, still facing the hallway. “But I believe you.”

The phone screen went dark. Atsumu exhaled, but the damage was done. Osamu had seen. Osamu had heard. And Osamu was now pacing in the narrow space between the bed and the desk, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“You have a secret boyfriend,” Osamu said, the words tumbling out like he was trying to make sense of them. “You’ve been hiding a secret boyfriend. And you were—doing that—with him on video call? Are you insane? What if Mom had walked in? What if it had been Dad?”

“It wasn’t,” Atsumu snapped. He pulled his blanket up to his chin, suddenly aware of his state of undress. “And you’re not supposed to be home until eight.”

“Study group got cancelled. Suna and I grabbed snacks from the konbini.” Osamu stopped pacing and fixed Atsumu with a glare that was pure twin fury. “So who is he?”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. “I’m not telling you.”

“Like hell you’re not.”

“Osamu,” Suna said, his voice finally cutting through the tension like a knife. “Let’s go. Give him space. You can talk about this tomorrow.”

Osamu looked like he wanted to argue, but Suna reached back without looking and grabbed his arm, tugging him toward the door. “We’re leaving. Miya, lock your door.”

Atsumu didn’t move. Osamu allowed himself to be pulled, but he shot one last look over his shoulder—not angry, not anymore. Something softer. Hurt, maybe. Concern.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Atsumu sat in the silence, the ghost of Kita’s voice still humming in his ears, and buried his face in his hands.

---

The next morning, Atsumu walked into the gymnasium like a man walking into a firing squad.

Osamu was already there, stretching near the net, but his eyes tracked Atsumu from the moment he stepped through the doors. Suna sat against the wall, tying his shoes, and offered Atsumu a look that was unreadable. Neutral. Good.

But Osamu—Osamu was Miya Osamu, and that meant he had a grudge-holding streak a mile wide.

“Morning, ‘Samu,” Atsumu said, aiming for casual. His voice cracked on the second syllable.

Osamu didn’t reply. He just turned back to his stretches, arms reaching for his toes with deliberate calm.

Great. Silent treatment. That was new.

Practice was tense. Coach Kurosu ran them through drills, and Atsumu’s sets were off—too high, too wide, lacking the usual precision that made him the team’s ace setter. Ginjima gave him a questioning look. Akagi muttered something about needing more coffee. And Kita, standing on the other side of the court with his usual serene expression, caught Atsumu’s eye for a fraction of a second. There was worry there, carefully masked, but Atsumu saw it.

He shook his head slightly. Later.

Kita nodded, just as imperceptibly, and turned back to his receiving drill.

The morning passed in a blur of volleys and footwork, and by the time lunch rolled around, Atsumu was exhausted. He grabbed his bento and retreated to a corner of the rooftop, hoping to avoid Osamu’s inevitable ambush.

No such luck.

Osamu found him within five minutes, Suna trailing behind like a reluctant cat.

“We need to talk,” Osamu said, sliding down to sit across from Atsumu. Suna sat at a distance, not quite a part of the circle but close enough to observe.

“We don’t,” Atsumu said, stabbing a piece of tamagoyaki with his chopsticks.

“We do. You have a boyfriend. And you didn’t tell me. Your twin. Your literal other half.”

“I don’t have to tell you everything.”

Osamu’s eyes narrowed. “When did this start? How long have you been keeping this from me?”

Atsumu looked away. The wind picked up, ruffling his hair, and he watched a cloud drift across the pale blue sky. “A while.”

“A while,” Osamu repeated flatly. “A while. That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

Suna spoke up, his voice light and careful. “Alright, let’s take a step back. Atsumu, you’re allowed to have secrets. But Osamu is your brother, and he’s worried. That’s not unreasonable.”

Atsumu’s shoulders sagged. He hated when Suna made sense. “I know. I’m sorry. But I can’t tell you who it is. Not yet. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Osamu demanded. “Is he older? Is he pressuring you? Did he hurt you?”

“No! God, no. He’s—he’s the opposite of that.” Atsumu’s voice softened despite himself. “He’s… good. Patient. He makes me feel safe.”

Osamu’s expression flickered. The anger was still there, but something else bled through—a raw, protective instinct that Atsumu recognized because he had it too. “Then why keep it a secret? If he’s so good, why can’t I know who he is?”

Atsumu opened his mouth, closed it. How could he explain? That the relationship was secret because of who he was—because being a trans boy with the school’s revered captain felt like a fairy tale he was terrified of waking from? That Kita had asked him, gently, whether he wanted to go public, and Atsumu had said no because he wasn’t ready for the questions, the stares, the whispers?

“It’s not that simple,” Atsumu said finally.

Osamu stared at him for a long moment. Then he stood, brushing off his pants. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But I’m going to figure it out. And when I do, I’m going to have a very serious conversation with him about what his intentions are.”

He walked away, and Suna rose to follow. Before he left, Suna glanced back at Atsumu, a hint of a smile on his sharp features.

“For what it’s worth,” Suna said quietly, “you two aren’t as subtle as you think.”

Then he was gone, leaving Atsumu alone with his cooling lunch and a sinking feeling in his chest.

---

The investigation began in earnest that afternoon.

Osamu and Suna sat in the library during free period, a notebook open between them. Osamu had written “SUSPECTS” at the top of the page in aggressive capital letters.

“Okay,” Osamu said, tapping the pen against the paper. “We know he’s from the team. Atsumu would never get involved with someone outside of volleyball. He’s too obsessed.”

“That’s fair,” Suna said, scrolling through his phone. “But it could also be someone from another school. They’re not exactly isolated.”

“No, the timing is too specific. Atsumu’s video calls are always in the evenings after practice, and he’s never late. He schedules his life around them. That means the boyfriend is someone with a schedule that overlaps with ours.”

Suna raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I’m not an idiot.” Osamu scribbled a list of names: Ginjima, Akagi, Omimi, Riseki, the two first-year setters, and then, at the bottom, a reluctant “Kita.”

Suna leaned over. “You put Kita on the list?”

“I put everyone on the list. But Kita’s a stretch. He’s too… proper. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a secret relationship.”

“Mm.” Suna’s eyes lingered on the name. “And yet.”

Osamu looked up. “And yet what?”

“Nothing. Just an observation.” Suna went back to his phone. “Let’s think about this logically. Who has the most access to Atsumu? Who would have the most opportunity to be alone with him?”

Osamu frowned. “They’re all on the team. Everyone has access.”

“Sure, but who seeks him out? Who checks on him? Who touches his shoulder, fixes his jersey, looks at him a little too long?”

Osamu was quiet. Then he said, slowly, “The captain does that with everyone. That’s just how Kita is.”

“Is it, though?” Suna’s voice was mild, but his gaze was sharp. “I’ve been watching. And Kita’s attention lingers on Atsumu a few seconds longer than it does on the rest of us. He corrects his posture more often. He brings him water before practice. He sits next to him during meetings even when there are other open seats.”

Osamu’s face went through a series of complicated emotions. “You’ve been watching them?”

“I’m observant. And I’m trying to help you, remember?”

“I didn’t ask you to help me.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re terrible at hiding your feelings, Miya. Your twin isn’t the only one who’s transparent.”

Osamu muttered something under his breath but added a star next to Kita’s name. “Fine. He’s a person of interest. But we need more evidence.”

Over the next week, they gathered it.

Monday: Atsumu’s phone buzzed during practice, and he checked it immediately, a soft smile touching his lips before he shoved it away. Osamu noted the time. Three minutes later, Kita’s phone vibrated in his bag on the bench. He didn’t check it, but Suna noticed the phone light up from across the gym.

Tuesday: During a break in practice, Atsumu disappeared for ten minutes. Osamu asked Ginjima where he went. Ginjima shrugged. “Bathroom?” But when Osamu checked, Atsumu wasn’t there. He was behind the gym, on his phone. And five minutes later, Kita excused himself from a conversation with Coach Kurosu and walked in the same direction.

Wednesday: Osamu timed it. Atsumu’s lunch break ended at the same time Kita appeared from the rooftop stairwell. They didn’t walk together, but their trajectories overlapped. The math was too clean.

Thursday: Osamu confronted Atsumu in the hallway after school.

“It’s Kita, isn’t it?”

Atsumu’s face went pale. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “What? No. Why would you—that’s ridiculous.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying. Kita’s the captain. We’re not—it’s not like that.”

But Atsumu’s hands were shaking, and he wouldn’t meet Osamu’s eyes. And that was confirmation enough.

Osamu walked away without another word.

---

The confrontation happened on Saturday.

Osamu found Kita in the equipment shed after morning practice, organizing volleyballs into the cart. The shed was quiet, smelled of rubber and sweat, and the fluorescent light buzzed overhead.

“Kita-san.”

Kita turned, a volleyball still in his hands. His expression was placid, unreadable. “Miya. What can I help you with?”

Osamu stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. “I know you’re dating my brother.”

For a long moment, Kita said nothing. He set the volleyball down carefully, lined it up with the others, and then straightened to face Osamu fully. When he spoke, his voice was calm, unhurried—the same voice Atsumu heard on the other end of those video calls.

“I am,” Kita said simply.

Osamu had expected denial. Or defensiveness. He hadn’t expected this quiet, steady admission. It threw him off balance.

“How long?”

“Since before summer training camp.”

“That’s—that’s months.” Osamu’s hands clenched at his sides. “You’ve been keeping this from everyone. From the team. From me.”

“We kept it from everyone because Atsumu wasn’t ready to share it.” Kita’s gaze was direct, unwavering. “And I respect his boundaries. If he wanted to keep us a secret, I honored that.”

“But you’re the captain. You should have told me. I’m his brother.”

“I wasn’t dating his brother. I was dating Atsumu. And what Atsumu chooses to tell his family is his decision, not mine.”

Osamu wanted to argue, but the words died in his throat. Because Kita was right. That was the infuriating thing about Kita Shinsuke—he was always right.

“Are you serious about him?” Osamu asked, quieter now.

Kita’s expression softened. It was the first crack in his composure, a glimpse of something tender and private. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

“He’s trans.” Osamu said it bluntly, a test. “Do you—are you okay with that?”

Kita’s eyes flashed. Not with anger, but with something fiercer. “I love him. Not in spite of who he is, but because of it. He’s the most courageous person I know. He trusts me with parts of himself that he’s never shown anyone else. And I will spend every day making sure he knows he’s safe with me.”

Osamu stared at him.

The silence stretched.

Then Osamu let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Okay.”

Kita blinked. “Okay?”

“Okay, you have my blessing. Or whatever.” Osamu rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “But if you hurt him—if you make him cry, or if you ever take him for granted—I’ll break your kneecaps. And I’ll enjoy it.”

Kita’s lips twitched. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Osamu turned to leave, but paused at the door. “He smiles different when he’s with you. I noticed that. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

“Thank you,” Kita said softly.

Osamu didn’t reply. He just walked out, the door swinging shut behind him, and left Kita standing alone among the volleyballs, a quiet smile spreading across his face.

---

That night, Atsumu’s phone buzzed with an incoming video call.

He answered it, propping the phone against his pillow. Kita’s face appeared on the screen, warm and familiar.

“Osamu talked to me today,” Kita said without preamble.

Atsumu’s stomach dropped. “He did? What did he say? Is he angry? Did he threaten you? He threatened you, didn’t he.”

“He threatened my kneecaps. It was very touching.” Kita smiled. “He knows about us. And he said I have his blessing.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. “He… did?”

“He did. I think he’s known for a while. He just needed to hear it from me.”

Atsumu blinked, feeling something hot and wet slide down his cheek. He wiped at it quickly, embarrassed. “I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“Of course it is,” Kita said, his voice unbearably fond. “But I’m glad, ‘Tsumu. I’m glad he knows. I’m glad we don’t have to hide from him anymore.”

Atsumu sniffled. “Yeah. Me too.”

They talked for another hour—about practice, about the upcoming match against Seijoh, about nothing and everything. By the time they said goodnight, Atsumu’s chest felt light in a way it hadn’t in months.

He fell asleep still smiling, his phone clutched to his chest, the memory of Kita’s voice wrapped around him like a blanket.

---

The next Monday, Osamu sat down next to Atsumu at lunch and slid half his onigiri onto his brother’s tray.

“Don’t make it weird,” Osamu muttered. “Eat.”

Atsumu stared at the rice ball, then at his twin. “You’re being nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“You’re literally never nice.”

“Eat your food before I take it back.”

Atsumu picked up the onigiri and took a bite. It was good—Osamu’s cooking always was. They ate in comfortable silence for a while, Suna occasionally chiming in with dry commentary from across the table.

And when Kita walked by, his hand brushing briefly against Atsumu’s shoulder as he passed, Osamu didn’t say a word.

He just rolled his eyes and took another bite of his lunch.

Some things didn’t need to be said.