In the Pocket Where You Keep Your Smile

The gym still smelled like sweat and effort. Volleyballs thudded against the floor, sneakers squeaked, and someone let out a final grunt as they packed up. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but the air hadn't cleared yet—heavy and warm, like the whole place was catching its breath. Most of the team had already headed for the showers, their voices bouncing off the walls as they talked about dinner and homework they didn't want to do.

Atsumu Miya was nowhere.

Osamu zipped his bag, lazy flick of the wrist. He glanced around the empty gym, frowning. Usually, Atsumu was the first to rip off his knee pads and start yapping about some perfect set or how the poor blocker didn't stand a chance. But today, his twin had been quiet. Weirdly quiet. During the last drill, Atsumu barely said a word, eyes distant, moving like a robot. Even when Osamu tried to bait him with a jab about his serve, Atsumu just shrugged and walked off.

Not like him. At all.

Osamu slung his bag over his shoulder and ambled toward the locker room, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He pushed open the door, expecting Atsumu to be there, maybe scrolling on his phone or arguing with a first-year. Instead, the room was empty. Lockers stood still, benches cold.

But he heard something. A tiny sound. A hitch in the air.

He followed it, slowing down as he rounded the corner of the last row of lockers. And there, on the floor, back pressed against the cold metal, arms wrapped around his knees, was Atsumu. Head bowed, shoulders shaking. Small, choked gasps—the kind you make when you're trying not to cry but failing.

Osamu froze. He'd seen Atsumu angry, frustrated, whiny, arrogant, insufferably cheerful. But never—never in his life—had he seen his twin cry. Not when they were kids and Atsumu fell off his bike and scraped his knee. Not when they lost their first big tournament. Not ever.

"Atsumu?" Osamu's voice came out softer than he meant. Almost a whisper.

Atsumu's head snapped up. Eyes wide, red-rimmed. Tears streaked down his cheeks, nose running. He looked wrecked. For a second, he seemed to register who was there, and then his face crumpled with embarrassment. He turned away, pressing his forehead to his knees, trying to hide.

"Don't," he croaked. "Don't look at me."

But Osamu was already moving. He dropped his bag and sank down beside his twin, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He didn't say anything at first. Just sat there, letting the silence settle, the only sound Atsumu's ragged breaths.

"Hey," Osamu finally said, rough but gentle. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'." Muffled into his knees.

"Yeah, 'cause people usually cry over nothin' for no reason." Osamu reached out and put a hand on Atsumu's shoulder. Firm. Solid. "Come on. Spill it."

Atsumu shuddered. For a moment, Osamu thought he'd push him away. But then his twin let out a shaky breath, and his shoulders relaxed just a fraction.

"I'm tired," Atsumu said, voice cracking. "I'm just... so damn tired, Osamu."

"Tired from practice? We all are."

"No." Atsumu shook his head, finally lifting his face. His eyes were glassy, tears still falling, silent and steady. "Tired of tryin' to be perfect. Tired of everyone expectin' me to be the best. Tired of lookin' in the mirror and seein' this... this face."

Osamu blinked. "Your face?"

"It's too soft," Atsumu said, almost angrily. "Every time I get mad, every time I try to look tough, it just doesn't work. People call me pretty. They always have. But I don't wanna be pretty, Osamu. I wanna be taken seriously. I wanna be feared on the court, not... not looked at like some delicate flower."

Osamu was quiet for a long moment. Then, before he could stop himself, a laugh escaped him. Not mocking—just pure disbelief.

"What the hell are you laughin' at?" Atsumu snapped, voice sharp with hurt.

"Nothin', nothin'." Osamu held up his hands, but he was still grinning. "It's just... you're really somethin', y'know that? You're the most annoyin', loudmouthed, cocky person I know, and you're sittin' here cryin' 'cause you're pretty?"

"It's not funny!"

"It's a little funny." Osamu's grin softened. He reached out and ruffled Atsumu's hair, ignoring the half-hearted swat. "Look, I get it. I do. People see what they wanna see. But you're still a menace on the court, okay? Nobody's worried about how pretty you look when you're settin' up a kill."

Atsumu sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "You're just sayin' that."

"I'm not. You're a pain in the ass, but you're a genius pain in the ass. And..." Osamu paused, tilting his head. "Y'know, you really are a pretty crier, though."

Atsumu's tears stopped abruptly. His eyes widened, and he stared at Osamu like he'd grown a second head. "What did you just say?"

"Pretty crier," Osamu repeated, unable to keep the smirk off his face. "Your eyes get all red and shiny, and your cheeks flush, and you look like one of those sad, wet kittens in a cartoon."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I really, really hate you."

But Atsumu's voice was losing its edge, and despite himself, a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shoved Osamu's shoulder, and Osamu shoved him back. For a moment, the tension broke.

Neither of them noticed the figure standing in the doorway.

Sakusa Kiyoomi had come back for his water bottle. He'd left it on the bench by the gym entrance—a stupid mistake, realized halfway to the station. Annoyed, he'd retraced his steps, shoes silent on the tile, mind already on the disinfectant wipes waiting at home.

He hadn't expected to walk in on this.

He'd heard voices first, muffled and intimate, and almost turned around. But then he caught Atsumu's name, and something made him pause. Just curiosity, he told himself. Just the strange impulse to understand why the loud, infuriating setter had been so quiet all practice.

And then he saw him.

Atsumu on the floor, face tear-streaked, eyes swollen and red. Hair a mess, stuck to his forehead, cheeks blotchy from crying. He looked vulnerable. Fragile. Nothing like the arrogant setter who had a habit of invading Sakusa's personal space.

And he looked beautiful.

Sakusa's breath caught. The thought surprised him, unsettled him. He didn't think of people as beautiful. He thought of them as clean or unclean, tolerable or intolerable. But there was no other word for it. Atsumu, with his tear-stained face and trembling lips, was beautiful.

He must have made a sound—a shift of weight, a breath—because both twins turned at the same time.

Atsumu's expression crumbled. His face went pale, then flushed a deep, mortified red. He scrambled to his feet, turning away, trying to hide his face with his hands.

"Kiyoomi!" he yelped, voice cracking. "What—how long have you been standin' there?"

Sakusa didn't answer. He walked forward, steps measured, face unreadable. He stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the lingering shimmer of tears on Atsumu's lashes.

"I forgot my water bottle," Sakusa said. His voice was flat, but his eyes were fixed on Atsumu's face, tracing the lines of his cheeks, the redness of his nose.

"Well, you found it," Atsumu said, defensive. "So you can go now."

But Sakusa didn't move. He reached into his bag and pulled out a clean white handkerchief, folded into a perfect square. He held it out, fingers steady.

"Here."

Atsumu stared at it like it was a live snake. "What?"

"Your face is a mess. Wipe it."

Not a suggestion. A command, delivered in Sakusa's usual clipped tone. But there was something underneath it, almost gentle.

Atsumu hesitated, then took the handkerchief. His fingers brushed against Sakusa's, and he felt a jolt of warmth, unexpected and electric. He quickly pulled back, pressing the soft fabric to his cheeks.

"Thanks," he mumbled, barely audible.

Sakusa watched him for another moment. Then, very quietly, he said, "You look like an angel when you cry."

The words hung in the air, fragile and surreal. Atsumu froze, handkerchief pressed to his cheek, eyes wide. Osamu's jaw dropped, and he stared at Sakusa like he'd just declared he was quitting volleyball to become a ballet dancer.

"What," Atsumu said. Not a question. A statement of utter disbelief.

Sakusa's ears were turning red. He cleared his throat, took a step back, then another. "I'm going now."

He turned and walked away, strides long and quick, leaving Atsumu standing there, handkerchief in hand, his face burning like wildfire.

The locker room was silent for a long, disbelieving moment. Then Osamu let out a low whistle.

"Well," he said, dripping with amusement. "Looks like someone's got a crush."

"Shut up," Atsumu hissed. But he was still holding the handkerchief, fingers gripping it like a lifeline. And despite the heat flooding his face, despite the embarrassment and confusion, he felt a flutter of something else. Warm and strange and terrifying.

He didn't know what to do with it.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He shoved the handkerchief into his pocket, grabbed his bag, and walked out of the locker room without looking back.

The walk home was a blur of streetlights and muffled silence. Osamu kept glancing at him, a smirk playing on his lips, but mercifully refrained from talking about what happened. Instead, he filled the air with pointless chatter—dinner, practice tomorrow, some stupid video he'd seen online. Atsumu nodded along, responses automatic, mind elsewhere.

When they reached the familiar fork in the road where they always parted, Osamu stopped.

"You okay?" His voice lost its teasing edge.

Atsumu shrugged. "I don't know."

Osamu studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You will be." He punched Atsumu's shoulder lightly, brotherly affection. "And hey, for what it's worth, I think Sakusa's right. You're prettier when you smile."

"Osamu, I swear to god—"

But Osamu was already walking away, laughing.

Atsumu stood there, watching his twin's back disappear into the night. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. White and soft, with a small embroidered initial at the corner—a clean, elegant letter S.

He pressed it to his nose, breathing in the faint scent of detergent. Sterile, like Sakusa. Like someone who kept himself at a distance, who never let anyone close.

And yet, he'd called Atsumu an angel.

Atsumu didn't go to sleep that night. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the handkerchief clutched in his hand. He replayed the moment over and over—Sakusa's voice, his words, the quiet sincerity in his dark eyes. Every time, his stomach flipped.

He didn't understand. He didn't want to understand. Easier to pretend it hadn't happened, to file it away as a bizarre one-time thing.

But when he finally drifted off, the handkerchief was still pressed against his cheek.

The next day at school was agonizing.

Every time Atsumu heard footsteps approaching from behind, every time he caught a glimpse of dark curly hair out of the corner of his eye, his heart lurched into his throat. He found himself scanning the hallways, searching without wanting to be caught searching. A mess, and he knew it.

Osamu didn't help. At lunch, he slid onto the bench across from Atsumu and said, in an overly loud voice, "So, have you seen your angel today?"

Atsumu threw a bread roll at his head.

By the time the final bell rang, Atsumu was exhausted. He trudged back to his classroom to grab his bag, already dreading the walk to the gym. He just wanted to play volleyball, to lose himself in the feel of the ball and the rhythm of the game. He didn't want to think about handkerchiefs or angels or the way Sakusa's voice had dropped to a whisper.

He reached his desk and stopped.

There was a small piece of paper on it, folded in half, with his name written on the outside in neat, precise handwriting. He knew who it was from before he even picked it up.

His hands trembled as he unfolded it. The note inside read:

You're prettier when you smile. — S

Atsumu's breath caught. He read the words three times, four times, heart pounding so loudly he was sure the whole class could hear. He felt his face flush, heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

He looked around, half-expecting Sakusa to be lurking in a corner, but the classroom was empty. Just him and the note.

He pressed it to his chest, feeling that warm flutter. Ridiculous. Utterly, completely ridiculous. Sakusa Kiyoomi, the cold, germophobic, perpetually annoyed setter, had called him pretty. Twice.

Atsumu folded the note carefully, exactly the way it had been folded, and tucked it into the same pocket as the handkerchief. He smiled—a small, shy, completely un-Atsumu-like smile—and walked out of the classroom.

He decided he would thank Sakusa tomorrow. Properly.

But first, he needed to figure out what to say.