No More Pretend

The evening air in the Inarizaki gymnasium smelled like sweat, liniment, and that heavy, humid feeling just before rain. Practice was winding down—a few guys still running drills, others sprawled on the floor like they'd been dropped from a great height, and the constant clatter of volleyballs being thrown into carts.

Kita Shinsuke stood near the net, toweling the back of his neck with the same careful precision he used for everything. Back straight. Face blank. He'd just finished counting balls and checking the nets when two shadows fell over him.

"Oi, Kita-san." Ginjima's arm landed heavy on his shoulders, grin easy but eyes sharp with mischief. "You work too hard. When's the last time you even looked at a person romantically?"

Aran appeared on his other side, arms crossed, that knowing smirk in place. "Don't tell me you've been saving yourself for the national trophy."

Kita's jaw tightened. Barely. "My personal life isn't locker room material."

But Ginjima never knew when to quit, especially after a good practice when the adrenaline was still buzzing and his filter had taken a vacation. "Come on, Captain. You're what—eighteen? Never been on a date? Never even held hands?" He made an exaggerated pout. "That's sad. Really sad."

Aran snorted. "I bet he'd be terrible at it anyway. Too stiff. Too proper. Can you imagine Kita Shinsuke being good in bed?" He wagged his eyebrows. "Probably follows a strict schedule. Five minutes of foreplay, ten minutes of—"

"That's enough." Kita's voice cut through like a blade. Sharp. Final. His ears were red—not from embarrassment, but from something closer to anger. "You two are acting like children."

Ginjima and Aran exchanged a look. Smirks widened.

"Hit a nerve, did we?" Ginjima teased. "Look, we're just saying, if you ever did get a lover, we'd be shocked. You're too married to volleyball. And frankly, too uptight."

"I'm not uptight."

"You're wearing your practice jersey tucked into your shorts."

"That's called discipline."

"That's called being a grandpa in a teenager's body," Aran said, and Ginjima burst out laughing.

Kita's hand tightened on the towel. He was a man of few words, of measured actions, of calm deliberation. But pride—deep, stubborn, quiet pride—ran through everything he did. And these two were yanking on it like a rope.

"I have a lover," Kita said.

Flat. Final. So calm that for a second, Ginjima and Aran just stared.

Then Ginjima doubled over, howling. "What? No way. No way. Kita-san, you can't lie to save your life."

"I'm not lying."

"Prove it," Aran said, smirk back in full force. "If you really have a lover, bring them here. Right now. Let's see them."

Kita's heart didn't speed up. His face didn't change. But somewhere inside, a small, panicked animal started clawing at the walls of his composure. He'd walked right into this with both feet.

His gaze swept the gym. First years near the lockers. Third years by the score table. Suna on the floor, stretching his long limbs like a cat who just finished a meal. Osamu beside him, half-asleep, leaning against the wall.

And Atsumu Miya standing at the water station, taking slow sips from his bottle, golden eyes half-lidded and distant. His practice jersey was untucked. His hair was a mess. He looked like he'd just finished giving the performance of a lifetime—which, knowing Atsumu, he probably had.

Kita made a decision.

Later, he'd blame it on exhaustion. On the teasing. On the irrational heat that had flooded his ears and made him say something so stupid. But right then, he walked across the gym floor, steady and sure, and stopped in front of Atsumu Miya.

Atsumu looked up, startled. "Kita-san? Somethin' wrong with the water?"

Kita didn't answer. He put his arm around Atsumu's shoulders—a gesture so foreign his own muscles protested—and leaned in close. His lips brushed Atsumu's ear. "Atsumu. I need you to play along. Please. Just for a few minutes."

Atsumu's eyebrows shot up. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. For one rare, beautiful moment, the setter was completely speechless.

Then a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."

Before Kita could clarify what "fun" meant, Atsumu turned to face him fully, and his voice—loud, clear, carrying across the whole gym—rang out.

"Sweetheart, I was wonderin' when you'd come over."

The gym went silent.

Every head turned. Every conversation died. Even Suna stopped stretching, eyes snapping open with sharp, predatory interest.

Kita's brain short-circuited. Sweetheart? They hadn't discussed pet names. They hadn't discussed anything. But before he could respond, Atsumu's hand came up to cup his cheek, and the setter leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Not a chaste kiss. Not a polite kiss. A kiss meant to be seen, heard, remembered. Soft at first, then firmer, Atsumu's lips moving against his with practiced confidence. Kita stood frozen, hands suspended awkwardly in the air, his whole body locked in pure shock.

When Atsumu pulled back, there was a faint smear of pink on Kita's lips.

Atsumu's lip balm. The one he used religiously, the one that left a matte, rosy stain on everything it touched. And now it was on Kita's mouth.

"That's more like it," Atsumu murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear. Then he leaned in again, this time pressing a trail of kisses along Kita's jaw, down his neck, leaving a deliberate, visible trail of pink marks in his wake.

Kita's breath hitched. His hands found Atsumu's shoulders—not to push him away, but to steady himself. "Atsumu." Barely a whisper.

"Shh," Atsumu said against his skin. "I got this."

He pulled back just enough to look at Ginjima and Aran, who were frozen, jaws hanging open. Atsumu's golden eyes gleamed with theatrical triumph.

"You were sayin' somethin' about our captain bein' bad in bed?" His voice dripped with mock innocence. "Funny. That's not what I remember from last night."

Ginjima's face went through an impressive spectrum of colors. "I—you—what—"

Atsumu ignored him. He took Kita's hand—limp, unresisting—and placed it firmly on his own backside. Right on the curve of his hip, where the waistband of his shorts met the swell of his ass.

"Go on, sweetheart," Atsumu said, winking. "Don't be shy."

Kita's face went scarlet. His hand was on Atsumu Miya's ass. His hand. On Atsumu Miya's ass. In front of the entire volleyball team.

And then Atsumu moaned.

Small. Breathy. Meant to carry just enough to reach their audience. A soft ahh that suggested pleasure, intimacy, and—most importantly—that Kita Shinsuke knew exactly what he was doing.

Suna's phone was out. Osamu was no longer asleep; he was staring at his twin with an expression of profound horror and fascination. The first years had formed a small huddle, whispering frantically. Even the coach, who'd been reviewing notes in his office, poked his head out to see what the commotion was about.

Atsumu pulled back again, face flushed, lips parted, expression one of utter, convincing adoration. He brought his thumb to Kita's lower lip and gently wiped away a smear of pink balm.

"There," he said softly. "Now everyone knows you're taken."

Kita's ears were burning. His hand was still on Atsumu's ass, and he had no idea how to remove it without looking suspicious. His mind—usually so ordered, so systematic—was a chaotic mess of static and white noise.

But his pride, that stubborn, deep-rooted pride, was intact. Ginjima and Aran were no longer smirking. They were staring with wide eyes and closed mouths, their earlier teasing thoroughly dismantled.

"Any more questions?" Kita asked, voice impressively steady.

Ginjima shook his head slowly, like a man witnessing a miracle. "No, Captain. No questions."

"Good." Kita turned back to Atsumu, and for a split second, their eyes met. Atsumu's held something—amusement, yes, but also warmth. A silent understanding passed between them.

"Thank you," Kita whispered.

"Anytime," Atsumu whispered back. Then, louder: "Same time tomorrow, sweetheart? I'll bring the good lip balm."

Suna snorted. Osamu buried his face in his hands. The first years erupted into hushed, excited chatter.

And Kita Shinsuke, captain of the Inarizaki boys' volleyball team, walked back to the locker room with the distinct, lingering sensation of Atsumu Miya's lips on his skin and the certain knowledge that his life would never be the same.

---

Practice ended, and the gymnasium emptied slowly, like students leaving a party they didn't want to end. The rumors had already started—through text messages, through whispered conversations, through the kind of word-of-mouth that turned a single event into legend within hours.

Kita sat on a bench outside the locker room, his practice bag beside him, watching the last traces of sunset bleed across the sky. He'd changed into his uniform, hair neat, collar straight, but the pink marks on his neck were still visible. He hadn't tried to wash them off. He wasn't sure why.

Footsteps approached. Light. Confident. Unhurried.

"Mind if I sit?"

Kita looked up. Atsumu stood there, hair damp from a quick shower, bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired but pleased, like a cat that had successfully knocked a glass off a table and was now basking in the aftermath.

"I was going to thank you," Kita said, sliding over to make room.

Atsumu sat down, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "You already did."

"Then I'll say it again. Thank you." Quiet. Sincere. "You didn't have to do that. I shouldn't have asked. It was an impulse. A foolish one."

"Nah, it was fun." Grinning. "Ginjima's face was priceless. Aran looked like he swallowed a bee. I'm gonna treasure that memory forever."

Kita allowed himself a small, tired smile. "Still. It was a lie. And I don't like lies."

"Is it really a lie, though?" Atsumu turned to look at him, golden eyes unreadable in the fading light. "I mean, we kissed. You touched my ass. Pretty sure that counts as something."

Kita's ears went red again. "That was for show."

"Was it?" Atsumu's voice was lighter now, teasing, but there was an edge to it that Kita couldn't quite identify. "Because I don't usually let just anyone put their hand on my ass, Kita-san. That's a privilege."

"I know. I'm sorry. I—"

"I'm not complaining."

The words hung in the air between them. Fragile. Heavy. Kita stared at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. Atsumu stared at the side of his face, breath even, posture relaxed.

"Atsumu." Kita finally said. "The team will talk. You know that."

"Let 'em."

"They'll think we're together."

"Let 'em."

"They'll ask questions. They'll want details."

Atsumu leaned back on his hands, looking up at the darkening sky. "So we give 'em details. We make up a whole story. How we met, our first date, your favorite position—"

"Atsumu."

"What? I'm being practical." He turned his head, a sly smile curling his lips. "Unless you'd rather come up with a story that ends with 'and then we broke up because Kita-san was too embarrassed to hold my hand in public.'"

Kita was quiet for a long moment. The cicadas were starting to sing, their chorus rising and falling like a heartbeat.

"We'd have to be consistent," he said at last. "If we're going to maintain this... fiction."

Atsumu's smile softened, just a fraction. "I'm good at following orders, Captain."

"You're terrible at following orders."

"Fine. I'm good at following your orders."

Kita looked at him then. Really looked. Atsumu Miya, for all his bravado and dramatics, was watching him with an openness that was rare and disarming. No mockery in his eyes. No hidden joke. Just a simple, earnest question: Do you trust me?

"Yes," Kita said quietly.

Atsumu tilted his head. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"Huh." Atsumu's grin returned, wider this time. "Maybe you do know me."

They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the stars emerge one by one. Then Atsumu stood, stretching his arms above his head with a groan.

"Same time tomorrow? I'll bring the lip balm. And maybe some matching outfits."

"Don't push your luck."

"No promises."

Kita watched him walk away, bag bouncing against his back, steps light and carefree. And despite himself, despite the awkwardness and the absurdity of it all, Kita felt something warm settle in his chest.

It was going to be a long semester.

---

The next morning, the rumors were already in full bloom.

Kita walked into the gymnasium at 6:45 AM, as always, and was greeted by a wave of knowing looks and poorly concealed whispers. The first years scrambled to bow. The second years exchanged glances. And Suna Rintarou, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand, looked up with an expression of pure, unholy delight.

"Good morning, Kita-san." His voice dripped with faux politeness. "I see you're still wearing Atsumu's love marks."

Kita's hand flew to his neck. The pink stains were still there. He'd forgotten to wash them off.

"I was going to—"

"Don't bother." Suna was already typing. "I already took pictures. For posterity."

"Atsumu is going to hear about this."

"Atsumu already saw them. He took selfies."

Of course he did.

Morning practice was a gauntlet of questions, jokes, and side-eyes. Ginjima and Aran, thoroughly chastened, avoided Kita's gaze entirely. Osamu, on the other hand, kept shooting his twin suspicious looks, as if trying to determine whether this was some elaborate prank.

Atsumu played his role beautifully. Called Kita "sweetheart" at every opportunity. Brought him water during breaks. Draped himself over Kita's shoulders during stretches, whispering comments that made Kita's ears burn and the rest of the team lean in, desperate to hear.

By lunch, the whole school knew.

By dinner, they were the talk of the athletic department.

And by the end of the week, Kita Shinsuke and Atsumu Miya were officially Inarizaki's "it couple."

---

It became a routine.

Every morning, Atsumu waited for Kita outside the gym with a bottle of water and a fresh application of lip balm. Every evening after practice, they walked to the train station together, shoulders brushing, hands occasionally—accidentally—touching.

The team stopped asking questions after the first week. They just accepted it. Suna made a group chat called "The Captain and His Chaos" and sent daily updates on their "relationship milestones." Osamu started making them bento boxes, claiming it was easier than watching his brother "pine like a lovesick puppy."

"I don't pine," Atsumu protested.

"You literally wrote Kita-san's name on your volleyball."

"That was—I was practicing my signature."

"You signed your own name over it."

Atsumu had no response to that.

The fake relationship, as it turned out, wasn't entirely fake anymore. Not really. Somewhere between the stolen glances and the staged kisses, something real had started to grow. Kita found himself looking forward to Atsumu's morning greeting. Atsumu found himself practicing his serves a little harder when Kita was watching.

They had a routine. They had a rhythm. And slowly, imperceptibly, they'd begun to fall into something neither of them had planned for.

---

It was a Friday evening, three weeks after the initial incident. Practice had ended early, and most of the team had already left. Kita was in the equipment room, organizing the volleyball carts, when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Kita-san."

He turned. Atsumu stood in the doorway, hair tousled, practice jersey hanging loose over his shoulders. He looked nervous—a rare expression for someone usually so confident.

"Atsumu. Did you forget something?"

"No, I..." Atsumu stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His hands were fidgeting at his sides. "I wanted to ask you somethin'."

Kita set down the volleyball he was holding. "Go ahead."

"This whole thing. The fake relationship. The kissing. The hand-holding." Atsumu's voice was uncharacteristically quiet. "It's been... fun. More than fun, actually. And I was wonderin' if maybe..."

He trailed off, swallowing hard. Kita waited, patient, his heart beating a steady rhythm.

"I was wonderin' if maybe we could stop pretendin'."

The words hung in the air. Kita's breath caught.

"What do you mean?"

Atsumu stepped closer, close enough that Kita could see the faint flutter of his pulse at his throat. "I mean, I don't want to pretend anymore. I want it to be real." He reached out, fingers brushing against Kita's hand. "I want you to be real."

Kita looked down at their hands—Atsumu's fingers intertwined with his, warm and hesitant. He thought about the morning greetings, the stolen kisses, the way Atsumu's laughter filled the gym like sunlight. The quiet walks to the station. The shared silences. The feeling of coming home.

"I don't want to pretend either," Kita said softly.

Atsumu's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Really."

And then Atsumu kissed him—not for show, not for the team, not for anyone but themselves. His lips were soft, tasted like cherry lip balm, and Kita's hand came up to cup his cheek, steady and sure.

When they pulled apart, Atsumu was grinning like an idiot.

"So," he said, breathless. "Does this mean I can finally stop calling you 'sweetheart' in public?"

"Absolutely not. It's grown on me."

"Good. Because I already ordered matching jerseys."

Kita sighed, but he was smiling. "Of course you did."

They walked out of the equipment room together, hand in hand, and when they passed the gym window, they saw Suna's silhouette, phone raised, capturing the moment.

Atsumu gave a thumbs-up. Suna gave one back.

Somewhere in the distance, Osamu's voice rang out: "I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. I'M MAKING EXTRA ONIGIRI FOR THE WEDDING."

And Kita Shinsuke, for the first time in a long time, let himself laugh.