The Last One Out

The locker room lights buzzed like they always did—that low hum that you stop noticing after a while. The air smelled like chlorine and soap, with a hint of sweat that hadn't quite faded. A few bags were scattered on the floor. A water bottle someone forgot. Osamu, Suna, and Aran sat on the bench, not really talking.

Practice ended twenty minutes ago. Everyone else had already peeled out, phones glowing, jackets half-on. But they stayed. Because Atsumu was still in the showers. And Atsumu was always the last one out.

“Half an hour,” Suna said, not looking up from his phone. He was sprawled against the lockers, scrolling like he'd accepted this as just part of life.

“It's the hair,” Osamu muttered. He was slouched, elbows on his knees, phone dangling loose. He didn't sound mad—just tired in that soft, familiar way. “And the face stuff.”

“The what?” Aran asked. He still had a towel around his neck, the only one who'd actually rinsed off quick.

“The 'skin care routine,'” Suna said, making air quotes. “Watches videos. Exfoliate. Tone. Moisturize. Then serum. Then primer. Then—”

“I get it,” Aran said, smiling a little. “He takes his time.”

“He takes everyone's time,” Osamu said.

But none of them moved. Because that was just how it worked—Atsumu could be exhausting, loud, a whole storm of emotions, but they waited. They always waited.

The shower cut off. A few seconds of quiet, then the door swung open.

And the room went still.

Atsumu stepped out like he'd walked off a movie set. The lights caught the sequins on this long pale blue dress—thousands of tiny stars scattered across the fabric. His hair wasn't spiky anymore. It was soft, curled, falling past his shoulders with a few pins holding it in place. His face was done: smooth foundation, smoky eyes, sharp eyeliner, lips glossed pink. Highlighted cheekbones. He looked ready for a red carpet, not a high school locker room.

And he looked miserable.

He was shoving stuff into his bag, frantic. A tube of lipstick rolled off the bench and hit the floor. He didn't pick it up.

“Atsumu?” Aran's voice was careful. He stepped forward. “You heading somewhere?”

Atsumu's hands stopped mid-motion. He didn't look up. His jaw tightened.

Osamu raised his head slowly, phone lowering. He saw the dress, the makeup, the tension in his brother's shoulders. Something cold settled in his chest.

“Tsumu,” he said, quiet. “What's going on?”

Atsumu took a breath. It shook on the way in, stuttered out. He finally looked up—eyes glassy, mascara perfect but the hurt underneath impossible to miss.

“I gotta go,” he said, voice too bright. Fake bright. The kind that's just glass over a hole. “Audition. For The Voice Kids.”

Silence. Thick enough to choke on.

Suna put his phone down. Aran's towel fell from his neck. Osamu stood up.

“You're what?” Osamu said.

“I'm auditioning,” Atsumu repeated, faster now, words tumbling. “It's tonight. Last callback. I been practicin' for weeks, I just—I didn't wanna say anythin' until I had a shot. And I do. They gave me a slot. I gotta be there in forty.”

He zipped his bag with a sharp jerk. Sequins flickered.

“So I gotta go.”

“Wait,” Aran said, stepping into his path. Not blocking—just present. Steady. “You're going to sing?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu's voice cracked. He swallowed. “'One Last Time.' By Ariana Grande.”

The song title hung there like smoke.

Osamu's face flickered—confusion, then recognition, then something sharp and protective. He knew what that song was about. Everyone who'd heard Atsumu's playlist for the past month knew. It was a goodbye. A desperate, aching goodbye to someone who'd already walked away.

And that someone had a name.

Kita Shinsuke.

Osamu's hands curled into fists. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Atsumu saw it. He flinched, just barely, and looked away.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know what you're thinkin'. But I gotta do this. I gotta—I gotta get it out. And maybe if I sing it, I can leave it behind.”

“Leave it behind?” Osamu's voice cut sharp. “He left you. Cheated on you. And you're gonna go sing a breakup song on national TV like it's closure?”

“Osamu,” Suna said, low and warning.

“No.” Osamu shook his head. “I'm not pretending this is healthy. You've been a wreck for weeks, Tsumu. Crying in your room. Skipping meals. You think we didn't notice?”

Atsumu's face crumpled, just for a second. He bit his lip—gloss smudged. “I know you noticed. I know you all did. But this is what I need. Please.”

That word hung in the air, fragile as glass.

Aran stepped closer, put a hand on Atsumu's shoulder. “We'll go with you.”

Atsumu blinked. “What?”

“You heard him,” Suna said, pocketing his phone. “We're coming. Someone's gotta film it.”

“No, you don't have to—”

“Tsumu.” Aran's voice was warm, firm. “We're your team. On and off the court. You're not doing this alone.”

Atsumu's eyes welled up. He blinked fast, trying not to ruin his makeup. His bottom lip quivered. For a moment, he couldn't speak. Then he nodded, small and tight.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

They moved as a unit. Osamu grabbed his jacket, jaw tight, but didn't argue. Suna slung an arm around Atsumu's shoulders, careful of the curls. Aran led the way, texting the others that practice was done.

The night air hit them outside—cool and soft, sky deep velvet purple. Streetlights cast golden pools on the pavement. Atsumu's heels—strappy silver things that made him two inches taller—clicked as they walked to the car.

The drive was mostly quiet. Suna played something instrumental. Aran drove, glancing in the rearview at Atsumu, who stared out the window. Osamu sat beside him, arms crossed, not looking at him.

But after a few minutes, Osamu's hand reached out and rested on the seat between them, palm open. An offering.

Atsumu looked at it. Then slowly placed his own hand on top. His fingers were cold. Osamu didn't say anything, but he curled his fingers around his brother's and held on.

The venue was a converted theater downtown, marquee lights glowing warm. Cars lined the street. A small crowd of contestants and families milled outside, nervous chatter filling the air. Atsumu's hands started shaking as they pulled into the parking lot.

“I can't do this,” he breathed.

“Yes you can,” Suna said from the front seat. “You're Atsumu Miya. You've served aces against the best setters in the country. This is just a song.”

“It's not just a song,” Atsumu whispered.

Aran turned off the engine. Silence stretched.

“We know,” Aran said gently. “That's why we're here.”

They walked in together. Atsumu's dress shimmered under the theater lights—heads turned. He was beautiful, almost otherworldly, but his eyes were fixed on the stage. He signed in, got his number pinned to his dress, and was directed to the green room.

The green room was crowded. Kids practicing scales, humming, fidgeting. Atsumu found a corner and sat down, knees bouncing. Osamu stood beside him like a guard. Suna leaned against the wall. Aran crouched in front of Atsumu, meeting his eyes.

“Remember what Coach says about pressure?” Aran said.

Atsumu let out a shaky laugh. “Breathe. Let it flow through you. Don't fight the moment.”

“Exactly. So don't fight it. Sing it like you mean it. They'll feel it.”

Atsumu nodded, closed his eyes. Took a slow breath. Then another. The trembling in his hands eased, just a fraction.

A production assistant called his number. “Miya Atsumu? You're up next.”

The walk to the stage felt endless. The corridor was dim, lined with pipes and cables. Muffled applause from the previous contestant faded. Atsumu's heels clicked rhythmically. The stage manager gave him a quick smile.

“Whenever you're ready, just walk to the center. The judges will ask you a few questions. Then you sing. Got it?”

Atsumu nodded. His mouth was dry.

He stepped into the wings. The stage lights were bright, warm, golden. He could see the silhouettes of three judges behind the long table. The audience was a dark sea of faces.

He walked to the center. Sequins caught the light and scattered like sparks. He could hear whispers.

One of the judges—a woman with kind eyes and silver hair—leaned forward. “What's your name?”

“Atsumu. Miya Atsumu.” His voice came out steadier than he expected.

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

“'One Last Time.' By Ariana Grande.”

“Beautiful song. Why did you choose it?”

The question hit him like a wave. He had prepared an answer—something about loving the melody, the emotion in the vocals. But standing there, lights hot on his skin, Kita's face flashing behind his eyes, the lie died in his throat.

“Because,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Because I need to let someone go. And I don't know how else to do it.”

The silence in the theater was alive. The judge nodded slowly, expression softening. “Then let the music help you. Whenever you're ready.”

Atsumu closed his eyes. He heard the first piano notes—soft, tentative, like the start of a confession.

And then he began to sing.

His voice wasn't polished. Raw, rough at the edges, but it carried everything he'd been holding inside. The first verse came out quiet, almost fragile—a whisper of regret. He sang about breaking, about pieces left behind, about the ache of knowing someone had already checked out.

The audience was still. The judges didn't move.

As the chorus approached, Atsumu's voice grew stronger, filled with pain he'd tried so hard to bury. He sang the words like they were the only things keeping him upright.

“I know I shouldn't fight it / At least I'm being honest / Feel the love and feel the pain / One last time…”

He remembered the first time Kita kissed him—soft and careful, like he was something precious. He remembered the slow unraveling: texts unanswered, dinners that turned into meetings he wasn't invited to, the excuse of “late practice” that became every night. He remembered the day he found out. How Osamu held him while he sobbed. How Suna silently made him tea. How Aran told him, “You deserve better.”

But the heart doesn't listen to reason.

The bridge hit. Atsumu's voice broke open. He wasn't performing anymore. He was crying—tears streaming, ruining the careful makeup. He didn't care. He sang the final chorus like a plea, like a prayer, like a goodbye he never got to say.

“So one last time / I need to be the one who takes you home…”

The last note hung, trembling, and then faded.

Silence.

Then applause. Not polite—genuine, thunderous. The silver-haired judge was dabbing at her eyes. Another judge nodded slowly, hand over his heart.

Atsumu stood there, chest heaving, tears still falling. The stage lights blurred into a warm haze.

He bowed, because he didn't know what else to do. Applause continued. He turned to walk off stage, legs shaking so badly he thought he might fall.

And then he saw him.

Kita stood in the wings, just behind the curtain. School uniform, hair slightly disheveled, eyes red-rimmed. Looked like he hadn't slept in days.

Atsumu stopped dead.

Kita stepped forward, hand reaching out. “Atsumu.”

The sound of his name in that familiar voice sent a shock through him. He froze.

Behind him, Osamu's sharp intake of breath. Suna's curse under his breath. Aran's low, “Kita.”

Kita's gaze didn't leave Atsumu's. “I saw the whole thing,” he said, voice thick. “Your audition. Your song. I've been waiting out here. Had to see you.”

“You had to see me?” Atsumu's voice was small, cracked, hollow. “Where were you when I needed you last month? Where were you when you were—when you—”

He couldn't finish. The tears came again.

“I'm sorry,” Kita said, words tumbling like a confession. “I know sorry isn't enough. I know I broke your trust. I hurt you. But I never stopped caring. I made a terrible mistake. I was scared. Didn't know how to talk to you about the distance I felt, so I did something unforgivable. But I want to fix it. If you'll let me.”

Osamu stepped forward, face a storm. “You don't get to come back now. Not after what you did. Not after you made him cry for weeks.”

“Osamu,” Suna said, grabbing his arm.

“No,” Osamu said, pulling free. Fists clenched. “He doesn't get to walk in after a pretty song and pretend everything's okay.”

Kita didn't flinch. He held Osamu's gaze. “I know I don't deserve forgiveness. But I'm not here because of the song. I've been trying to reach him for days. He wasn't answering. I found out about the audition through the grapevine. I came because I owe him the truth. And because I love him.”

The words hung heavy and sharp.

Osamu's fist came up.

“Stop.”

Atsumu's voice cut through. He stepped between his brother and Kita, dress shimmering, makeup ruined, eyes raw. He placed a hand on Osamu's chest—gentle but firm.

“Don't,” he said, softer. “Please.”

Osamu's arm trembled. Jaw tight. “Tsumu—”

“I know you're tryin' to protect me.” Atsumu's voice was fragile but steady. “And I love you for it. I love you more than I can say. But this is my choice.”

He turned to face Kita. The two of them stood there, stage lights spilling around them, distant murmur of the audience still audible from the other side of the curtain.

“I don't know if I can trust you again,” Atsumu said. “I don't know if this will work. But I also know that I've been holding on to this pain like a lifeline, and I'm tired. I'm so tired of carryin' it alone. If you really want to try—if you mean what you said—then I'm willin' to start from the beginnin'. Slow. Honest. No more secrets.”

Kita's eyes glistened. He nodded. “Slow. Honest. No secrets.”

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. And then, slowly, he took Kita's hand.

Osamu made a sound of frustration, but Aran placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let him go. He knows what he's doing.”

Osamu didn't look convinced. But he didn't move to stop them.

Atsumu glanced back at his team, at his brother whose eyes were furious and worried and loving all at once. He gave a small, wobbly smile.

“I'll text you when I get home,” he said.

“You better,” Osamu muttered.

Suna sighed. “We'll wait for a bit. But if he makes you cry again, we're staging an intervention.”

“Seconded,” Aran said.

Atsumu laughed—a wet, broken sound, but genuine. He squeezed Kita's hand. Then he walked away, out of the theater wings, into the darkened hallway, Kita's fingers laced with his.

The team watched him go.

“He's gonna get hurt again,” Osamu said, voice low.

“Maybe,” Aran said. “But maybe not. He has to find out for himself.”

Suna shoved his hands in his pockets. “Either way, we'll be here. That's what we do.”

The lights above hummed. The distant sound of the next contestant starting their song drifted through the walls. And somewhere outside, under a sky still soft with night, Atsumu Miya began the slow, uncertain work of healing, one step at a time.