The Weight of Secrets

The Karasuno gym smelled like rubber mats, old sweat, and that thin winter air sneaking through the cracked windows. Last day of school before spring break. Someone—probably Sugawara—had convinced the Miyagi volleyball clubs to do something social for once. No practices, no drills. Just a bunch of teenagers sprawled on the hardwood floor with a borrowed projector and a laptop that barely worked.

Atsumu Miya sat cross-legged near the back, shoulder pressed against Aran Ojiro’s arm. He’d said yes because “it’d be rude not to show up when the Karasuno guys are hostin’,” but really, he just wanted an excuse to lounge next to his boyfriend in a room full of people who didn’t know they were together. Yet. Keeping it a secret was getting harder—especially when Aran’s hand kept brushing his thigh every time someone made a joke.

“This is the most boring thing I’ve ever sat through,” Suna Rintarou said from somewhere to the left, voice flat as a pancake. He was lying on his back, phone held above his face. “We’re watching volleyball highlights from last season. We played in those matches.”

“It’s called bonding, Suna,” Ginjima replied, tossing a handful of popcorn at him. “Try it.”

“I’d rather bond with a concrete wall.”

Atsumu snorted, but his focus was on the screen. The projector cast a pale rectangle on the white wall, showing a compilation of spikes and blocks set to generic upbeat music. Fine. Safe. Boring, like Suna said—but safe.

Then Kageyama Tobio—who’d been handed the laptop by an enthusiastic Hinata—mumbled something about “finding karaoke videos” and started clicking through YouTube. The volleyball highlights disappeared, replaced by a search bar. Hinata leaned over his shoulder, bouncing on his heels.

“Type in ‘Karasuno karaoke’! No, wait—‘best volleyball karaoke fails’!”

“Don’t type anything,” Sugawara said, but too late.

A list of results appeared. Kageyama scrolled past a few, his finger hovering over a thumbnail that made Atsumu’s stomach drop before his brain even caught up.

Turquoise sparkles. A tiny sequined bra. A short skirt. A stage with garish pink lights.

And a boy. Eleven years old, maybe. Dark hair, sharp eyes, a forced smile that showed too many teeth. Holding a microphone, one hand on his hip, posed like he was about to strut across the stage. The title underneath read: “Lollipop Angels – Seductress Performance (Osaka Live)”

Atsumu went still.

“What’s that?” Hinata asked, pointing. “Click it!”

“No—” Atsumu’s voice came out rough, but the Karasuno first-years drowned it out with a chorus of “yeah, click it!”

Kageyama clicked.

The video loaded. A tinny pop beat filled the gymnasium. The boy on screen—Atsumu, unmistakably Atsumu, younger and smaller and wearing glitter that looked cheap under the stage lights—shimmied across the stage, mouthing lyrics he clearly didn’t understand. The crowd was a blur of silhouettes, mostly men, hooting and whistling as the little girl beside him twirled a plastic lollipop.

Atsumu felt like the floor had dropped out.

He’d buried this. Locked it in a rusted box at the back of his mind, thrown away the key. Never told anyone. Not Osamu. Not his parents. Definitely not Aran. It was a ghost from a life he’d been forced into—a few months when his aunt thought it’d be “cute” to put him in a children’s dance troupe that catered to adult audiences. And now it was playing on a projector in front of half the volleyball teams in Miyagi.

Laughter started to ripple through the room. Someone—a Seijoh second-year—let out a low whistle. “What the hell is that?”

“Is that Miya?” another voice asked, incredulous. “From Inarizaki?”

“Holy shit, he’s wearing a skirt.”

More laughter. Atsumu’s face burned. His hands shook, fists clenched in his lap. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The screen showed him doing a clumsy spin, the sequins catching the light, and the crowd on the video cheered. The real crowd in the gymnasium laughed harder.

“Turn it off,” someone said. Kita. His voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Turn it off now.”

Kageyama fumbled with the laptop, but the video kept playing. Only forty-five seconds long. Felt like an eternity.

Aran’s hand found Atsumu’s. Squeezed. Hard.

“It’s okay,” Aran murmured, low enough that only Atsumu could hear. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

But Atsumu didn’t feel okay. He felt like he was eleven again, standing on that stage, surrounded by men who looked at him like he was something to consume. Cheap. Dirty. Fraudulent.

The video ended.

Silence.

Then someone snickered. “Man, that’s wild. Miya, you were a little stripper or somethin’?”

The words hit like a slap. Atsumu was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. The remote landed on the floor with a clatter—he’d tried to grab it, tried to stop the screen from showing that image again—but it was already over. The damage was done.

He ran.

The gym doors slammed behind him as he burst into the cold March air. His sneakers slipped on the frost-covered pavement, but he didn’t stop. Rounded the corner of the building, past the storage shed, collapsed against the brick wall behind the gym. His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes burned.

He was crying. He hadn’t cried in years. Not since that summer he’d spent scrubbing glitter off his skin in the shower, vowing never to let anyone see that part of him again.

And now everyone had seen.

“Tsumu.”

Aran’s voice. Soft. Careful. The footsteps that followed were unhurried, steady, like he was walking toward a spooked animal.

“Go away,” Atsumu choked out, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Just—go back inside. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Aran stopped a few feet away, giving him space. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Atsumu let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh. “That was me. That was me, Aran. I was—I was a little—that’s what I used to do. My aunt thought it was a good idea. Said it was ‘character buildin’.’ I was eleven. I didn’t even know what a seductress was.”

Aran didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“I’ve never told anyone,” Atsumu continued, his voice cracking. “Not even ‘Samu. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. But it’s still there. Always gonna be there. And now everyone knows. They’re gonna look at me different. They’re gonna think I’m—I’m that.”

“That what?” Aran asked quietly.

Atsumu’s hands dropped. His face was blotchy, tears streaming down his cheeks. “A freak. A joke. Someone who let himself be used like that.”

Aran closed the distance then. Didn’t ask permission. Just wrapped his arms around Atsumu and pulled him tight against his chest. Atsumu froze for a second, then crumpled, burying his face in the crook of Aran’s neck. He was taller than Aran, but right now he felt small. So small.

“You were a kid,” Aran said, his voice rumbling against Atsumu’s ear. “You didn’t let anyone do anything. Adults made choices for you. That’s not your fault.”

“But the way I looked—the way I danced—”

“You were performing. You didn’t know what you were doing. You were just a little boy trying to make people happy.” Aran pulled back just enough to cup Atsumu’s face, thumbs wiping away the tears. “And that little boy grew up to be the best setter in Japan. He’s funny and loud and he drives me crazy sometimes, but I love him. I love every part of him. Even the parts he’s ashamed of.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.” Aran pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m proud of you, Atsumu. For surviving that. For still being here. For trusting me enough to let me see you like this.”

Atsumu let out a shuddering exhale. He leaned into Aran, letting the warmth seep through him. The brick wall was cold against his back, but Aran was solid and real and he smelled like fabric softener and the faint sweat from the gym.

“I feel like a fraud,” Atsumu whispered. “Like I’ve been lyin’ to everyone. Pretendin’ to be this confident, flashy setter when inside I’m still that scared kid on the stage.”

“You’re not a fraud,” Aran said firmly. “You’re a survivor. And that confidence? That flash? That’s you. You built that yourself, from scratch, after everything. That’s not fake. That’s strength.”

Atsumu sniffled. “You always know what to say.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.” Aran smiled, soft and warm. “I’ve been in love with you for two years. I’ve been paying attention.”

A weak laugh escaped Atsumu’s throat. “Sap.”

“Your sap.”

They stood there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync. The silence was broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the occasional caw of a crow. Atsumu’s tears had stopped, but his face was still wet. Aran used his sleeve to dab at the streaks.

“Should we go back?” Atsumu asked, his voice small.

“Only if you want to. We can leave. I’ll tell them we’re going.”

“No.” Atsumu straightened, squaring his shoulders. It was a shaky gesture, but it was there. “I’m not gonna hide from this. They already saw it. Might as well face ’em.”

Aran’s hand found his. Squeezed. “Together.”

“Together.”

They walked back around the gym, their footsteps crunching on the gravel. The door was still ajar, and as they pushed it open, the chatter inside fell silent.

Atsumu expected smirks. Judgement. Pity, maybe. Instead, he saw Kita standing in front of the group, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Osamu was beside him, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the floor. Suna and Ginjima were sitting up straight, for once not looking bored. The Karasuno and Seijoh players were scattered around, looking uncomfortable.

Kita stepped forward. “Atsumu.”

“Captain.”

“We watched the video. All of it.” Kita’s voice was calm, steady. “I want you to know that what I saw was a child doing what he was told. That’s all. Anyone who makes it into something else will answer to me.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. A few players nodded. Some looked at the floor.

Osamu walked over, his hands shoved in his pockets. He stopped in front of Atsumu, not quite meeting his eyes. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

“Because… because I was embarrassed, okay? I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

Osamu finally looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, though he hadn’t cried. “I don’t think less of you, you idiot. I think you went through somethin’ shitty and didn’t tell me. That makes me pissed, but not at you. At whoever put you in that.”

Atsumu’s throat tightened. “’Samu…”

“You’re my brother. Nothin’s gonna change that.” Osamu pulled him into a quick, rough hug that lasted only a second before letting go. “But you’re still an idiot for runnin’ off like that.”

A strangled laugh escaped Atsumu. “Yeah, well, you’re an idiot for havin’ a shitty reaction time on that drill last week, so we’re even.”

Osamu snorted. “Shut up.”

The tension in the room eased. Other players started to drift over. Hinata bounced up, his eyes wide. “Miya-san, that was really cool! You were, like, dancing and stuff! Can you teach me?”

“No,” Atsumu said flatly, but there was no bite in it.

Suna wandered over, hands in his pockets. “For the record, I think the sequins were a bold choice. Really made a statement.”

“Rintarou,” Ginjima warned.

“What? I’m being supportive.”

Atsumu shook his head, but a real smile was creeping onto his face. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet you keep me around.”

The group slowly relaxed into normalcy. Someone produced a bag of chips. Another person pulled up a different video—some cat compilation, this time. The projector was turned off, the laptop closed. The conversation shifted to spring break plans and practice schedules.

Atsumu found himself sitting on the floor again, Aran beside him. Osamu was across from them, arguing with Suna about the best kind of onigiri. Ginjima was trying to mediate. It was loud and chaotic and normal.

Aran’s hand found his under the blanket someone had thrown over the floor. “See? They don’t care.”

“They care,” Atsumu said quietly. “But not the way I thought. They care about me. That’s different.”

“That’s family.”

Atsumu leaned his head on Aran’s shoulder. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

The gathering wound down as the sky outside turned from lavender to inky blue. Players trickled out in groups, calling goodbyes and promises to meet up over break. The Karasuno team stayed behind to clean up, shooing everyone else out.

Atsumu and Aran were the last to leave. They stepped out into the crisp night air, the stars sharp and bright above the gym roof. The parking lot was empty except for a few bicycles and Aran’s beat-up scooter.

“Walk me home?” Atsumu asked.

“Always.”

They walked in comfortable silence, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined. The streets of Miyagi were quiet, the shops closed, the only sound their footsteps and the distant hum of a train.

At the corner near Atsumu’s apartment, they stopped. Atsumu turned to face Aran, his eyes still a little puffy but his expression open.

“Thank you,” he said. “For comin’ after me. For not lookin’ at me different.”

“I meant what I said.” Aran’s voice was low, sincere. “Every part of you. The sequins and the skirt and the kid who didn’t know any better. They’re all part of who you are now. And I love who you are.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. He stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from Aran’s body. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Then I’ll catch the tears.”

“Sap.”

“Your sap.”

Atsumu leaned in and kissed him. Soft, slow, tasting of salt and relief. Aran’s hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. They stayed like that for a long moment, the world shrinking to just the two of them under the stars.

When they pulled apart, Atsumu was smiling. A real smile, not the flashy one he wore on the court.

“I love you too,” he said. “Even if you’re corny.”

Aran grinned. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

They kissed once more before Atsumu reluctantly turned toward his door. Aran waited until he was inside, then waved and walked away, his silhouette growing smaller under the streetlights.

Atsumu closed the door and leaned against it, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart was still racing, but it wasn’t from shame anymore. It was from hope.

He wasn’t that eleven-year-old boy anymore. He was Atsumu Miya, setter for Inarizaki, boyfriend to the best person he knew, and survivor of a past that no longer had power over him.

And tomorrow, he’d wake up and eat breakfast and go to practice, and no one would treat him any different. Because they’d seen the worst of his secret, and they’d stayed.

He smiled in the dark, and for the first time in years, he felt free.