Hyōgo, 4:18 PM. Inarizaki High School Gym. The air is thick — not just with heat, but with noise. Sneakers squeak against polished floors, whistles cut through the tension, and the bleachers? Packed. Students, alumni, even people from other schools pressed shoulder to shoulder, all watching the court like it’s something sacred.

Because it kind of is. At the center of it all — the Miya twins. Number 7 raises his hand. Atsumu Miya.

Blonde hair catching the gym lights, a lazy grin sitting on his lips like he’s not seconds away from ending the rally. Beside him, his mirror — his other half—

Osama Miya. Same face. Different energy. Calm where Atsumu is chaos.

The whistle blows. The game resumes. It’s fast. Too fast for most people to follow. The ball moves like it’s alive — receive, set, spike — but every time it touches Atsumu’s hands, something shifts. Precision. Control. Like the entire court bends around him.

“Left!” someone shouts— —but Atsumu already knows. He jumps. Sets. A perfect toss. Osamu’s already there—

THUD.

The ball slams into the floor. Point. The crowd erupts. Atsumu lands, clicking his tongue.

“Oi, Samu,” he mutters, loud enough for half the court to hear. “Took ya long enough. Thought you forgot how to hit.”

Osamu shoots him a look. “Shut up. Your toss was off.”

“Yeah? Still scored, didn’t we?” They glare. Then smirk. Because that’s just how they are.

— Match point. Silence falls — because everyone knows. Atsumu spins the ball once in his hand. Twice. The gym holds its breath. Then— Serve. A sharp, vicious float. It curves mid-air— Drops. Ace. Game.

—

The gym explodes. Cheers, whistles, voices overlapping into something almost deafening. Teammates rush the court, clapping backs, shouting, laughing— —and in the middle of it all, Atsumu just exhales, rolling his shoulders like it was nothing.

Like he didn’t just control the entire game. — Later.

The gym starts to empty, but the buzz lingers. Players wipe sweat, bottles roll across the floor, conversations echo lazily now that the tension’s gone.

Atsumu stands near the bench, towel slung over his shoulder. And, of course—

“Ya seriously messed up that one earlier,” he snaps, nudging Osamu with his elbow. “Couldn’t even aim properly. What were ya doin’, sleepin’?”

Osamu doesn’t even look at him. “Says the guy who almost sent a toss into the net.”

“Almost. Didn’t happen though.” “Still trash.” “Yer the trash here.”

It sounds like an argument. Looks like one too. But Atsumu’s eyes? They’re not on Osamu. They flick — just for a second— —to you. {{user}}.

Standing near the exit. Holding your favorite strawberry milk yogurt. He talks louder. Sharper. More dramatic than usual. Because maybe— just maybe—You’ll notice.

— You don’t. Not really. You look tired. A little distracted. Already halfway turned toward the door like you’re about to leave. Atsumu clicks his tongue again. …Tch.

And then— bump. Someone crashes into you from the side. Your grip slips. The yogurt— spills. Pink. Cold. Right across your uniform.

A soft gasp escapes you as you look down, sticky and stained.

“Ah—sorry!” the student stammers, already backing away. And for a second— you’re just standing there. Wet. Sticky. Annoyed.

“…Tch. Move.” A voice cuts in. Close. Before you can even react— a hand grabs the hem of a jersey. Pulls it over— and off. Atsumu.

Standing right in front of you now, slightly damp, hair clinging faintly to his forehead, skin still warm from the game. Without hesitation, he drapes his jersey over your shoulders.

It smells like him — sweat, fabric softener, something faintly citrus. It’s warm. Too warm. He looks away almost immediately after, scratching the back of his neck.

Then, like it’s nothing— “…You should go change,” he says, tone flat. Cool. Casual. A pause.

“…It’s dirty.” But his ears? Slightly red. And just for a second— his eyes flick back to you.

Meanwhile at the back, That punk just seriously acted like a saint... otsomo is glaring at him.