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The mixed scent of beer, stale coffee, and things he didn’t want to identify crept up Atsumu’s nose, making his stomach turn. Sunlight streamed through the high windows of the train station’s vast hall, casting shifting patterns on the ground. The harsh neon lights above buzzed like angry insects, stabbing at his eyes and throbbing in his head. People rushed in and out, their voices blending into a constant, indecipherable hum. It was almost impossible to pick out individual faces. He felt utterly alone in the crowd-a single stone in a river of strangers.
Atsumu sat on a bench, clutching a cup of coffee. The warmth of the cup was familiar; he came here often. No one knew him here, and no one cared to. He could sit in silence, watching the indicator board as it flickered with train times and destinations. Sometimes, he let himself imagine boarding a train and vanishing to anywhere he desired. But he already knew there was only one place he truly wanted to go.
When the light from outside faded and the hall grew dim, it was time to leave. Home wasn’t the right word for where he was heading-just the apartment he lived in. It wasn’t home. Not really. Home was where his brother was, and that was somewhere else.
He closed the door behind him and went straight to his bedroom, not bothering with dinner or even a glass of water. He didn’t smile. He was just tired-so tired. Lately, sleep eluded him. Lying awake through the night had become his new rhythm.
In the early morning, he would get up-often without having slept at all-pull on his running shoes, and head out for his morning run. He didn’t think anyone would notice how much he’d changed. But he was wrong.
Kiyoomi woke to the sound of a door closing. He rolled over and reached for his phone on the nightstand. The time confirmed his suspicion: only Atsumu would be up this early, probably heading out for his run. With a reluctant sigh, Kiyoomi got up too. There was no point in trying to fall back asleep.
The sun was just rising, and the soft morning light spilled through the window, painting the room in gold. For a while now, Kiyoomi had been worried about his setter. Since they’d started playing together, they’d grown closer-maybe even friends, though Kiyoomi wasn’t sure if that was the right word. He’d noticed the change in Atsumu. Back in high school, Atsumu had been a force of nature-so bright and energetic it was almost overwhelming. He was talented, but everyone knew how hard he worked to get there. Even after practice, Atsumu would stay behind, training long after everyone else had left, never mentioning it to anyone. That much hadn’t changed. Even as a professional volleyball player, Atsumu demanded the best from himself and everyone around him. To be good enough, he always pushed himself harder-training more, studying more. Always more. Sometimes, too much.
But lately, something was different. Atsumu didn’t laugh as much, and when he did, it sounded forced. He didn’t joke around with Hinata and Bokuto or throw snarky remarks at Inunaki. The strangest part was that Atsumu had stopped flirting with him. Normally, Atsumu would take every chance to tease or bicker with Kiyoomi-and, truthfully, Kiyoomi would do the same. That was just how they were. Or so he’d thought.
Kiyoomi shuffled into the kitchen and started making breakfast. His phone rang, vibrating on the counter. He groaned when he saw the caller ID.
“Motoya,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes before answering.
“Motoya. What do you want?”
Kiyoomi’s voice was flat, stripped of emotion, but Motoya knew him too well to be fooled.
“You sound even grumpier than usual. Did something happen to my dearest cousin?” Motoya’s cheerful tone only made Kiyoomi’s mood sink further.
“Nothing happened. Why do you ask?” Kiyoomi replied, his words clipped.
There was a pause on the other end-long enough for Kiyoomi to wonder if Motoya had hung up. Then Motoya’s voice came back, softer this time. “Is it because of a certain blonde setter?”
Kiyoomi stiffened, Atsumu’s image-tired, his usual spark missing-flashing through his mind. He let out a slow sigh and leaned against the cold hallway wall, letting its chill seep into his skin and steady him.
“Well, actually, yes. I am a bit worried about him. He doesn’t seem like himself lately.”
Kiyoomi turned his head, catching a glimpse of the world outside through the window beside his front door. Just as Motoya began to respond, a flash of blonde hair caught Kiyoomi’s eye. Instinctively, he straightened and moved toward the door.
“Sorry, gotta go,” he said quickly, ending the call before Motoya could protest.
As soon as Kiyoomi stepped outside the door, he caught sight of Atsumu standing by his own apartment. The cool morning air brushed against his skin, carrying the faint sounds of the city slowly waking up. Atsumu wore short training pants and a loose, grey T-shirt, his shoulders slumped and head bowed low. He looked nothing like the joyful setter Kiyoomi had known for years.
As Kiyoomi took a few steps toward him, he realized he had never seen the blonde look so small, so vulnerable. When he reached Atsumu, he noticed the setter fumbling with his keys, his hands trembling too much to unlock the door. Without a word, Kiyoomi gently took the keys from Atsumu’s shaking fingers and unlocked the door, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“What? Who-oh, it’s ya, Omi.” Atsumu’s face lit up with a broad smile, but Kiyoomi could tell it was forced. It was the same bright, wide smile Atsumu used in public-a mask that never reached his eyes. Lately, Atsumu had been faking his smiles not just for the fans, but even for his friends. The realization made Kiyoomi’s chest tighten painfully.
He hesitated, wondering if he should ask Atsumu directly what was wrong. Then Atsumu’s voice broke the silence. “Didn’t see ya coming. What’cha doin’?”
Kiyoomi met Atsumu’s eyes, searching for the spark that used to shine there. For a moment, Atsumu’s breath caught, and the carefully constructed facade wavered. Kiyoomi felt his heart clench as he noticed the flicker of vulnerability beneath the surface-a silent plea for someone to see past the smile.
“Atsumu, do you want to have breakfast with me?” Kiyoomi asked, deciding not to press for answers just yet. Maybe, if he paid close enough attention, he could figure out what was really going on.
“Huh… what? But… ya mean that?” Atsumu’s puzzled look was genuine-almost endearing in its confusion.
“Yes. You don’t want to?” Kiyoomi’s gaze swept over Atsumu, taking in the subtle changes. He’d lost weight-not a dramatic amount, but enough for someone who saw him every day to notice. His shirt hung a little looser, and his movements seemed slower, less sure.
Kiyoomi’s mind turned over the details he couldn’t ignore. He hadn’t seen Atsumu eat at training for weeks, not even grabbing a snack after practice. He hadn’t smelled Atsumu’s cooking through the thin apartment walls, either-a scent that used to drift over almost every evening. Living side by side, Kiyoomi noticed these things. He always did.
Maybe some real food and a quiet morning would help. Maybe it would be enough to get Atsumu talking-or at least remind him he wasn’t alone.
Atsumu seemed reluctant to go with Kiyoomi, fidgeting with his hands and glancing toward his own open door several times, as if checking for an escape route. Sensing the hesitation, Kiyoomi heard himself say, “I just was about to make pancakes.” Atsumu’s eyes brightened at the word “pancake,” and Kiyoomi silently congratulated himself for the idea. After a brief pause, Atsumu agreed, and they headed to Kiyoomi’s apartment.
The small kitchen in Kiyoomi’s apartment smelled faintly of coffee and something sweet-probably the pancakes he was about to make. Atsumu stood by the counter, watching as Kiyoomi cracked eggs into a bowl with practiced ease.
“So,” Atsumu said, glancing sideways at Kiyoomi, “you ever made pancakes before, or is this your first time pretending to be a domestic god?”
Kiyoomi smirked, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "And you?"
“Well, can’t say I normally have the luxury of a big breakfast,” Atsumu said, a sad smile flickering across his face. “Normally just coffee before the run… Well, in school it was different…”
Kiyoomi paused, flipping a pancake. “What was different in school?”
Atsumu looked at him, arms crossed, sadness clouding his eyes. “So much…”
Kiyoomi’s heart clenched as he took in Atsumu’s expression, the weight of unspoken memories lingering between them. To lighten the mood, Kiyoomi flicked a little flour at Atsumu, leaving a white streak across his shirt. “Well, today you’re lucky, ‘cause I’m a pancake master. And I don’t let anyone skip breakfast under my roof.”
Atsumu blinked in surprise, then let out a small, genuine laugh-a sound that had been missing for too long. For a moment, the heaviness in the kitchen eased, replaced by the simple comfort of cooking together.
As Kiyoomi plated the pancakes, he made sure to add a generous helping of fruit and a side of yogurt-habits ingrained from years of playing at the highest level, where a balanced breakfast was as essential as any drill or workout. He slid the plate toward Atsumu. “Eat up. You’ll need the energy if you’re going to keep up with me in practice.”
Atsumu rolled his eyes, but the sadness had softened. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky, Omi.”
Kiyoomi smirked, content to let the conversation drift, knowing that sometimes, small gestures and shared routines could say more than words ever could.
Practice felt different today. The sharp thud of the volleyball echoed crisply through the gym, mingling with the rhythmic slap of sneakers on the polished court. Atsumu’s energy was back-his sets crisp and unpredictable, slicing through the air like lightning bolts. Each pass was delivered with the precision and flair that had once made him a nightmare for opposing teams. Kiyoomi caught the glint of determination in Atsumu’s eyes and couldn’t help but grin after a particularly nasty quick set that left their rivals scrambling.
The faint scent of sweat and rubber filled the air, but Atsumu moved with a lightness that suggested he was in his element again. The breakfast invitation had been worth it, Kiyoomi thought, the warmth of that morning still lingering like a comforting ember. Maybe he should make it a habit.
Yet, as the practice wore on, Kiyoomi’s gaze remained sharp. Old habits die hard. He noticed how Atsumu’s fingers would occasionally brush against his phone, his eyes flickering with a quiet hopefulness, as if waiting for a message that never came. On court, Atsumu’s gaze sometimes drifted to his side, scanning the empty bleachers as if expecting someone to materialize. During breaks, he often sat alone on the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, lost in thought. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the weight in Atsumu’s mind.
Every so often, when someone approached or surprised him, Atsumu’s hand would shoot up instinctively to the back of his head, rubbing the spot as if trying to soothe an invisible ache-like a reflex born from some old, forgotten hit from a volleyball. The subtle grimace that flickered across his face was almost imperceptible, but Kiyoomi caught it.
The sharp scent of disinfectant lingered faintly in the gym air, mingling with the earthy smell of worn leather and the faint metallic tang of sweat. Kiyoomi knew volleyball players weren’t strangers to injuries. Concussions, in particular, could leave behind shadows-confusion, emotional shifts, strange habits. But he also sensed there was more beneath Atsumu’s guarded exterior.
Still, for today, seeing that spark reignite in Atsumu’s swift movements and confident sets was enough. The sound of the ball thudding against his hands, the quick shuffle of feet, the cheers from teammates-it all felt like a fragile promise of better days.
Kiyoomi made a mental note as he wiped the sweat from his brow: breakfast together, again tomorrow.
But as the week wore on, Kiyoomi couldn’t ignore the subtle changes creeping back into Atsumu’s demeanor. He watched, quietly, as Atsumu’s smiles grew rarer and his laughter faded to silence. Atsumu grew quieter with each passing day, his energy dimming, his presence shrinking at practice and in the locker room. Sometimes, Kiyoomi would catch him staring off into space, lips pressed tight, a shadow flickering behind his eyes. It felt as if Atsumu was drifting further and further away, slipping beyond the reach of even his closest friends.
By midweek, it was impossible not to notice. Atsumu’s play grew sloppy, his sets losing their crispness, his movements a step behind. He missed calls, hesitated on the court, and seemed to flinch at every mistake. The coach’s patience wore thin, and finally, during a particularly rough scrimmage, Atsumu was benched. The silence that followed was heavy-everyone felt it.
Kiyoomi watched as Atsumu sat on the bench, paler than usual, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. He didn’t argue or protest. He just stared at the floor, shoulders hunched, as if the weight of the world pressed down on him.
When practice ended, Atsumu didn’t linger to run extra drills or chat with the others. Instead, he was the first to leave, slipping out of the gym with his bag slung over one shoulder and a smile plastered on his face-a mask that fooled no one anymore.
After practice, the sharp echo of laughter and the clatter of lockers faded behind Atsumu as he slipped out first, his smile plastered on like a mask. The air in the hallway felt heavy, almost stale. Left behind, the rest of the team lingered, towels slung over shoulders, the scent of sweat and soap mingling in the humid air.
Hinata was the first to break the silence. “Atsumu-san’s been… different lately, hasn’t he?”
Bokuto, always loud, chimed in, “He’s not as annoying as usual. It’s weird!”
Inunaki, more reserved, just nodded, glancing at the closed door where Atsumu had disappeared.
Their captain, Meian, tried to keep the talk focused, but even he couldn’t deny the shift in the team’s mood. The conversation drifted, as it often did, to memories of high school tournaments.
“You know, in high school, Atsumu was already a pain to play against,” Hinata said, shaking his head with a grin. “But with his brother? They were terrifying. Like they could read each other’s minds.”
“Yeah, Shoyo,” Bokuto said with a shake of his head. “Still can’t believe he chose cooking over volleyball.”
The words hit Kiyoomi like a ton of bricks. Of course. This was the reason. The empty space beside Atsumu on the court, the missing half of a partnership that had once felt unbreakable-was it really that simple? Was this why Atsumu had changed so much?
A knot of dread settled in Kiyoomi’s stomach. He needed to talk to Atsumu-immediately. As he left the gym, the uneasy feeling only grew. He called Atsumu, sent message after message, but there was no reply. The silence on the other end made his heart pound faster. He broke into a near run, feet pounding the pavement as he hurried toward Atsumu’s apartment, each unanswered ring fueling his worry.
Atsumu entered his lonely apartment, the silence pressing in on him as soon as the door clicked shut. He’d noticed the stares from his teammates earlier-the curiosity, the concern flickering in their eyes-but what could he do? This tiredness, this loneliness, just wouldn’t go away. He was so exhausted, down to his bones. And now he couldn’t even play anymore. Benched.
Letting his bag drop to the floor with a dull thud, he shuffled over to the sofa and collapsed onto it. The cushions gave a soft sigh beneath his weight. Automatically, he reached for the remote and turned on the TV, craving any noise to fill the emptiness echoing through the room. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow across the walls. The familiar drone of voices and canned laughter washed over him, but he barely registered it.
He remembered how, as a child, he’d lose himself in every series he watched-how stories had once swept him away, made him feel something. Now, nothing. Inside, he felt hollow-a vast, arid desert where nothing could bloom. The life of his younger self seemed impossibly distant, yet he yearned for it with an ache that wouldn’t fade. Sometimes, he wished he wasn’t here at all-not playing volleyball, not pretending to be okay.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought, and was about to stand when a familiar scene on the TV froze him in place. A documentary was playing-a feature on a local restaurant. There, on the screen, was his brother, Osamu, smiling easily as he talked about his work, the restaurant bustling behind him.
He looks so happy, Atsumu thought, like he doesn’t miss me at all. Well, it was always like this. Osamu didn’t need him, but Atsumu needed Osamu-he was sure of that. They’d promised each other happiness, but Atsumu just couldn’t find it. Watching Osamu move on, living a full life without him, made Atsumu realize how unnecessary he felt. Who needed him, anyway? In this state, he couldn’t even play volleyball-the only thing that had ever given him purpose.
A heavy, dark thought crept in. A thought he had almost forgotten over the years, but it resurfaced.
Maybe he shouldn’t be alive. They were all better without him, he was just a burden a pain in the ass. He was too loud, too annoying, too much.
Slowly, almost mechanically, he stood and drifted into the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and cold. He opened the mirrored cabinet and stared at the razor inside. He hadn’t done this in a long time-not since... Well, that didn’t matter now.
He took the razor out, turning it over in his hand, the cool metal pressing against his palm. Memories from high school flashed through his mind-moments when he’d felt the blade bite into his skin, the sharp sting, the fleeting sense of relief. He could almost see the blood in his mind’s eye. All he had to do was bring it to his skin, and maybe-just maybe-he’d feel something again.
“Tsumu...”
The echo of his brother’s voice in his head startled him, snapping him back to the present. Panic surged through him. The razor clattered to the tile floor as he fled the bathroom, chest heaving, heart pounding in his ears. No-he couldn’t. He’d promised not to do this again.
He collapsed back onto the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. Very faintly, old scars traced his forearms-a map of pain he tried to hide. Shame washed over him, hot and prickling. Without thinking, his fingers found their way to his arms, scratching over the scars again and again, until the skin burned and, finally, blood welled up. He didn’t notice at first-not until it trickled down, warm and real.
He let his arms fall to his sides, staring blankly into the flickering light of the TV. The noise washed over him, but inside, there was only silence.
Atsumu didn’t hear his phone buzzing on the table, didn’t see the messages lighting up the screen. He didn’t read the names of the people calling him over and over again-not Kiyoomi, and not Osamu.
Osamu stood in the kitchen of his bustling restaurant, the clatter of pans and the savory aroma of simmering broth filling the air. But beneath it all, a familiar, gnawing dread twisted in his gut-a feeling he hadn’t had since high school. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
“Tsumu...” he murmured, his voice low and tight with worry.
Rin, his boyfriend, glanced over from the prep station, brow furrowed. “What? What’s with Tsumu?”
Osamu’s knees buckled slightly, forcing him to grip the edge of the counter for support. He swallowed hard, his hand trembling as he reached for his phone. He tried calling Atsumu, but every attempt went straight to voicemail. Panic began to root itself deep in his chest.
“Rin, we need to reach Tsumu. Now.” His voice was urgent, almost desperate.
Rin didn’t hesitate. “I think I know how. Let me call someone.” He stepped away from the noise of the kitchen, quickly dialing a number.
When Kiyoomi reached Atsumu’s apartment, the uneasy feeling in his stomach only grew heavier. He was just about to knock when his phone buzzed in his hand. Hoping it was Atsumu, he answered without checking the screen.
“Sakusa?” The unfamiliar voice caught him off guard.
“Yes, this is Sakusa. Who is this?” Kiyoomi asked, frowning.
There was a brief pause on the line. “It’s Suna Rintarou. We met briefly in high school. Hey, listen-you live near Tsumu, right?”
Kiyoomi blinked, surprised. “Yeah, I do. Why?”
A sigh crackled through the phone. “Osamu’s worried. We can’t reach Atsumu, and with the whole twin thing... Look, can you check on him?”
“I was going to anyway,” Kiyoomi replied, his voice tense. “He’s... he’s different lately.”
Osamu’s voice came on the line, raw and urgent. “What do ya mean, different?”
Kiyoomi hesitated, rubbing his eyes as he tried to put it into words. “He’s quiet. He doesn’t talk much, always keeps to himself. He’s not eating... I’m worried.”
Osamu’s breath hitched audibly. “Ya need to find him. Fast. I’m on my way.”
The call ended abruptly, the urgency hanging in the air.
Outside Atsumu’s apartment, the hallway was quiet, the only sound Kiyoomi’s own heartbeat thudding in his ears. He stared at the door, phone still pressed to his ear, the echo of Osamu’s panic fueling his own. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting pale shadows on the worn linoleum. Kiyoomi’s hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob, steeling himself for what he might find inside.
Osamu didn’t even bother to close up the shop. He tossed his apron aside, barely hearing the clatter as it hit the counter. Rin would handle things-he trusted him with everything, but right now, nothing mattered except getting to his idiot brother.
A cold, familiar dread settled in Osamu’s chest as he hurried out the door, the city’s evening air biting against his skin. He remembered this feeling from high school: the gnawing sense that something was deeply, horribly wrong. Back then, it had started the same way. Atsumu had grown quiet, his energy fading, his laughter turning brittle. But this time, Osamu told himself, it was different. It had to be. He wouldn’t let history repeat itself.
“Tsumu, ya promised me…” Osamu whispered, barely audible over the rush of traffic as he ran to his car.
He sped through the city, barely noticing the lights or the blur of buildings outside the window. His hands shook on the steering wheel as he replayed the last conversation he’d had with Atsumu-and realized, with a jolt of guilt, how long ago it was. Days had turned to weeks, and in the whirlwind of running the restaurant, he’d let the distance grow. Now, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d really looked at his brother, really listened.
“Shit, shit, shit…” Osamu muttered, slamming his palm against the steering wheel at a red light. Why hadn’t he called more often? Why had he let life get in the way?
Panic twisted inside him, sharp and relentless. He couldn’t stop the memories from flooding back: Atsumu, years ago, lying almost lifeless on the bathroom floor, blood pooling beneath him, his breathing shallow and ragged. Osamu remembered the terror, the anger, the desperate fear that he might lose his brother for good.
Not again. He couldn’t let it happen again.
He pressed harder on the gas, weaving through traffic, every second stretching painfully long. The city lights blurred past, but all Osamu could see was Atsumu’s face, pale and distant, and the promise he’d made-not to leave, not to give up.
Osamu’s heart hammered as he tore through the city, barely registering the blur of neon lights and the honking of cars around him. He parked haphazardly, not caring about tickets or angry drivers, and sprinted up the stairs two at a time. The hallway outside Atsumu’s apartment was eerily quiet, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly.
At the far end, he saw a familiar figure: Kiyoomi, fists pounding urgently on Atsumu’s door.
“Atsumu! Open up!” Kiyoomi’s voice was tight with worry. He paused only to press his ear against the door, listening for any sign of movement inside.
Osamu didn’t hesitate. He rushed forward, breathless, his keys already in his shaking hand. “Move,” he said, voice rough with panic. Kiyoomi stepped aside wordlessly, relief and fear mingling in his eyes.
Osamu fumbled with the lock, his hands slick with sweat. The key slipped once, twice, before finally sliding home. He twisted it and flung the door open.
A heavy, stale silence greeted them, broken only by the faint, flickering light of the television. The apartment smelled faintly of cold coffee and something metallic. Osamu’s heart dropped as he called out, “Tsumu! Atsumu, where are ya?”
No answer.
He and Kiyoomi exchanged a glance, then hurried inside. Osamu’s gaze swept the living room, landing on the sofa. There, slumped and motionless, was Atsumu. His arms hung limply at his sides, and the faintest trace of red stained his skin and the fabric beneath him.
Osamu’s knees buckled. He dropped to his brother’s side, hands trembling so badly he could barely check Atsumu’s pulse. Relief washed over him when he felt it-steady, alive. But the fear didn’t leave. “Tsumu! Hey! Tsumu, wake up… please… wake up…” His voice was raw, cracking as tears slipped down his cheeks, falling onto Atsumu’s arm.
Atsumu’s eyelids fluttered. “Samu…” His voice was so thin, so small, it barely sounded like him. “´m sorry….”
Osamu’s anger and relief tangled together. “You promised me, Tsumu. You promised you wouldn’t-” His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead to Atsumu’s shoulder, sobbing openly now. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave me. Not again.”
Atsumu’s lips trembled. “I didn’t… I didn’t do it, Samu. I tried, but I… I couldn’t. I promised ya… Heard yer voice…” He sounded lost, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Osamu just held him, letting the tears fall, and for a while, words weren’t needed.
Kiyoomi crouched beside them, silent but present, his hand hovering uncertainly over Atsumu’s back before finally settling there-a small, steady weight. He watched the brothers, the raw ache in the room almost too much to bear. Swallowing his own frustration and guilt, Kiyoomi realized they needed this moment-needed each other.
Without a word, Kiyoomi stood and quietly slipped away, moving through the apartment with soft footsteps. He found the first aid kit in the bathroom, gathering antiseptic and bandages with practiced hands. The razor still lay on the floor, a stark reminder of how close things had come. Kiyoomi picked it up, wrapping it in tissue before tucking it deep into the trash.
He lingered in the hallway for a moment, letting the muffled sound of Osamu’s voice-low, desperate, loving-wash over him. The TV still flickered in the living room, casting pale, ghostly light over the two brothers huddled together on the sofa. Kiyoomi set the first aid kit on the coffee table, then quietly stepped back, giving them space. He busied himself in the kitchen, running water for tea, the simple, repetitive task grounding him as he listened for any sign that he was needed.
For now, he would wait-close enough to help, but far enough to let the brothers find each other again.
The three of them stayed like that for a long moment: Osamu’s sobs breaking the heavy silence, Kiyoomi’s quiet strength anchoring the room, Atsumu’s shuddering breaths and whispered apologies barely audible above the hum of the television. The TV screen flickered, casting pale, ghostly light over the scene, indifferent to the raw ache that filled the room. The air felt thick, every breath tinged with the metallic scent of blood and the sting of old coffee. For a while, there was nothing but the sound of grief and the fragile thread of comfort found in simply not being alone.
Kiyoomi hovered near the door as Osamu helped Atsumu change his bloody shirt. Osamu turned to him, voice low but steady. “Omi, can ya pack a few things for Atsumu? Just his essentials-clothes, phone charger, maybe his favorite hoodie. And… let the coach know he won’t be at practice for a while.”
Kiyoomi nodded, grateful for something concrete to do. He moved quietly through Atsumu’s apartment, gathering items into the gym bag: a couple of shirts, sweatpants, the familiar faded hoodie Atsumu always wore after games. As he zipped the bag, he paused, then returned to the living room.
Atsumu sat slumped on the edge of the sofa, eyes fixed on the floor. Kiyoomi knelt beside him, opening the first aid kit. He worked in silence, cleaning and bandaging Atsumu’s scratched arms. The antiseptic stung, but Atsumu barely flinched.
“I’m sorry, Omi…” Atsumu whispered, voice hoarse.
Kiyoomi shook his head, his hands gentle as he wrapped the last bandage. “No, Atsu… I’m sorry. I should’ve seen how bad it was. I should’ve said something sooner.” He rested a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “You’re not alone, okay?”
Atsumu managed a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching in something like gratitude.
While Kiyoomi tended Atsumus wounds, Osamu stepped into the hallway and dialed Rin. His hands shook as he waited for the call to connect.
“Samu? Is everything alright?” Rin’s voice was sharp with concern.
Osamu swallowed, voice thick. “It’s Tsumu. He… he’s not okay, Rin. I’m bringing him home with me tonight. I… I need ya to help me look after him.”
There was a pause, then Rin’s voice softened. “Of course. I’ll get everything ready. Do you need anything else?”
Osamu let out a shaky breath. “Just… just be there. Like you were back then.”
“I remember,” Rin said quietly. “We’ll take care of him.”
Rin was pacing the kitchen, unable to settle, his mind replaying Osamu’s words over and over. “He´s not okay”? What did that mean? The uncertainty gnawed at Rin, twisting his stomach with dread. When Osamu had added, “Like you were back then,” fear had clutched at Rin’s heart, cold and sharp. He remembered those days all too well-the silence, the distance, the way Atsumu had slipped away before anyone realized how deep he’d fallen.
He kept glancing at the door, listening for footsteps, for any sign that Osamu and Atsumu were near. The wait was agony. What if he’s too late? What if Atsumu needs help and I wasn’t there?
When the door finally opened and Osamu stepped in, guiding Atsumu by the shoulder, Rin’s breath caught. Atsumu looked pale, his eyes dull, bandages stark against his skin. But he was alive. He was here.
Rin didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in three strides and pulled Atsumu into a fierce hug, holding him tight, needing to feel his warmth, to hear his breathing, to be sure he was really okay. For a moment, Rin just held on, his own heart pounding in his chest.
Then he pulled back, eyes searching Atsumu’s face, and saw the way Atsumu looked away, mumbling, “’m sorry, Rin…”
Rin’s throat tightened. He wanted to say so much-to ask why Atsumu hadn’t called, to apologize for not reaching out, to say he should have noticed sooner. But he swallowed it all, squeezing Atsumu’s hand instead. “Eat something-you look horrible. With that look ya can’t charm your fans, ya know!” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice he didn’t feel. He hurried to the kitchen, blinking back tears, needing a moment to collect himself.
As he ladled soup into a bowl and set out Atsumu’s favorite onigiri, guilt gnawed at him. I should have seen it. I should have called. Some best friend I am… But tonight, at least, he could do something. He could be here. He could make sure Atsumu knew he wasn’t alone.
He set the food in front of Atsumu and ruffled his hair, just like old times. “Eat up, Tsumu. We’re not letting you fade away on our watch.”
And as Atsumu took a tentative bite, Rin sat down beside him, determined to stay close. He would make sure Atsumu felt welcome, safe, and seen-for as long as it took.
For a moment, nobody spoke. The only sounds were the soft clink of chopsticks and the faint buzz of the city outside. Osamu sat beside Atsumu, watching him pick at the food, relief and worry mingling in his chest.
Rin lingered nearby, ready to help but giving the brothers space. He remembered those difficult days back in high school-how easily Atsumu could slip away behind a smile, how hard it was to pull him back. But tonight, with Osamu by his side, Rin hoped things might be different.
Atsumu took a tentative bite, the familiar taste grounding him. For the first time in weeks, the ache in his chest eased, just a little. He glanced at Osamu, who managed a small, encouraging smile.
“You’re staying here as long as you need,” Osamu said quietly. “No arguments.”
Atsumu nodded, and for a moment, the heaviness in the room was replaced by something softer-a fragile sense of safety, and the comfort of being seen.
Osamu slipped into the kitchen where Rin was quietly cleaning up. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped behind Rin, sliding his arms around his waist and leaning his head on Rin’s shoulder. The familiar scent-soap, a hint of cologne, and something uniquely Rin-helped Osamu’s racing heart slow just a little.
Rin stilled, feeling the weight of Osamu’s head against him. “How is he?” Rin asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
Osamu took a shaky breath, closing his eyes as he tried to steady himself. “He’s… making himself ready for bed.” His voice wavered. “I… He didn’t talk at all, Rin. Not a word. This isn’t Tsumu…” Osamu’s words trailed off as warm tears slipped down his cheeks, falling onto Rin’s shoulder.
Rin turned around, pulling Osamu into a tight embrace. He held him close, grounding them both. “I know,” Rin whispered, his own voice thick with emotion. “He looks worse than… ya know…” He didn’t need to finish; the memory of those dark high school days hung between them.
Osamu clung to Rin, his composure finally breaking. “He told me… after I found him… that he didn’t do it because he’d promised not to. Rin, if he hadn’t promised, I don’t know what he would have done. I’m scared. I’m so scared…” His words dissolved into quiet sobs, muffled by Rin’s shirt.
Rin just held him, rubbing gentle circles on Osamu’s back, letting him cry. “You did the right thing, ‘Samu. You got him here. He’s safe tonight. We’ll get through this-together. You’re not alone in this, okay?”
Osamu nodded into Rin’s shoulder, the warmth of his embrace making him feel, for the first time all day, a little less helpless. For a while, they stood like that in the kitchen, the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant city lights the only witnesses to their fear and hope.
Lying in bed, Atsumu felt different. Not better, not healed-just… different. Numb, but not so alone anymore. The ache in his chest hadn’t faded, but something about being here, in Osamu’s apartment, softened the edges of his loneliness. He couldn’t find words for what he felt; everything was tangled and raw. Mostly, he just didn’t want to burden his brother. Osamu had enough going on without his baby brother making trouble-what with the restaurant, with Rin… Rin-Atsumu’s mind snagged on the memory of Rin’s face, the way his friend had looked so shaken when he saw him at the door. Had he really changed that much?
He didn’t know. For him, every day bled into the next, cold and lifeless, like he was moving through fog. But he remembered the expression on Osamu’s face earlier-full of shock, worry, and fear. For him. It was almost too much to bear, knowing he’d caused that look. He’d never wanted to be the reason for Osamu’s pain.
That thought echoed in Atsumu’s mind as he lay on his side, facing the wall, the darkness of the guestroom pressing in around him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of Osamu’s face earlier-shock, worry, fear-all because of him.
The apartment was quiet, except for the distant murmur of voices from the kitchen. Atsumu tried to focus on his breathing, tried to convince himself that he wasn’t a burden, that he could just disappear into the sheets and no one would notice. But the ache in his chest wouldn’t let him go.
Then, soft footsteps approached, muffled by the hallway rug. Atsumu didn’t need to look; he knew immediately it was Osamu-the way his brother moved was as familiar as his own heartbeat. The door opened with a gentle click, and Atsumu felt the mattress dip behind him as someone climbed in.
Warm arms wrapped around him from behind, strong and steady, and the familiar scent of rice and soap and Osamu filled his senses. Atsumu’s breath hitched, his resolve crumbling. He tried to hold it in, but the tears came anyway-silent at first, then shaking his whole body.
Osamu didn’t say anything. He just held him, anchoring Atsumu to the world with his presence. For the first time in what felt like forever, Atsumu let himself cry, letting the pain and guilt spill out in the safety of his brother’s embrace.
No words were needed. Osamu’s arms said everything: I’m here. You’re not alone. I won’t let go.
Atsumu lay curled on his side, the darkness pressing in, Osamu’s steady warmth at his back. He tried to keep quiet, but the ache in his chest pushed the words out, shaky and broken.
“I… ’m sorry, Samu… Never meant ta hurt ya… I just… I know ’m a burden to everyone… I…” More tears came, silent at first, then wracking his body. Osamu pulled him closer, his arm tightening around Atsumu’s middle, trying to soothe him with his presence alone.
“Yer not a burden, Tsumu. Ya never were. Not then and not now,” Osamu whispered, voice rough with emotion.
Atsumu’s hands clenched over Osamu’s, curling up tighter. “’m just… so lonely… feels like… like everyone’s growin’ up… ’m just stayin’ the same… the same as before… with no one by ma side… no one… ta love… ta care…” His voice cracked, the words barely making it out. “I… just didn’t want ta step inta yer happy life… while… bein’ so miserable…”
The words cut through Osamu, sharp and unexpected. Is that how he always felt? Did I make my own brother feel like he was left behind?
Osamu blinked back his own tears, pressing his forehead gently to the back of Atsumu’s neck. “Tsumu… I’m sorry. I shoulda seen it. Shoulda checked in more. But ya gotta know… my life ain’t happy without ya in it. You’re my brother. Nothin’ changes that. I got yer back-always.”
He thought of the way Kiyoomi had hovered, the worry in his eyes, the way he’d quietly tended to Atsumu’s wounds even though he usually kept his distance. Maybe Atsumu couldn’t see it, but Osamu had: Kiyoomi cared, too. More than he let on.
Atsumu’s breathing hitched, but Osamu felt the tension in his body ease-just a little. For a while, neither of them spoke. They just lay there, tangled together, tears drying in the quiet, the old ache in Atsumu’s chest softened by the steady beat of his brother’s heart at his back.
Kiyoomi hadn’t slept. He’d tried-lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, counting the slow, anxious beats of his heart-but every time he closed his eyes, the images returned: the blood on Atsumu’s arms, the razor glinting in the bathroom sink, Osamu’s voice breaking-“not again.” That phrase echoed in his mind, sharp and cold. This had happened before. How could he have missed it? How could he have let it get this far?
He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the memories away, but the guilt lingered. Why hadn’t he seen how much Atsumu was hurting? Why hadn’t he done something sooner? The questions circled endlessly, keeping him pinned in place as the first hints of dawn crept through his curtains.
He remembered Atsumu back in high school, not well, but enough. Atsumu had always been a force-loud, relentless, a storm on the court. But Kiyoomi could recall those late nights at training camps, when most players had already left and Atsumu would stay behind, sweat-soaked and stubborn, running drills long after the coaches had called it a day. Kiyoomi would sometimes linger for extra serves or stretches and catch glimpses of Atsumu through the gym doors-jaw clenched, eyes fixed, moving with a kind of desperation that didn’t match the swagger he showed the world.
At the time, Kiyoomi had admired Atsumu’s work ethic-maybe even envied it. But now, looking back, he wondered if there had always been something more behind it. Maybe it wasn’t just ambition. Maybe it was loneliness, or the fear of not being enough, driving Atsumu to push himself harder than anyone else.
He remembered the way Atsumu’s energy would sometimes flicker, his laughter a little too loud, his smiles a little too bright. After a tough loss, Atsumu would vanish for hours, coming back only when everyone else had already moved on. Kiyoomi had thought it was just Atsumu’s way of coping. He hadn’t realized it was the start of something deeper-a pattern of isolation and self-punishment that would follow Atsumu into adulthood.
Now, sitting alone in his apartment, Kiyoomi pressed his fingers to his temples, replaying the scene over and over. He’d always cared about Atsumu-of course he had. But this was different. The fear he’d felt, the hollow ache in his chest, went beyond friendship or even the camaraderie of teammates. It was sharper, deeper. It was the terror of losing someone who mattered more than he’d realized.
His phone sat untouched on the table. He fought with himself over whether to call Atsumu-just to hear his voice, to make sure he was really okay. But he stopped himself. Atsumu needed rest, and he was safe with Osamu and Suna. Still, the worry gnawed at him. What about after? What if the darkness crept back in when Osamu wasn’t looking?
He needed to tell the coach. Maybe the team, too-but not yet. For now, maybe just the coach was enough. Give Atsumu some space, some time to breathe. Kiyoomi would carry the weight of what he knew, at least for a little while, until Atsumu was ready to face the world again.
As the sun rose, Kiyoomi made himself a promise: he wouldn’t look away again. He would pay attention-really pay attention-this time. He would be there, even if Atsumu never asked. Because losing Atsumu, he realized now, was something he couldn’t bear.
The conversation with the coach was draining. Kiyoomi tried to explain everything, but as soon as he started speaking, he realized how little he actually knew. The coach listened in silence, his expression grave, nodding at the right moments but asking questions Kiyoomi couldn’t answer. When it was over, Kiyoomi felt hollow, like he’d run a marathon without moving at all.
The team only knew that Atsumu would be absent for a while. That was all Kiyoomi could bring himself to say. When Hinata and Bokuto cornered him after practice, their eyes wide with concern, he shook his head and muttered, “He just needs some time.” Lying had never felt so wrong-or so difficult. He could see the worry in their faces, the way their questions lingered even after he walked away.
Training was exhausting without Atsumu. The rhythm felt off, like a song missing its melody. Kiyoomi’s sets were crisp, his serves sharp, but the court felt emptier, the energy thinner. It wasn’t just him-the others moved through drills with less spark, their laughter quieter, their banter forced. Even Bokuto’s booming voice seemed to echo in the empty space Atsumu left behind.
During water breaks, Kiyoomi caught Hinata glancing at the door, as if expecting Atsumu to burst in with a joke or a challenge. Inunaki lingered by the bench, his gaze distant. Meian tried to keep spirits up, but even he couldn’t fill the gap.
After practice, the team gathered in the locker room, towels slung over shoulders, the scent of sweat and soap hanging in the air. The silence was heavy, broken only by the clatter of lockers and the low hum of voices.
“Practice just feels weird without him,” Hinata muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Bokuto nodded, unusually subdued. “Yeah. It’s too quiet. I hope he’s okay.”
Kiyoomi didn’t trust himself to speak. He just nodded, grabbing his bag and slipping out before anyone could ask him more. The hallway felt colder, the fluorescent lights too harsh. He wondered how long it would take for things to feel normal again-or if they ever would.
Atsumu woke to sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains, the warmth on his face at odds with the cold knot in his chest. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then yesterday’s memories surged back: the razor in his hand, Osamu’s voice, the desperate need to feel something-even if it was pain.
He reached for his forearms and felt the roughness of bandages. The touch brought a fresh wave of shame. Omi. He’d been there too. He’d seen everything. Atsumu’s hands started to tremble, his breath coming short and shallow. What does he think of me now? Why was he even there? The thoughts spiraled, tightening like a vice. He dug his nails into his arms, desperate for an anchor.
He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t notice the soft footsteps crossing the room. Only when warm hands gently pulled his own away from his arms and wrapped him in a steady embrace did Atsumu realize he wasn’t alone.
Rin’s arms encircled him from behind, strong and familiar. “Hey, hey… Tsumu, it’s okay,” Rin murmured, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re safe. I got you.”
Atsumu’s resistance crumbled. He tried to turn away, but Rin just held him tighter, anchoring him in place. The tears came then, silent at first, then wracking his body. Rin didn’t let go. He just rocked them gently, one hand stroking Atsumu’s hair, the other holding his hands away from his arms.
“You’re not alone, Atsumu,” Rin whispered, his cheek pressed to Atsumu’s temple. “Not now. Not ever.”
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The sunlight crept higher on the wall, and Atsumu’s breathing slowly steadied. The spiral of shame and fear loosened its grip, if only a little.
When he finally pulled back, Rin kept a hand on his shoulder, steady and reassuring. “Let’s get some air, yeah? Or just sit. Whatever you need. I’m here.”
Atsumu nodded, wiping at his eyes. The ache was still there, but so was Rin’s warmth-a fragile thread pulling him back from the edge.
Atsumu sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. He felt hollow, as if every bit of energy had been drained from him overnight. Even the thought of standing up, of facing the day, felt impossible. He tried to will himself to move, but his body refused to cooperate. Everything was too heavy.
Rin noticed. He’d been hovering in the doorway, pretending to tidy up, but really just keeping an eye on Atsumu. When he saw Atsumu drifting, shoulders slumped and gaze unfocused, Rin quietly crossed the room and knelt beside him.
“C’mon, Tsumu,” Rin said softly, his voice gentle as he reached out. “Let’s get you up, yeah? Bathroom first.” He offered his hand, steady and patient.
Atsumu hesitated, shame prickling at his skin, but he couldn’t manage it alone. He let Rin help him up, leaning heavily on his friend as they shuffled to the bathroom. Rin didn’t rush him, didn’t say anything about how slow or clumsy Atsumu was. He just stayed close, offering quiet support.
While Atsumu washed up, Rin kept up a soft stream of conversation. “Remember that time Osamu tried to balance a tray of food on his head and slipped on the kitchen floor? Food everywhere, and he blamed me for laughing too hard.” Rin chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Or when we tried to bake a cake and ended up with something even the dog wouldn’t eat?”
Atsumu managed a weak smile, the memory flickering through his mind. It felt distant, but Rin’s voice made it real again.
“He was so mad.” Atsumu managed to say with a low voice. Rin smiled at him. “He was mad, because you fimed it, Tsumu. Still got the video?” Atsumu just shook his head.
“I missed this, you know,” Rin said, his tone turning softer. “Missed you. Missed my best friend.” He glanced at Atsumu in the mirror, offering a small, sincere smile. “I know things have been hard. But you’re not alone, Tsumu. Not now, not ever.”
By the time they made it to the kitchen, Atsumu felt a little steadier. Rin set a plate of toast and eggs in front of him, then sat across the table, elbows propped and chin in his hands.
“If you ever wanna talk,” Rin said, meeting his eyes, “I’m here. Even if you just wanna sit in silence, that’s fine too. But you don’t have to carry this by yourself, okay?”
Atsumu stared at the table, throat tight. He wanted to say something, but the words tangled up inside him. Rin reached across the table, covering Atsumu’s hand with his own. Atsumu nodded, a fragile thread of hope winding through the heaviness. For now, that was enough.
The whole day, Rin stayed by Atsumu’s side. He talked-softly, steadily-because Atsumu couldn’t seem to find his own words. Rin helped him move from room to room, guided him through the motions of washing up, reminded him to drink water, and coaxed him to eat a little, even if it was just a few bites. It felt good, in a distant way, to be cared for. But at the same time, the guilt gnawed at Atsumu. Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he just be the usual Atsumu-the one everyone expected? What even was his usual self anymore? He didn’t know. Everything he thought he was, or could be, was wrapped up in being a brother and a setter. But now, he couldn’t be either. He didn’t feel like he was doing a good job at being a brother… and he feared, deep down, that Osamu would come to hate him for it.
Now, Atsumu sat on the sofa in the living room, staring blankly at the wall. There were photos everywhere-Rin and Osamu at the restaurant, their parents, and so many pictures of him. His own face smiled out from the frames, captured in moments he could barely remember. The warmth in his belly bubbled up, unfamiliar and overwhelming, and suddenly his eyes filled with tears.
Soft hands brushed the tears away. Atsumu blinked up into a face he knew better than his own. “Samu…” His voice was raw and thin.
Osamu’s eyes were full of worry, but also something deeper-love, and a fierce protectiveness. “Tsumu, why are ya crying when looking at my wall?”
At first, Atsumu didn’t understand, but then he glanced at the photos again, felt the tears on his cheeks, and remembered. “I… I… Samu…” His voice broke, the words stuck in his throat.
Osamu saw how much it cost Atsumu just to say his name. He sat beside him, pulling him gently into a side hug. “Shhh… ya don’t need ta talk if ya can’t. We can just sit here.”
The offer was tempting, but Atsumu wanted-needed-to say something. He’d missed his brother so much. “I… never thought ya cared this much…” The words were barely a whisper, thin and trembling.
Osamu’s breath hitched. He squeezed Atsumu’s shoulder, voice thick with emotion. “Well… ’f course I care. Yer so important in my life. Yer not just my brother, Tsumu. You’re my best friend. You’re the one person who’s always got me, no matter what happened… I need ya in my life. I love ya. I care fer ya. And so does Rin… and I think yer team does too.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, searching Atsumu’s eyes. “You’re cared for, and you’re loved, Tsumu. Ya just don’t see it right now. But ya will. I’m sure.”
Atsumu let Osamu’s words settle in his heart, the warmth of his brother’s arm anchoring him to the present. For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing in the quiet. Then, in a voice so small it barely reached Osamu’s ears, he asked, “Ya… ya don’t hate me?”
Osamu stiffened beside him, startled by the question. Where the hell did that come from? He looked at Atsumu, really looked, and saw the rawness in his brother’s eyes-the fear and shame swirling just beneath the surface. His brother truly thought he hated him? That he even could? Didn’t he know just how much he loved him?
“‘f course not, Tsumu. Why would I ever hate ya? I love ya too much fer that.”
Atsumu shivered, his gaze dropping to his lap. “Because… I… I’m so broken.” The words came out as a whisper, shaky and full of pain.
Osamu’s heart clenched. He reached over and squeezed Atsumu’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “Listen to me, Tsumu. Broken or not, yer still my brother. Nothin’ could ever change that. We all got cracks, ya know? But that don’t mean yer any less important. Not to me. Not to Rin. Not to anyone who cares about ya.”
He let his hand fall away and gestured toward the wall, where sunlight caught on the glass of the picture frames. “Ya see all those pictures?” Osamu’s voice softened, thick with emotion. “There’s so many of ya because I miss ya every single day. I put ‘em up ‘cause… well, I couldn’t be who I am without ya, Tsumu. You’re a part of me. Always have been.”
Atsumu stared at the photos-snapshots of laughter, of victories, of ordinary days that suddenly felt precious. He saw himself there, not as a burden, but as someone loved, someone missed. The ache in his chest shifted, a warmth bubbling up through the cracks.
Osamu nudged him gently. “Yer not just my brother, Tsumu. Yer my best friend. Even when we’re apart, even when things are tough, I want ya here. I need ya here. That’s why those pictures are up. ‘Cause you matter. To me, to Rin, to your team-even if ya can’t see it right now.”
Atsumu’s tears spilled over, but this time, they felt different. Not just pain, but relief. Maybe even hope.
Osamu squeezed his shoulder again, steady and sure. “So don’t ever think I could hate ya. I love ya, ya idiot. And I’d put up a thousand more pictures if that’s what it takes for ya to remember it.”
They sat together in the quiet, the wall of memories shining in the morning light-a silent promise that Atsumu was, and always would be, wanted.
The days blurred together at first. Atsumu still struggled-some mornings he could barely get out of bed, and even the smallest tasks felt monumental. But with Rin and Osamu by his side, things began to shift, almost imperceptibly. Rin filled the silences with gentle conversation and stories from their past, while Osamu made sure Atsumu ate, even if it was just a few bites. It felt good to be cared for, but at the same time, Atsumu couldn’t shake the guilt. Why couldn’t he just be the usual Atsumu? What even was that anymore?
Each day, though, he managed a little more: a shower on his own, a walk to the balcony, a genuine smile at one of Rin’s dumb jokes. The ache in his chest didn’t vanish, but it softened, replaced by something fragile and new-a sense that maybe, just maybe, he could get better.
Meanwhile, Kiyoomi’s concern for Atsumu only deepened. The memory of Atsumu’s forced smile, his trembling hands, haunted Kiyoomi through sleepless nights. He found himself thinking of Atsumu constantly, replaying their mornings together-quiet breakfasts, the rare, real laughter, the way Atsumu’s presence filled a room.
He reached out to Suna first, having gotten his number from Osamu.
Hey. How’s Atsumu doing?
Suna’s replies were short but honest-never sugarcoated, but always ending with, He’s got us. We’re watching out for him.
Rin and Osamu kept Kiyoomi in the loop too. Every evening, one of them would text a quick update: Atsumu ate dinner today. He laughed at my story. He asked about volleyball.
Kiyoomi’s replies were brief but steady. Tell him I’m thinking of him. No pressure to reply.
But the worry gnawed at him. Kiyoomi realized, with a clarity that startled him, that he loved Atsumu-not just as a teammate, not just as a friend. He loved him in a way that made the thought of losing him unbearable. He wanted to be there-not just for the good days, but for the hard ones too.
One morning, after another restless night, Kiyoomi called Osamu, his voice low and rough with exhaustion.
“How is he?” he asked, skipping any greeting.
Osamu paused, considering. “He’s… better. Not good, but better. He’s makin’ progress, Sakusa. Some days are harder than others, but he’s tryin’.” There was a quiet pride in his words. “He even agreed to see a therapist. First appointment’s next week.”
Kiyoomi let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “That’s… really good. I’m glad.” He hesitated, then added, “If he ever wants me there, or just someone to talk to, I’m here. You know that, right?”
Osamu’s voice softened. “I know. I’ll tell him. He talks about ya, you know. The whole team, really-but when he says yer name, his voice seems lighter, and his eyes more alive. Yer very important ta him. And if I remember the look on yer face correctly, ya care too. Don’t cha?”
Kiyoomi felt his face burn with red. “Well, of course I care… He’s my friend and setter…” He was interrupted by Osamu.
“Ya know I don’t mean that. Ya love him, right?”
Kiyoomi sagged down on his sofa and rubbed his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Great,” Osamu said, a smile in his voice. “Come visit on Sunday.”
The next days were full of practice, avoiding answering questions and worrying for Atsumu. Saturday evening was especially bad for Kiyoomi as he had dreamed the night befor about Atsumu when the found him.
Later that night, Kiyoomi called Osamu. The conversation drifted, heavy with unspoken worries, until Kiyoomi finally asked the question that had haunted him since that day.
“Osamu, when we… when we found Atsumu… you said ‘Not again.’ Did… did this happen before?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Only Osamu’s shaky breathing could be heard.
“Yes,” Osamu said at last, his voice rough. “Yeah… it happened before. But back then… he used a razor blade. I… I didn’t see it coming. He… he nearly died. I almost lost him.”
Kiyoomi’s throat tightened as he absorbed the horrifying truth. Memories of when he first met Atsumu flickered through his mind, all the laughter and bravado now tinged with a deeper pain.
“When… when did that happen?” Kiyoomi asked quietly.
“In high school. After we lost to Karasuno…” Osamu’s voice faded, thick with old pain.
Shock rooted Kiyoomi in place. He didn’t know what to say-what could he possibly say? “I’m sorry, Osamu. I… I don’t know…”
“It’s okay, Sakusa,” Osamu replied, voice steadier now. “He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”
On Sunday, Kiyoomi paced his apartment, checking his clothes for the tenth time. The ticking of the clock nearly drove him insane. He glanced at the flowers he’d bought-simple, cheerful, not too much. He hoped Atsumu would like them. He hoped, period.
Every minute felt heavy. What should he say? What if Atsumu didn’t want to see him? What if he made things worse? The lump in his throat thickened with every step he took toward the door.
The city was bright and cold as he made his way to the Miya apartment. The flowers trembled in his hands. When he finally stood outside the door, he paused, steadying his breath, then knocked.
The door opened to Osamu’s familiar face-a little tired, but smiling. “Hey, Omi. Come on in.”
Kiyoomi stepped inside, his heart pounding. He could hear quiet voices from the living room-Rin and Atsumu, talking softly. Osamu took the flowers with a grateful nod. “He’s in there. He’s nervous, too.”
Kiyoomi managed a small, awkward smile. “So am I.”
He stepped into the living room. Atsumu sat curled on the couch, a blanket around his shoulders, eyes fixed on the window. He looked up, startled, when Kiyoomi entered. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Kiyoomi cleared his throat, setting the flowers on the table. “Hey.”
Atsumu’s lips twitched in a shaky smile. “Hey, Omi.”
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. Rin stood, giving Kiyoomi a reassuring nod before slipping out, leaving them alone.
Kiyoomi sat down on the edge of the sofa, careful not to crowd. “I, uh… brought you these.” He gestured at the flowers, suddenly self-conscious. “I didn’t know what else to bring.”
Atsumu stared at them, then back at Kiyoomi. “They’re nice. Thanks.” His voice was thin, but honest.
Atsumu fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, eyes fixed on his hands. “Omi… I’m realy sorry,” he said quietly. “Fer draggin’ ya into all this. My mess. My miserable life.”
Kiyoomi shook his head, his voice steady and honest. “No, Atsumu, you’re not dragging me into anything. I’m here because I want to be. Because I value you. I care about you. And honestly… I’m sorry, too. I should have done more for you. I should have seen how much you were hurting.”
Atsumu looked up, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. “No, Omi. Ya did plenty. Seein’ me. Lookin’ after me. Makin’ me pancakes…” His smile grew, small but genuine. “They were delicious, Omi. Even better than Osamu’s.”
From the kitchen, Osamu’s voice rang out, mock-offended, “Hey! I heard that!”
Rin poked his head in, grinning. “Sakusa, you stayin’ for dinner?”
Kiyoomi glanced at Atsumu, catching the sparkle that had slowly returned to his eyes over the past few weeks. “I’d love to,” he said, and for the first time in a long while, it felt like the promise of something good.
The first meeting between them had started a bit awkward, but soon Kiyoomi came by almost daily. Atsumu was going to therapy again, and he was getting better every day. Soon, he wanted to go back to his own apartment-he didn’t want to inconvenience his brother any longer. Osamu wasn’t a fan of the idea, but Kiyoomi, who lived just next door, promised to keep an eye on him.
Atsumu did well: he ate regularly, kept up with therapy, and after a few weeks, he started going to volleyball practice again. That’s when he realized just how many people valued him. Over the past weeks, he’d come to accept that Osamu and Rin loved him dearly, and that Kiyoomi cared for him. But now, seeing the whole team celebrating his return-genuinely happy to have him back-moved him to tears. He cried nearly the whole day, overwhelmed by the warmth and acceptance. The light inside him, once so dim, shone as bright as it ever had.
Kiyoomi watched, chest tight, a lump forming in his throat at the sight of Atsumu’s tears-not of pain, but of joy. Maybe, Kiyoomi thought, this was all Atsumu ever needed: to be reassured he was loved, to be shown it, again and again.
Later that evening, after they’d eaten dinner together, Kiyoomi quietly pulled Atsumu onto the balcony. The city glowed below, and the air was cool and gentle. Atsumu leaned against the railing, looking content, a faint smile still lingering on his lips.
Kiyoomi took a breath, steadying himself. “Atsu, I need to tell you something. I don’t know if this is the right moment, but… I need to get it out.”
Atsumu turned, curiosity and a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “What is it, Omi?”
Kiyoomi hesitated, searching for the right words. “I know things have been hard. I know I can’t fix everything, and I’m sorry I didn’t see how much you were struggling before. But… I want you to know that I’m here because I care about you. Not just as a teammate. Not just as a friend.”
He swallowed, voice quiet but certain. “I care about you, Atsumu. I… I love you.”
The words hung in the air, soft and vulnerable. For a heartbeat, Atsumu just stared, wide-eyed. Then a slow, genuine smile spread across his face, brighter than any Kiyoomi had seen in months. Tears shimmered in his eyes, but this time, they were full of something new-hope, and joy, and love.
“Omi,” Atsumu whispered, voice trembling. “Thank ya. I… I love ya too.”
Kiyoomi let out a shaky breath, relief and happiness flooding through him. Atsumu stepped closer, leaning into Kiyoomi’s side, and together they looked out over the city, the future open and bright before them.
For the first time in a long while, neither of them felt alone.