One Bite

The gymnasium hummed with the usual sounds of practice: sneakers squeaking on polished wood, the thud of a volleyball, seventeen athletes breathing hard. Inarizaki was down by three against some local team, but Atsumu Miya didn't care about the score. He moved on instinct, his body a weapon from years of obsessive practice, his mind a pit he refused to look into.

He set. Quick, precise—a flick of the wrist sent the ball arcing toward Osamu on the left. His twin spiked, a clean kill. The ball hit the floor. Point.

“Nice set,” Osamu muttered, not looking at him.

Atsumu said nothing. His throat felt dry. Hollow. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning—a single rice ball that sat like a stone before he forced himself to spit it into the toilet. Food felt irrelevant. Everything felt irrelevant except the court, the ball, the next point.

He was good at this. Volleyball was the only thing that quieted the static in his head, even if just for an hour or two.

Coach Kurosu blew his whistle. Substitution. Atsumu jogged to the sideline, grabbed his water bottle, but didn't drink. He just held it, letting condensation wet his palm, staring at the court with unfocused eyes.

“Miya.” Kita’s voice, low and even, came from beside him.

Atsumu flinched. He hadn’t heard the captain approach. Kita stood with his hands clasped behind his back, expression neutral in that unreadable way that always made Atsumu feel like he was being weighed.

“You’re gonna need that water if you’re going back in,” Kita said, nodding at the bottle.

Atsumu unscrewed the cap, took a single sip. The water tasted like nothing. He wished it would taste like something.

Kita watched him a beat longer than necessary, then turned back to the match. “You’re playing well.”

It wasn’t praise. It was an observation. That was Kita’s way.

Atsumu didn’t respond.

The second set started, and Atsumu clawed his way back onto the court. The rival team’s ace served—heavy topspin that Kai barely dug. The ball floated high, a wounded bird, and Atsumu sprinted to the net. He set for Suna, who feinted and dumped it over. Point.

But the rally wasn’t over. The referee’s whistle came late, tangled in chaos, and Osamu had already lunged for the ball, crashing into Atsumu’s side. They went down together, limbs tangled, a chorus of groans.

“Get off me,” Osamu grunted, shoving at Atsumu’s shoulder.

“You get off me. Ya clumsy idiot.”

“At least I ain’t the one who missed that last serve.”

“I didn’t miss it. The wind was—”

“Indoor gym, dumbass.”

The bickering was routine—their language, sharp and familiar. But something snapped in Atsumu today. The words hit differently. The shove from Osamu felt like an accusation, like everyone was staring, like the static in his head was rising to a scream.

He shoved back. Hard.

Osamu’s eyes widened. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothin’,” Atsumu hissed, grappling to his feet. His hand caught Osamu’s sleeve, and Osamu grabbed his in return. They strained against each other, teeth bared, brothers whose bond had frayed to a thread.

The gym fell quiet. The rival team stopped mid-court. Coach Kurosu was shouting, muffled and distant.

Then came the sound of tearing fabric.

Atsumu’s sleeve ripped from shoulder to elbow, exposing his arm to the fluorescent lights.

And everyone saw.

The scars were an ugly constellation on his pale skin—a ladder of thin, raised lines from wrist to elbow. Some old, white and faded. Others newer, pink and angry, still healing. Deliberate. Methodical. Evidence of a war fought in silence, in the dark hours when the world was asleep and Atsumu was alone with the static.

The gym went silent. Not the kind after a missed point—the kind after a car crash.

Osamu’s face drained of color. His grip on Atsumu’s jersey loosened, fingers trembling. “Atsumu…” His voice cracked. “What… what are those?”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. For a moment, the world tilted. The lights were too bright. The silence was too loud. He could feel everyone’s eyes burning into him, and he wanted to scream, to run, to tear the gym down.

He yanked his arm back, trying to cover the scars with his remaining sleeve, but he was shaking too hard. “It’s nothin’. It’s—I just—don’t look. Don’t look at me.”

But they were looking. All of them. Suna’s mouth hung open. Ginjima looked like he’d been slapped. The rival team’s captain whispered something to his libero.

Then Atsumu moved. He didn’t know where he was going—locker room, out of the gym, off a cliff—but he had to get away. He had to hide.

“Everyone out.”

The voice was calm. Quiet. Absolute.

Kita Shinsuke stepped into the center of the court, posture unchanged, carrying that same steady weight. He turned to the rival team. “I apologize for the interruption. Our captain needs a moment. Please clear the gym.”

The rival coach nodded slowly, ushering his team toward the exit. One of the first-years lingered, staring, until an upperclassman grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

“Inarizaki,” Kita continued, addressing his own team. “Locker room. Now. No talking until I get there.”

Osamu opened his mouth. “But—”

“Now, Osamu.”

There was no arguing. Osamu’s jaw clenched, eyes fixed on his twin with a desperate searching look. Then he turned and walked away, fists balled at his sides. The rest followed, a silent river of confusion and fear.

The gym door clicked shut.

And then it was just the two of them: Atsumu Miya, trembling in the middle of the court, and Kita Shinsuke, standing in the shadow of the net, patient as stone.

“Sit down, Atsumu.”

Atsumu shook his head. His voice came out thin and broken. “Don’t. Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Kita didn’t move. “You’re not fine. And that’s okay.”

“I said I’m fine!”

The shout echoed off the walls. Atsumu’s chest heaved, fists tight, whole body a wound held together by sheer will. The ripped sleeve hung loose, revealing the scars again, and he clutched his arm like he could strangle the truth into hiding.

Kita walked slowly to the bench. He sat down, resting his forearms on his knees, and looked up at Atsumu with eyes that held no judgment, no pity—only a quiet, unwavering presence.

“I noticed,” Kita said softly. “Three weeks ago. You started wearing long sleeves under your jersey, even when it was hot. You stopped sitting with the team during meals. You say you already ate, but I’ve never seen you eat.” He paused. “I asked Osamu if you were sick. He said you were fine, just stressed. I didn’t push.”

Atsumu’s lip trembled. “Then why are ya pushin’ now?”

“Because I saw your arm.” Kita’s voice didn’t waver. “And I realized I should’ve pushed sooner.”

The words hit Atsumu like a serve to the chest. He staggered back a step, vision blurring. “Ya don’t know what yer talkin’ about,” he whispered. “Ya don’t know anythin’.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” The word cracked in his throat. “Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it becomes real, I can’t pretend anymore. And if I can’t pretend, I don’t know what’s left.”

Kita was silent for a long moment. The gym hummed with the ghost of the match, echoes of cheers and whistles that felt like they belonged to another life.

“I’m not gonna pretend to know what you’re goin’ through,” Kita said, his voice carrying a faint rural lilt. “I’ve never felt that kind of pain. But I know what it’s like to feel like you have to carry everything alone. I know what it’s like to think that if you let someone help, you’ll fall apart.”

Atsumu sank to his knees. The polished wood was cold through his knee pads. He stared at his hands—these hands that set perfect tosses, built victories, had tried so hard to destroy themselves.

“I don’t want to be like this,” he said, barely a whisper. “I keep tellin’ myself it’ll get better. I keep wakin’ up and tellin’ myself today will be different. And every day, it’s the same. I hate myself, Kita. I hate everythin’ about myself.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. Ya don’t see the way I do. Ya don’t hear the voice in my head that tells me I’m worthless, that I’m a burden, that everyone would be better off if I just—”

“Stop.” Kita’s voice was soft but firm. “I’m not gonna let you finish that sentence.”

Atsumu’s shoulders shook. A sob tore out of him, raw and ugly, and he buried his face in his hands. The tears came hot and fast—the kind he hadn’t let himself cry in months, because crying meant weakness, and weakness meant failure.

Kita rose from the bench. He walked over and sat down on the floor beside Atsumu, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He didn’t reach out. He didn’t try to hug him. He just sat there, steady and present, an anchor in a storm.

“I’ve tried to kill myself,” Atsumu whispered, the words falling out like stones. “Twice. The first time, I was too scared to finish it. The second time, Osamu texted me at the right moment, and I stopped.”

Kita’s breath caught. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. “How’d you try?”

“Pills. And…” Atsumu touched his throat, where a faint rope burn still marked his skin. “The second time, a belt.”

Kita closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were steady. “Thank you for tellin’ me.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m pathetic.”

“No. Ya took the hardest step. Ya stopped pretendin’.” Kita turned to face him fully. “I’m not gonna tell ya what to do. I’m not gonna give ya some speech about how it gets better, because I don’t know if it will. But I’m gonna be here. And I’m gonna sit with ya durin’ meals, even if ya only eat one bite. I’m gonna walk with ya to practice. I’m gonna check on ya, and I’m gonna keep checkin’ on ya, until ya get tired of me.”

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. “I’m already tired of ya.”

“Good. Then I’m doin’ it right.” Kita paused. “I’m gonna tell the team. Not all of it—just that you’ve been strugglin’ and that they need to give ya space. Osamu deserves to know the rest, but that’s your choice.”

Atsumu pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. “He’s gonna be so mad.”

“He’s gonna be scared,” Kita corrected. “And guilty. But he’s your brother. He loves ya, even when ya two are at each other’s throats.”

“I don’t deserve him.”

“Maybe not. But he’s got ya anyway.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Shadows shifted across the gym floor as the afternoon sun climbed higher. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing.

Kita stood first, offering Atsumu his hand. “Come on. Let’s get ya some water. Real water, not the pretend sip ya did earlier.”

Atsumu stared at the hand. It wasn’t offered with pity or expectation—just a simple, practical gesture. This was Kita Shinsuke, the boy who ran a farm and a volleyball team with the same calm efficiency, who saw the world in black and white and still found room for shades of gray.

He took the hand.

The locker room was quiet when they entered. The team sat in clusters on the benches, faces a mix of confusion, worry, and fear. Osamu was in the corner, head in his hands. When the door opened, he looked up, and the sight of his twin’s red-rimmed eyes made his composure crack.

“Atsumu…” He stood, voice hoarse.

Kita held up a hand. “Give him a minute.”

Atsumu leaned against the lockers. His legs felt like jelly. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. But Kita was standing beside him, a quiet sentinel, and for the first time in months, Atsumu didn’t feel completely alone.

The explanation came in fragments. Stuttered sentences. Long pauses. Kita filled in the gaps when Atsumu’s voice gave out, using the same clinical precision he applied to game analysis, but with a gentleness that made it bearable.

By the end, Suna was wiping his eyes. Akagi was gripping the bench so hard his knuckles were white. Ginjima looked like he wanted to punch a wall—not out of anger at Atsumu, but at the world for letting this happen to someone he called a teammate.

And Osamu—Osamu was crying. Quietly. His shoulders shook as he stood in front of his twin, hands twitching at his sides.

“Why didn’t ya tell me?” he whispered. “I’m yer brother. We share a room. How did I not see this?”

“Ya weren’t supposed to see,” Atsumu said, his voice fragile. “I got real good at hidin’ it.”

“That’s not good enough.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “I’m supposed to protect ya. I’m the one who’s supposed to know when somethin’s wrong.”

“Yer not a mind reader, Samu.”

“Don’t.” Osamu grabbed him by the shoulders, grip fierce but careful, as if Atsumu might break. “Don’t ya dare make excuses for me. I failed ya. I failed.”

Kita stepped in, placing a hand on Osamu’s arm. “Ya didn’t fail him. Ya didn’t know. And now ya do. That’s what matters.”

Osamu’s face crumpled. He pulled Atsumu into a hug—the kind they hadn’t shared since they were kids, when a scraped knee or a heartbreak was the worst thing in the world. Atsumu stiffened for a moment, then went limp, burying his face in his brother’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up,” Osamu muttered, his voice thick. “Just shut up and let me hold ya.”

The rest of the team looked away, giving them privacy they didn’t ask for but desperately needed. Kita watched for a moment, expression unreadable, then turned to address the team.

“We’re gonna make some changes,” he said quietly. “Meal times, practice schedules—nothin’ drastic, but Atsumu needs support, not pressure. If anyone has questions, come to me. If anyone has concerns, come to me. This stays in this team. Understood?”

A chorus of murmured agreements.

“Good. Now let’s get out of here. We’ve got a match tomorrow, and I expect everyone to play like it.”

The next day, the team gathered for breakfast in the cafeteria. The usual chaos was muted, replaced by a careful, almost tender atmosphere. Suna slid a bowl of rice toward Atsumu without a word. Ginjima poured him tea. No one stared. No one asked questions.

Atsumu sat between Kita and Osamu, staring at the bowl like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. His stomach churned. His hands were shaking.

“One bite,” Kita said, not looking at him. “Just one.”

Atsumu picked up his chopsticks. The rice was warm, fragrant. He lifted a small portion to his lips, chewed, swallowed. It sat in his stomach, heavy but not unwelcome.

He took another bite.

Kita didn’t smile. He didn’t cheer. He just nodded once, a small acknowledgment, and resumed eating his own breakfast.

Under the table, Osamu’s hand found his. Squeezed. Held on.

And for the first time in a very long time, Atsumu Miya felt like he might be okay.