The Space Between Breaths

The first thing Atsumu notices is the cold. Not the air—the bed. The spot next to him where Osamu should be, radiating heat like a furnace, is empty. He rolls over, arm flopping out, and hits flat sheets. His eyes snap open.

Alarm clock says 7:14.

“Shit.”

He’s out of bed before the word finishes, feet smacking the tatami. Uniform still on the floor from last night—he stayed up watching match footage, then passed out without laying anything out. Stupid. So stupid. He yanks the white shirt over his head, fumbling with buttons like his fingers don’t belong to him. Hair’s a disaster, sticking up everywhere, and there’s no time to wash it. He drags a hand through it, grimaces.

Downstairs, kitchen’s empty. Half-eaten bowl of rice on the counter, chopsticks resting across the rim. Osamu’s shoes are gone from the genkan. He didn’t wait. Of course he didn’t.

Atsumu shoves his feet into loafers, grabs his gym bag, slams the door. Morning air bites his cheeks—autumn chill—but he barely feels it. He’s almost sprinting toward Inarizaki, streets blurring past. He checks his phone: 7:33. Seven minutes till first bell. If he runs the whole way, he can make it.

But first—his makeup.

He skids to a stop at the corner convenience store, ducks into the bathroom. Fluorescent light is harsh, unforgiving. He stares at his reflection: dark circles, a small breakout along his jaw, the general pallor of someone who slept like shit. His hands shake as he reaches into his bag, but his fingers find only the bottom. No makeup pouch. He must’ve left it on his desk last night, right next to the laptop he was watching highlights on.

His stomach drops. He can’t go to school like this. Can’t. But the bell’s gonna ring in five minutes, and if he’s late again, Kita will give him that look—the one that says disappointed without a word. That’s worse than any shouting.

He shoves the bag back into his locker, splashes water on his face, tries to arrange his hair into something presentable. It doesn’t work. He looks tired, raw, exposed. Like his skin’s too thin.

He makes it to class with thirty seconds to spare. Slides into his seat next to Osamu, who doesn’t even glance at him. Just stares ahead, notebook open, pen in hand. Atsumu’s chest tightens. He wants to say something—why didn’t you wake me?—but the words stick. He knows why. Osamu’s been pulling away for weeks, a slow drift Atsumu can’t seem to stop. They used to be inseparable, two halves of the same whole. Now they’re just two people who happen to share the same face.

Morning lessons blur. Around third period, his stomach growls—a hollow ache reminding him he hasn’t eaten. He checks his pockets: nothing. Forgot his wallet. No lunch money, no snacks, not even a yen for the vending machine. He tries to ignore the hunger, focuses on the blackboard, but the letters swim. His head feels light.

By lunch, he’s dizzy. Watches his teammates pull out bento boxes and convenience store onigiri, laughing, shoving each other. Suna unwraps a sandwich with surgical precision. Ginjima offers him a piece of tamagoyaki, and Atsumu forces a grin, waves it away. “Nah, I’m good. Ate a big breakfast.”

His voice sounds wrong even to his own ears. Thin. But no one notices. They never do.

Afternoon drags. He’s barely keeping his eyes open in class, mind already at practice. Volleyball is the only thing that makes sense. The court, the ball, the rhythm of a well-executed set—it’s the one place where he’s in control, where his body does exactly what he tells it. He needs that today. Needs to feel strong.

Practice starts at four. By the time he steps into the gym, the hunger has settled into a dull throb behind his eyes. He changes quickly, laces up, joins warm-ups. Jumping jacks, stretches, lunges. Every movement feels heavier than it should. His legs are lead, arms are rubber. But he pushes through, because he’s Miya Atsumu, and he doesn’t show weakness.

First hour is standard drills: receives, spikes, serve practice. His hands are steady, his tosses precise. This is what he’s good at. This is what he is. The ball leaves his fingers and arcs perfectly, dropping into the sweet spot over the net. His setter’s touch is poetry. For a few minutes, he forgets the hollow feeling in his chest.

Then, during a water break, it happens.

He’s standing near the back of the court, wiping sweat from his brow, when a hand cups his right buttock. A firm, intentional squeeze. Fingers dig in for a second, then slide away. Atsumu freezes. Turns.

It’s one of the third-year senpai. A bench player, not even starting. He’s grinning, but there’s something mean in his eyes, something that says I can do this because you’re nothing. He walks past Atsumu without a word, joins a group of other senpai, and they start laughing about something else.

Atsumu’s face burns. His skin crawls where the hand touched him. He looks around the gym—no one saw. Or no one’s looking. Osamu is on the other side, practicing jump serves, back turned. Suna’s chatting with Ginjima. Kita’s in the office, probably reviewing drills.

He’s alone.

He swallows. His throat’s dry. He wants to say something, to scream, to punch that senpai in his smug face. But what would that accomplish? He’d get benched, maybe suspended. He’d be the one in trouble. And everyone would say, It’s just Atsumu being dramatic again. So he clenches his fists, digs his nails into his palms, and turns back to the court.

The rest of practice is a nightmare. Every time the senpai gets near him, Atsumu flinches. He drops a receive he should’ve had. His sets are off by inches. Coach Kurosu yells at him to focus, and he nods, says yes, sir, but his brain is static. He can still feel that hand on him. The ghost of it.

When practice breaks for drills, Atsumu excuses himself to the restroom. Locker room is empty, cold. He stands in front of the mirror and stares at his reflection. Same face, but different. Tainted. He presses his palms against the sink, leans forward, and lets out a shaky breath.

And then the tears come.

It’s not a dramatic sob—it’s a quiet, humiliated leaking from his eyes. He tries to stop it, wipes at his face furiously, but it won’t stop. His shoulders shake. He bites his lip to keep from making a sound. He’s not supposed to cry. He’s Miya Atsumu. Loud, arrogant, untouchable. He doesn’t fall apart in locker rooms because some asshole touched him.

But he does.

He stays there for three minutes. Maybe four. Time loses meaning. He splashes cold water on his face, and when he looks up again, his eyes are rimmed red. The evidence is there, impossible to hide. He can’t go back out like this. But he can’t stay here forever, either.

He hears footsteps in the hallway, voices approaching. He straightens his jersey, takes one last breath, and opens the door.

The gym is loud. Balls bouncing, shoes squeaking, teammates shouting. Atsumu walks back to his spot, head down, hoping no one looks too closely.

They do.

“Oi, Atsumu, you okay?” Suna’s voice, casual but probing.

“Yeah, fine,” he mutters. “Just got dust in my eye.”

Suna raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. The others, though—they notice the redness, the puffy lids. The teasing starts low.

“What’s wrong, Atsumu? Someone steal your mascara?” That’s one of the second-years, laughing.

“Maybe he got rejected by a girl,” another adds.

“Or a boy,” someone else snickers.

Atsumu forces a grin, tries to laugh along. “Shut up, you’re just jealous of my natural beauty.” The words come out wrong. Too sharp. Too defensive.

Osamu is watching him now. From across the net, his eyes narrow. He doesn’t say anything, but he sees. Atsumu can feel his twin’s gaze like a weight.

The drills resume. Atsumu’s serves are wild. He double-faults twice, something he hasn’t done since his first year. His tosses are erratic, too high, too low. Coach Kurosu calls him out, and the team groans. The senpai who touched him makes a comment under his breath—too quiet for anyone else to hear, but Atsumu catches it. Bitch.

Something inside him cracks.

He sets the ball for Ginjima, but his hands slip, and the ball goes spinning into the net. Ginjima has to scramble to avoid tripping. He glares at Atsumu. “What the hell, Miya?”

“Sorry,” Atsumu says, but it comes out barely a whisper.

That’s when Kita steps in.

The captain’s voice is level, calm, but it cuts through the noise like a blade. “Atsumu.”

Atsumu turns. Kita’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are hard.

“You’re not focused,” Kita says. “Your attitude is affecting the team. If you can’t maintain a positive mindset, you need to leave the court until you can.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Atsumu’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks around the gym—all eyes on him. Some pity. Some annoyance. Osamu’s face is tight, but he stays silent.

“I—I’m fine,” Atsumu manages. “I can keep going.”

“Can you?” Kita’s tone is not cruel, but it’s firm. “Because right now, you’re a liability. Take five. Or ten. Come back when you’re ready.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order.

Atsumu stands there, frozen. The tears he fought so hard to suppress well up again, spill over before he can stop them. His face crumples. A choked sob escapes his throat, loud and ugly. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. The humiliation is complete, total, a wave that pulls him under.

He sinks to his knees on the polished gym floor. His hands cover his face, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone sees. Everyone hears the way he cries—deep, raw, broken sounds that echo off the high ceiling. The gym goes silent. The balls stop bouncing. The only noise is Atsumu’s crying.

Osamu moves first.

He drops his towel, walks across the court without a word. He crouches beside his twin, and his hand lands on Atsumu’s shoulder. Gentle. Firm. Atsumu looks up, face blotchy, eyes streaming. Osamu’s own eyes are unreadable, but there’s something there—a flicker of recognition. Of guilt.

“Let’s go,” Osamu says quietly. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t explain. He just wraps an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders and helps him stand. Atsumu leans into him, too exhausted to be embarrassed anymore. Osamu guides him out of the gym, past the frozen faces of their teammates, past Kita’s stunned silence, past the senpai who looks suddenly pale.

The door closes behind them. The hallway is empty, quiet. Osamu doesn’t let go. He walks Atsumu to the locker room, sits him down on a bench, and sits beside him. Neither speaks for a long time.

Finally, Osamu says, “I’m sorry.”

Atsumu shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should’ve been there.” Osamu’s voice is thick. “I saw you this morning. I knew something was off. I just… I thought it was the usual shit.”

Atsumu laughs bitterly. “It is the usual shit. Just worse today.”

“Who was it?”

Atsumu hesitates. Tells him. Osamu’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He just puts his arm around Atsumu again, pulls him close. They sit like that, foreheads almost touching, breathing the same air. For a moment, they’re not two separate people. They’re the Miya twins, together, the way it used to be.

Back in the gym, a silence lingers. Kita stares at the closed door, his expression troubled. The team shifts uncomfortably. Suna picks up a ball, rolls it between his hands, and says nothing.

The practice resumes, but something has changed. A crack has appeared in the armor of Inarizaki Volleyball Club, and no amount of drills can seal it. Later, Kita will find Atsumu and apologize, and the senpai will receive a quiet but firm talking-to from Coach Kurosu. But that’s later.

Right now, in the locker room, two boys sit together in the dim light. One cries softly. The other holds him. And for the first time in weeks, they are whole.