The Volleyball at His Feet

The sun was low, cutting through the tall gym windows, throwing long gold rectangles across the floor. Smell of sweat, dust. Shoes squeaking. Practice winding down. Most of the team was sprawled against the walls, towels over shoulders, water bottles half-empty.

Atsumu stood in the center of the court, still holding the volleyball. His heart was slamming against his ribs so hard he figured everyone could hear it. His palms were sweaty, and it wasn't from the three-hour practice.

He'd been planning this for weeks. Rehearsing the words in his head during morning runs, at lunch, in the dark before sleep. His twin brother Osamu would kill him if he knew what he was about to do. But Atsumu couldn't keep it inside anymore. Every time Suna Rintarou looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes—every time he made a perfect block and turned to Atsumu with that little crooked smile—it felt like his chest might split open.

"Oi, everyone!" Atsumu's voice cut through the chatter, louder than he meant. He saw Osamu's head snap up from tying his shoe, suspicion already flickering in those identical gray eyes.

The team went quiet. Ginjima froze mid-sip. Akagi looked up from stretching. Suna, leaning against the wall with his phone out, glanced over with mild curiosity, one eyebrow raised.

Atsumu's throat went dry. Heat crept up his neck, stained his cheeks. But he'd come this far. He wasn't backing down.

The volleyball slipped from his fingers, bounced once, twice, rolled toward the net.

"Suna." His voice cracked on the name. His face burned hotter. "I gotta tell you somethin'."

A murmur rippled through the team. Someone whistled low. Osamu was already on his feet, his expression darkening with understanding.

Suna straightened slowly, pocketing his phone. His face was unreadable—that same mask he wore during matches, during arguments, during moments that should have shaken anyone else. "What is it, Miya?"

Not Atsumu. Miya. The formal address sent a cold thread of doubt through Atsumu's chest, but he forced himself forward. He'd imagined this a thousand times. Suna's eyes softening, him stepping forward, the team cheering like some dumb rom-com.

But this was real life. No script.

"I like you," Atsumu said, the words hanging in the air like smoke. "I mean, I really like you. Like—like-like you. The kind that keeps me up at night thinkin' about your stupid face and your stupid blocks and the way you laugh at me when I mess up."

He was rambling. He knew it. But the dam had broken, and everything he'd held back for months came flooding out.

"I know we're teammates. Might be weird. But I don't care about weird. I care about you, Rintarou. And I wanted you to know."

Silence.

Absolute, crushing silence.

Atsumu's eyes were locked on Suna, searching for any sign—a smile, a blush, a step forward. Anything.

Suna's expression didn't change. But his fingers, hanging at his sides, curled into fists.

The air felt thick, oppressive. Atsumu could hear his own heartbeat, feel sweat trickling down his neck. The team was frozen, waiting.

Suna looked at Atsumu—really looked. At the trembling hope in his eyes, at the vulnerability he'd laid bare for everyone. Something in Suna's chest twisted painfully, because he knew what he had to do. What was safe.

He thought of Osamu. Late-night video games, shared meals, easy friendship. He thought of how Osamu would look at him if he knew. He thought of losing that.

Fear was a cold, familiar weight in his stomach.

"Sorry," Suna said, the word flat, deliberate. "I don't feel the same way."

Atsumu flinched like he'd been slapped.

"I mean—" Suna forced his voice steady, casual. "You're my teammate. That's all. I don't like you like that, Miya."

The surname again. A deliberate distance.

Atsumu's lower lip trembled, and he bit down hard. His eyes were already glassy, blinking fast to keep tears back. "You—you sure? 'Cause I thought maybe—"

"I'm sure." Suna's voice was harder now, sharper. A shield. "I don't like you. I never have."

A lie. A terrible, cowardly lie. But easier than the truth.

Atsumu's face crumpled. The hope drained out of him like water through a sieve, leaving something raw and broken. His hands, the same hands that could set a ball with impossible precision, hung useless at his sides.

"Oh." His voice was barely a whisper. "Okay. I—I get it."

But he didn't. Not at all. Because just last week, Suna had walked him home in the rain, shared his umbrella despite getting soaked. Just last month, Suna had stayed up with him until 2 AM helping him practice serves. Just yesterday, Suna had looked at him with those dark eyes and smiled—really smiled—and Atsumu had been so sure.

"You're still hung up on Heather, aren't you?" The words came out bitter, accusatory. Atsumu's voice cracked on the name of Suna's ex-girlfriend—the one who'd broken up with him six months ago.

Suna's mask cracked, just slightly. "That's not—"

"No, I get it." Atsumu was backing away now, footsteps hollow against the wood. "I'm just your teammate. Just a guy who happens to be in love with you. Nothin' special."

"Atsumu—" Osamu's voice from somewhere to the left, but Atsumu didn't hear it.

The first tear fell. Then another. Then Atsumu was running, shoving past Ginjima, past Akagi, his footsteps echoing as he burst through the gym doors and disappeared into the late afternoon light.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Osamu moved.

He crossed the court in three strides, his face twisting into something ugly and furious. His hand shot out and grabbed Suna by the collar of his jersey, yanking him forward until they were nose to nose.

"What the hell was that?" Osamu's voice was low, dangerous. His knuckles white where they gripped the fabric.

Suna didn't struggle. Didn't flinch. Just looked at Osamu with those impassive eyes, even as his insides were screaming. "I told him the truth."

"The truth?" Osamu let out a harsh laugh with no humor in it. "You're a liar, Suna. Always have been. But I never thought you'd be cruel."

"I'm not cruel."

"You just broke my brother's heart in front of the whole team. What would you call it?"

Suna opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Because Osamu was right. No defense.

Osamu released his jersey with a shove, and Suna stumbled back. "I thought you were my friend. I trusted you with him. I thought—" His voice broke, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair. "I thought you actually cared about him."

"I do." The words slipped out before Suna could stop them.

Osamu froze. Then he turned, eyes narrowed, voice dripping venom. "Then why didn't you say it? Why did you make him cry?"

Suna's silence was answer enough.

"Get out of my sight," Osamu said, the words ice. "I don't even wanna look at you right now."

He walked away, grabbing his bag and heading for the doors. The rest of the team followed, one by one, casting glances at Suna—disappointed, disgusted.

Akagi shook his head as he passed. "That was messed up, Suna."

Ginjima said nothing, but the look he gave Suna spoke volumes.

Even the first-years shot him glares as they filed out.

Within minutes, the gym was empty.

Suna stood alone in the center of the court, the afternoon light fading around him. The volleyball Atsumu had dropped was still there, lying on its side near the net. Suna walked over and picked it up, feeling the familiar texture of leather against his palms.

He thought of Atsumu's face. The hope. The love. The devastation.

He thought of his own lie.

And then he thought of Osamu's words: I thought you actually cared about him.

Suna sank to his knees on the wooden floor, the volleyball clutched to his chest, and for the first time in years, he let himself cry.

---

Kita Shinsuke found Atsumu behind the gymnasium, sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, face buried in his arms. His shoulders shook, and the sounds he made were small, broken things.

Kita didn't say anything. He just sat down beside him, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to give space. He folded his hands in his lap and waited.

Minutes stretched. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. City sounds filtered in from somewhere distant—cars, birds, faint hum of conversation.

Finally, Atsumu lifted his head. His eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks stained with tears. He looked small, diminished, nothing like the confident setter who commanded the court.

"Kita-san," he whispered, his voice wrecked.

"I'm here, Atsumu."

"He said he didn't like me." Atsumu's voice cracked again. "He said he never liked me. But I know that's a lie, Kita-san. I know it. I saw the way he looked at me sometimes. I felt it."

Kita's expression remained calm, but his eyes were sad. "Sometimes people say things they don't mean because they're scared."

"But why?" Atsumu's voice rose, trembling with frustration. "Why would he be scared of me? I would never hurt him. I would never—" He broke off, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.

Kita reached out and placed a steady hand on Atsumu's shoulder. "Fear doesn't always make sense. It's not always about you. Sometimes it's about what they might lose. Sometimes it's about what they think they don't deserve."

Atsumu wiped his nose with the back of his hand, sniffled. "I don't care about any of that. I just wanted him to be honest with me."

"I know." Kita's voice was gentle. "Give him time. And when you're ready, talk to him. Don't let this be the end of something that hasn't even started yet."

Atsumu looked at Kita, and for a moment, the despair in his eyes flickered with something like hope. "You think he actually likes me?"

"I think," Kita said slowly, "that Suna Rintarou is a complicated person who doesn't always know how to handle his own feelings. But I've watched the way he looks at you during practice. I've seen the way he lingers after you leave. I've noticed things that maybe you haven't."

Atsumu's breath hitched. "Really?"

"Really." Kita stood up and offered Atsumu a hand. "Come on. Let's get you home. You can cry as much as you want, but not here. Not alone."

Atsumu took his hand and let Kita pull him to his feet. He felt wrung out, hollow, but the weight on his chest had eased just slightly.

As they walked toward the school gates, Atsumu glanced back at the gymnasium, where the lights had gone dark.

He hoped Suna was thinking about him.

---

Suna didn't sleep that night.

He lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene over and over. Atsumu's face. The tears. The way his voice had broken when he said Suna's name.

He reached for his phone a dozen times, thumb hovering over Atsumu's contact. But what could he say? What words could possibly fix what he'd done?

The truth was, he'd been a coward. So terrified of losing Osamu's friendship, of making things awkward, of ruining the delicate balance, that he'd hurt the one person who mattered most.

He thought about Atsumu's confession. How brave it must have been to stand there, in front of everyone, and lay his heart bare. And Suna had stomped on it.

I don't like you. I never have.

The lie tasted like ash in his memory.

He finally sat up, the clock flashing 3:47 AM. His room was dark, silence pressing in like a weight.

He thought about Atsumu's smile. The way it lit up his whole face, made Suna's chest feel too small for his heart.

He thought about Atsumu's hands. The way they moved when he set the ball, graceful and precise, like dancing.

He thought about Atsumu's voice. Raised in argument, soft in confession, warm in laughter.

He thought about Atsumu.

Always Atsumu.

"I'm such an idiot," Suna whispered into the darkness.

He'd liked Atsumu for months. Maybe longer. Just been too scared to admit it, even to himself.

But Atsumu had been brave enough to confess in front of everyone. The least Suna could do was be brave enough to tell the truth.

He pulled out his phone and typed a message, then deleted it. Typed another, deleted that too. Over and over until his eyes burned.

Finally, he settled on three words:

I'm sorry.

He didn't send it. Not yet. But he would. Tomorrow, he would find Atsumu and say everything he should have said from the start.

He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, and waited for dawn.

---

The next day, Suna arrived at school early. He'd barely slept, and it showed—dark circles under his eyes, hands trembling slightly as he tightened his shoelaces.

He found Atsumu by the vending machines near the gym, alone, staring blankly at the selection of drinks. His hair was messier than usual, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller.

Suna's heart hammered as he approached. He stopped a few feet away, palms sweating.

"Atsumu."

Atsumu didn't turn around. His hand paused over the button for iced coffee, then dropped.

"I don't wanna talk to you, Suna."

The use of his surname stung. But Suna deserved it.

"I know. I know you don't." Suna's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "But I need to say something. Please. Just—just let me say it."

Atsumu's shoulders tensed, but he didn't walk away.

Suna took a shaky breath. This was it. No more lies. No more fear.

"I lied yesterday."

Atsumu's head turned slightly, just enough to see the profile of his face, the guarded look in his eyes.

"I do like you," Suna said, and the words felt like ripping open a wound. "I've liked you for a long time. Maybe since the first time I saw you set a ball. Maybe before that. I don't know."

Atsumu's breath caught.

"But I was scared." Suna's voice cracked. "Scared of what Osamu would think. Scared of making things weird. Scared of—of losing what we had. So I lied. And I hurt you. And I can't—I can't take it back, but I can say I'm sorry."

He stepped closer, reaching out but not quite touching.

"I'm sorry, Atsumu. I'm so sorry. I was a coward. And I don't deserve you. I know that. But I needed you to know the truth. I need you to know that when you confessed, it was everything I wanted to hear. And I threw it away because I was too scared to be brave."

Tears were streaming down Suna's face now, and he didn't bother wiping them away.

"You don't have to forgive me. You don't have to talk to me. I just—I couldn't let you think that you weren't enough. Because you are. You're more than enough. You're everything."

The silence stretched between them, fragile and aching.

Then Atsumu turned around.

His eyes were red, his expression raw and conflicted. He looked at Suna—really looked—and saw the tears, the trembling, the vulnerability he'd never seen Suna show anyone.

"You hurt me," Atsumu said, his voice small. "Really hurt me."

"I know." Suna's voice broke. "I know I did. And I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you let me."

Atsumu's lip wobbled. "You can't just say pretty words and fix everything."

"I'm not trying to fix everything. I'm trying to start. If you'll let me."

A long, agonizing moment passed.

Then Atsumu's shoulders sagged, and he let out a shaky breath. "I don't know if I can trust you yet. But I—I want to. I want to believe you."

Relief flooded through Suna, so intense it made his knees weak. "That's all I'm asking for. A chance."

Atsumu sniffled, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

Suna let out a wet, broken laugh. "Yeah. I know."

They stood there, facing each other in the early morning light, the vending machine humming softly beside them. Nothing was fixed. Everything was still raw and aching and uncertain.

But it was a start.

And for now, that was enough.