The Weight of a Confession

The late afternoon light cut through the high windows of Inarizaki’s gym, throwing long dusty stripes across the floor. The air still smelled like sweat and that faint rubbery squeak of sneakers, but everything was quiet now. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago. Most of the team had already shuffled out, voices fading down the hall. Just the occasional drip from a faucet and the thump of Atsumu’s heart—loud enough he figured Suna could probably hear it.

Atsumu stood by the net, twisting the hem of his practice jersey. He’d gone over this a hundred times in his head. What he’d say, how to sound casual. But now, with Suna leaning against the wall by the door, scrolling through his phone like he didn’t have a care, every word just evaporated.

“Oi, Suna.”

Suna didn’t look up. Just a vague hum, thumb still swiping.

Atsumu swallowed. Gym felt too big. Too quiet. “Can I, uh… talk to ya for a second?”

Now Suna raised his eyes. That flat look he always had—like he was bored before you even started. He pocketed his phone, tilted his head. “Sure. What’s up?”

Atsumu stepped closer, then stopped. Ears burning. Blush creeping up his neck. Stupid. He’d stared down blockers twice his size. This was worse than any match point.

“I need to tell ya somethin’.” Voice came out too high. He cleared his throat. “Somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about for a while.”

Suna didn’t move. Arms crossed. Waiting.

“I like ya, Suna.” Words tumbled out, clumsy. Atsumu met his eyes for a second, then looked away. “Like—not just as a teammate or a friend. I mean really like ya. I know it’s weird, and I know we’re both guys, but—I don’t care. I just wanted ya to know.”

Silence stretched. Thin. Brittle. Then Suna let out a short laugh. Humorless.

“Are you serious?”

Atsumu’s heart stuttered. “Yeah. Dead serious.”

Suna pushed off the wall, stepped closer—but not in a way that invited anything. His face had gone cold. Dismissive. “Listen, Miya. I don’t know what kind of fantasy you’re living in, but I’m not interested. Not in guys, not in you.”

Hit like a spike to the chest. Atsumu’s lips parted, but nothing came out. He’d prepared for rejection—told himself it was likely—but not the casual cruelty. The way Suna said “Miya” like it was a stranger’s name.

“But—Suna, I thought—” Voice cracked. “I thought maybe ya felt somethin’ too. The way ya look at me sometimes, the way ya always sit next to me on the bus—”

“You thought wrong.” Flat. Cutting. “I don’t like you. Not like that. So drop it.”

Atsumu’s eyes stung. He blinked fast, trying to hold back tears. Hands trembling. Hated how weak he must look. But the words spilled out anyway, desperate. “Is it because I’m a guy? Or because ya still ain’t over Heather?”

Air shifted. Suna’s expression flickered—a crack—then hardened into something dangerous. Heather was his ex from middle school. The one who’d moved away and broke it off via text. Atsumu knew it was a low blow. Couldn’t take it back.

“Don’t talk about her.” Low and tight.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I just thought maybe that’s why ya won’t even consider—”

Slap came so fast Atsumu didn’t see it. Palm against cheek, sharp crack echoing through the empty gym. A searing pain bloomed across his left cheek. He staggered sideways, hand flying to his face. When he looked up, Suna was staring at his own hand like he’d just found a snake attached to his wrist.

Atsumu’s eyes filled with tears—not just from the sting, but the sheer shock. Suna had never hit anyone before. Not once. Now his cheek burned, the shape of Suna’s fingers already rising red.

Suna stepped back, face pale. Jaw clenched, but eyes betrayed a flicker of panic. Without a word, he turned and bolted. Sneakers slapping wood. Gone through the door.

Atsumu stood frozen. One hand pressed to his cheek. The other limp at his side. Tears broke free, hot and uncontrollable. He sank to his knees on the floor, shoulders shaking with sobs he couldn’t hold in.

Door creaked open again. Not Suna.

“Atsumu? What the hell—are ya cryin’?”

Osamu. Come back for his water bottle. Now frozen in the doorway, his twin brother’s broken figure filling his vision. Behind him, the rest of the team trickled in—Akagi, Ginjima, Omimi, others—conversations dying as they took in the scene.

Osamu rushed forward, dropping to his knees. “What happened? Who did this?”

Atsumu couldn’t answer. Just shook his head, tears streaming, the red handprint stark against pale skin.

“Was it Suna?” Osamu’s voice turned to ice. He didn’t need an answer; the guilty puff of air from Atsumu’s sob told him everything. He stood up, fists clenched, and stormed toward the door. “Where’d he go?”

“Osamu, don’t,” Atsumu choked out, but Osamu was already gone.

Team crowded around. Murmurs of confusion and concern. Akagi knelt, offering a towel. Ginjima ran for ice. Omimi stood guard by the door, face grim.

“What the hell did Suna do to him?” someone whispered.

They didn’t have to wait long. From outside, Osamu’s voice echoed across the courtyard.

“SUNA RINTAROU! YA BETTER START RUNNIN’, ‘CAUSE WHEN I FIND YA, I’M GONNA RIP YA APART!”

Team exchanged uneasy glances. Atsumu curled into himself, tears soaking into his practice pants. The slap still throbbed. But the memory of Suna’s cold eyes hurt worse.

---

Osamu found Suna behind the storage shed, hunched over with his head in his hands. He didn’t see him at first, but the sound of heavy breathing made Suna look up. Eyes red-rimmed. Usual stoicism shattered.

“What did ya do to him?” Osamu’s voice barely a whisper, but carrying a volcanic weight. He stopped a few feet away, hands shaking at his sides.

Suna didn’t answer. Just stared at the ground.

“I said, what did ya do?” Osamu’s voice rose, cracking with anger.

“I slapped him.” Hollow. “He confessed. I told him I didn’t like him. Then he brought up Heather, and I—I lost it.”

Osamu’s eyes widened. For a long moment, he just stood there, processing. Then he laughed—bitter, incredulous. “Ya slapped him? Because he told ya he loved ya and mentioned yer ex? Are ya out of yer damn mind?”

Suna flinched. “I know.”

“No, ya don’t know!” Osamu stepped closer, jabbing a finger at Suna’s chest. “That’s my twin brother. He’s been in love with ya for two years, Suna. Two years! And ya just—ya broke him. In front of everyone. With a slap.”

“I said I know!” Suna’s voice cracked, and he finally looked up. Eyes glassy. “Do ya think I wanted to do that? Do ya think I’m not already—”

“I don’t care what ya are.” Osamu’s voice dropped to a dangerous low. “Yer done. Ya hear me? We’re done. Ya stay away from him. From me. From the whole damn team. Yer a fucking monster.”

Suna opened his mouth, but Osamu turned away, shoulders rigid. Walked back toward the gym without a backward glance. Left Suna alone in the lengthening shadows.

---

Team reaction was swift. Absolute. By the time they left the gym—Atsumu supported between Akagi and Ginjima, cheek ice-packed, eyes swollen—word had spread. Suna the villain. Atsumu the victim. Anyone who saw the red mark knew it.

In the locker room, Suna’s bag had been moved to the corner. No one sat next to him. When he walked in, conversations stopped. Akagi shot him a look of disgust. Omimi shook his head, looked away. Ginjima muttered something under his breath—Suna caught “bastard” clear enough.

Suna gathered his things in silence. Didn’t bother with a shower. Just changed into street clothes and left, the weight of thirty pairs of eyes on his back.

Walk home was long. Sun setting, painting streets in amber and rose. Suna didn’t see any of it. He saw Atsumu’s face. The red mark rising. The tears falling. Saw the way Atsumu crumbled, the broken sound he made when the slap connected.

I didn’t mean it.

Didn’t matter. He said it. He did it. Couldn’t take it back.

---

Atsumu didn’t sleep that night. Lay in bed staring at the ceiling, sting on his cheek a dull ache matching the one in his chest. Osamu tried to stay, but Atsumu pushed him away, mumbling he wanted to be alone.

Truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted. He’d been so sure Suna felt something. The glances. The small touches. The way Suna always found excuses to be near him. Atsumu had convinced himself it was real. But the cold rejection, the slap—shattered that illusion into a million jagged pieces.

Why did I bring up Heather? He cursed himself, rolling onto his side. I knew that was a sore spot. I was just so desperate to make him react. Make him feel something.

Suna had reacted. Just not how Atsumu hoped.

Around three in the morning, phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number. But he knew.

I’m sorry.

Atsumu stared at the message for a long time. Thumb hovered over the keyboard. But sorry didn’t erase the slap. Sorry didn’t erase I don’t like you.

He set the phone down. Didn’t reply.

---

Next few days were a nightmare. Practice tense, team divided. Atsumu kept his head down, focused on drills, refused to look Suna’s way. Suna sat on the bench—Coach Kurosu had pulled him aside, told him to “cool off.” Team buzzed with whispers. Suna felt the isolation like a physical weight.

On the third day, Suna didn’t show up. No one asked where he was. No one cared.

Osamu gave Atsumu a ride home that afternoon. Car silent except for the hum. Finally, Atsumu spoke.

“Do ya think he meant it?”

Osamu’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Don’t, Atsumu. Don’t make excuses for him.”

“I’m not makin’ excuses. I just—I need to know if he really don’t like me, or if he was lyin’.”

Osamu was quiet a moment. Then said, “I saw his face when he hit ya. Right after. He looked like he wanted to throw up. I think he’s a coward who can’t handle his own feelings. But that don’t matter. What matters is he hurt ya. He don’t deserve ya.”

Atsumu pressed his forehead against the cool glass. “Maybe not. But I still love him.”

Words hung in the air. Heavy. Sad.

---

A week passed. Then two. Suna stopped coming to practice entirely. Rumor had it he was training on his own, had asked for a transfer. Team split—some said good riddance, others muttered it was a shame to lose a talented player.

Atsumu heard none of it. Threw himself into volleyball, practiced until his hands bled, until his legs gave out. Physical pain was a welcome distraction from the emotional wreckage.

Late one evening, after everyone else had gone home, Atsumu sat alone in the gym, staring at the court. Lights off except for one emergency bulb, casting eerie shadows. He’d been running drills for hours, body screaming for rest.

Door creaked open.

Atsumu didn’t look up. Knew who it was.

Suna stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. Looked thinner. Paler. His usual confidence gone. He took a few tentative steps inside, then stopped.

“I’m not here to bother ya.” Voice hoarse. “I just—wanted to say it to yer face. I’m sorry. I lied. I didn’t mean any of it.”

Atsumu’s heart lurched, but he kept his eyes on the floor. “What do ya mean?”

Suna took a shaky breath. “I mean, I do like ya. I have for a long time. But I was scared. Scared of what people would think, scared of what it meant. And when ya mentioned Heather, I panicked. Couldn’t handle ya seein’ me vulnerable. So I—I hurt ya instead. It was the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Atsumu finally looked up. Eyes red, but dry. “Then why did ya slap me? Why did ya run away?”

“Because I’m a coward.” Voice breaking. “Because I couldn’t face ya after what I did. Because I knew I’d thrown away the one person who actually—who actually cared about me.”

Long silence stretched between them. Atsumu stood up slowly, legs aching. Walked toward Suna, stopped a few feet away.

“I still have the mark.” Quiet. “It’s faded, but it’s still there.”

Suna’s eyes dropped to Atsumu’s cheek, where a faint pink patch remained. “I know. I’m—”

“Don’t apologize again.” Firm, but broken. “I don’t want an apology. I want to know if ya can promise never to do somethin’ like that again. To me, or to anyone.”

Suna met his eyes. For the first time, no mask, no sneer, no aloofness. Just raw, naked regret.

“I promise,” he said.

Atsumu let out a long, trembling breath. “Then we’ll figure it out. But it’s gonna take time. A lot of time.”

Suna nodded, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

“I know,” he whispered.

---

But time, in the end, wasn’t enough. The team never fully forgave Suna. Osamu refused to speak to him for months, only thawing slightly after Atsumu begged him to let it go. Atsumu and Suna tried to rebuild something—a fragile friendship at first, then slowly, carefully, something more. But the shadow of that slap lingered. A ghost between them.

They never became what Atsumu had once dreamed. The trust had been fractured, and while it healed into a scar, it never disappeared entirely. Suna carried the guilt like a stone in his chest. Atsumu carried the memory of the sting.

Years later, when they both played professionally—Atsumu for MSBY Black Jackals, Suna for EJP Raijin—they’d see each other across the net. Their eyes would meet, and for a brief moment the gym would shrink to just the two of them. Atsumu would serve, Suna would receive, and the rhythm of the game would take over.

But in the quiet moments after matches, when the crowd had gone home and stadium lights dimmed, Atsumu would sometimes catch Suna watching him from across the parking lot. Suna’s hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable. And Atsumu would offer a small, sad smile before getting into his car and driving away.

They had both lost something that afternoon in the Inarizaki gym. Atsumu lost his naive belief that love could overcome fear. And Suna lost the one person who had ever made him want to try.