Breathe Again

The gymnasium at Inarizaki High School was built for noise. Volleyballs slamming into polished wood, shoes screeching, coaches barking—all of it bounced off the high ceiling and settled into your bones. But during break in evening practice, the echoes were different. Low murmur of conversation. Water bottles clattering. And the unmistakable sound of two brothers going at it.

“Give it back, you piece of shit.”

“Make me, Samu.”

Atsumu Miya held his twin’s phone above his head, grinning like the insufferable little shit he was. He was sprawled on the bleachers, one leg dangling, posture screaming casual arrogance. Sweaty dirty-blond hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes—sharp, calculating, the kind that read setters like a menu—were practically sparkling with mischief.

Osamu stood below, arms crossed, jaw so tight it looked like it might crack. His hair was a shade darker, equally damp, and that vein in his forehead was doing its best topographical map impression. “I’m not gonna say it again.”

“And I’m not giving it back until you admit I’m the better twin.”

“We’re identical, dumbass. There’s no ‘better.’”

“Clearly there is. I’m the setter. You’re just a spiker who can’t even compliment my tosses.”

“I compliment your tosses all the time!”

“You said, and I quote, ‘They’re serviceable.’”

“That IS a compliment!”

The team watched from their scattered spots. Ginjima was stretching near the net, pretending not to listen. Suna sat on the floor, back against the wall, scrolling through his phone with a look of profound boredom that didn’t quite hide the slight curl of his lips. Akagi was mid-sip of his water, eyes flicking between the twins with the resigned weariness of a man who’d seen this play out a thousand times.

Kita Shinsuke sat apart, near the door, posture straight as a pin. He wasn’t watching the argument—didn’t need to. He was the kind of captain who felt the temperature of a room before anyone else noticed a draft.

“Seriously, Atsumu,” Osamu said, his voice dropping. “Give me the phone.”

“Why? Is there something on here you don’t want me to see?” Atsumu wagged the phone like a cat toy. “Secret recipes? Love notes to that gingerbread man from Karasuno? Oh wait, that was me—”

“Atsumu.”

Something shifted in Osamu’s tone. Quieter. More serious. It made Atsumu pause for half a second before he laughed it off.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your boxers in a twist.” He stood up on the bleacher seat, holding the phone high. “Come and get it.”

Osamu lunged.

Clumsy, born of frustration and familiarity. He grabbed for the phone, but Atsumu twisted, laughing, and in the tangle of limbs Osamu’s hand caught not the phone but Atsumu’s left arm. Fingers closed around the sleeve of his practice jersey and pulled.

The bandage came loose.

Not a dramatic rip—just a whisper of fabric giving way, a strip of medical tape peeling off like a second skin. It fluttered down to the bleacher seat, and the air in the gymnasium turned to concrete.

Atsumu’s arm was bare.

And there they were: jagged, parallel lines. Some faded to white. Some pink and new. But the newest—maybe two or three—were raw. Red. Wet. They crossed his forearm like railroad tracks to nowhere, and a thin bead of blood welled up from the freshest cut, catching the dim gym light.

For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Atsumu’s brain short-circuited.

they saw.

The thought hit like a gunshot to the skull. He looked down at his arm, at the exposed wounds, at the blood trickling in a lazy line toward his elbow. He looked up at Osamu, whose face had gone from confusion to horror to something that looked like his world was collapsing. He looked at Ginjima, frozen mid-stretch, eyes wide and wet. Suna, who had dropped his phone, his usual mask of indifference shattered. Akagi, whose water bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor in a hollow plastic drumbeat.

they all saw.

“Atsumu…” Osamu’s voice was barely a whisper. His hand was still reaching, but not for the phone anymore.

Atsumu’s lungs seized. The air was suddenly too thin, too thick, too something. He couldn’t get it in. His chest was a cage with bars closing inward, and his heart was a trapped animal throwing itself against the ribs.

kill me kill me kill me kill me

The thoughts came in a flood, cold and familiar. He’d heard them before, in the dark of his room at night, when the noise of the day faded and all that was left was silence and the razor. But they’d never been loud in the gym. The gym was safe. The gym was where he was Atsumu Miya, star setter, arrogant genius, twin brother, teammate. The gym was where he was good.

Now they were looking at him like he was broken.

“I— I didn’t—” Osamu stuttered. His hand moved to touch Atsumu’s arm, and Atsumu flinched back so hard he nearly fell off the bleacher.

“Don’t.” The word came out cracked, wrong. Not his voice.

His vision was tunneling. The edges of the room were going dark, and the faces of his teammates were blurring into smudges. He could hear them now—whispers, gasps, the shuffle of feet. Someone was crying. Ginjima? It sounded like Ginjima.

they see me they see me they see the ugly thing underneath

He was shaking. His whole body trembled, and his left arm throbbed where the cuts were exposed to air. He clasped his right hand over it, pressing down, trying to cover them, but the pressure only made the wounds sting, and blood smeared between his fingers.

“Atsumu, breathe.” The voice was calm, steady, cutting through the noise like a blade of light. Kita.

But Atsumu couldn’t hear him. The spiral had him now. The familiar downward vortex where every thought was a hook and every hook pulled him deeper.

useless broken worthless why do they even keep you you’re a liability a fraud a monster hiding in a jersey

He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He wanted to claw his skin off and throw it in the trash where it belonged. But his legs were lead, his lungs were paper, and all he could do was stand there on the bleacher, clutching his arm, while his teammates stared at him like he was a ghost.

“Everyone out.”

Kita’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was absolute. The voice of a captain who’d never had to raise his tone because he’d never needed to. It cut through the panic like a surgeon’s scalpel.

“Out. Now. Suna, take Ginjima. Akagi, get the nurse. Osamu, stay.”

A moment of hesitation—collective paralysis—and then the team moved. Suna grabbed Ginjima’s arm, pulling him toward the door. Ginjima was crying openly now, shoulders shaking, and Suna’s own face was a mask of effort, holding back his own tears. Akagi scrambled out, footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. The door swung shut.

And then it was just three: Atsumu on the bleacher, Osamu frozen below, Kita standing like a sentinel in the middle of the gym.

“Atsumu.” Kita’s voice was soft but firm. He walked forward slowly, each step measured, unhurried. “I’m going to come closer. Is that alright?”

Atsumu didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was closed, his tongue a dead weight. He was shaking so hard the bleacher creaked beneath him.

Kita stopped a few feet away. He didn’t reach out. Just stood there, solid and patient, and waited.

“You’re in the gym,” he said. “Inarizaki. Our home court. It’s evening. Practice was good today—you set some beautiful quick attacks. Remember that one to Ginjima in the third rotation? Perfect arc.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. A sob tried to claw its way out of his chest, but he swallowed it down.

“Your teammates are gone now. It’s just me and Osamu. You’re safe.” Kita’s gaze was unwavering. “Can you feel the floor beneath you?”

Atsumu looked down. His shoes were on the bleacher, but he couldn’t feel them. Nothing but the cold, the shame, the blood still warm on his arm.

“Try to feel the floor,” Kita said. “Just the floor. Nothing else.”

He tried. Focused on the soles of his shoes, on the pressure of the metal beneath them. Like trying to feel through water, but he found something—a vibration, distant, a memory of contact.

He nodded. A tiny, jerky motion.

“Good.” Kita took a step closer. “I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder. You can tell me to stop.”

He waited. Atsumu didn’t say no. Kita’s hand settled on his shoulder, warm and steady, a grounding weight. Atsumu’s knees buckled. He sagged forward, and Kita caught him—not with an embrace, but with a pillar of calm.

“I’ve got you,” Kita said. “You’re alright.”

Atsumu shook his head. He opened his mouth, and the words came out in a broken whisper. “They saw.”

“I know.”

“They saw everything.”

“I know.”

“I can’t— I can’t go back out there. I can’t look at them.” His voice cracked, and the sob finally broke free, ugly and raw. “I can’t— I can’t be— they’re going to hate me. They’re going to think I’m weak. They’re going to—”

“They’re not going to hate you,” Kita said. “They’re scared. For you.”

“They shouldn’t be. I’m not worth being scared for.”

Osamu made a sound—a choked, wounded noise. “Atsumu.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up. Osamu was still standing there, face pale, eyes red-rimmed, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looked small. Terrified.

“Don’t,” Atsumu said, his voice hardening with a desperate, fragile anger. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need your pity.”

“That’s not— that’s not pity, you idiot.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “That’s— I didn’t know. I didn’t know this was—” He gestured helplessly at Atsumu’s arm. “How long?”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. He looked away.

“How long, Atsumu?”

“Years.” The word came out flat, dead. “Since we were first-years. Maybe earlier. I don’t know. I stopped counting.”

Osamu’s legs gave out. He sank to his knees on the gym floor, hands covering his face. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Atsumu stared at him. The sight of his brother—his rival, his mirror, the one person who’d always been there—breaking down on the floor of their home court was worse than any cut. It was a wound he didn’t know how to dress.

“Samu…” His voice was thin.

“I should have known.” Osamu’s words were muffled by his hands. “I sleep three feet away from you. I see you every day. How did I— how did I not see?”

“Because I didn’t want you to see.” Atsumu’s voice was quiet but firm. “I hid it. I’m good at hiding things.”

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He was a setter. His whole job was to manipulate the ball, deceive the blockers, show one thing and do another. He’d been practicing deception for years. He just never expected to turn it on the people who loved him.

Kita’s hand was still on his shoulder. “Atsumu, we need to get that cleaned up.” He nodded toward the nurse’s office. “Can you walk?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll help you.” Kita looked at Osamu. “Osamu, get up. Your brother needs you.”

Osamu wiped his face with the back of his hand and stood, legs shaky. He walked over to Atsumu and held out his hand. His fingers were trembling.

Atsumu looked at the hand. He thought of all the times they’d reached for each other—over a stray ball, for a high-five, in the middle of a fight. They’d always reached for each other, even when they were angry, even when they were pulling away. It was instinct. Gravity.

He took the hand.

His own was cold and clammy, and he could feel the blood from his arm smearing onto Osamu’s palm. But Osamu didn’t flinch. He just held on, tight, and pulled Atsumu down from the bleacher.

The walk to the nurse’s office was a blur. Kita led the way, opening doors, speaking in quiet tones to people Atsumu didn’t see. Osamu kept a hand on Atsumu’s back, guiding him, steadying him. The hallways of Inarizaki had never felt so long, so empty, so full of echoes.

When they reached the nurse’s office, Kita stayed outside. “I’ll handle the team,” he said. “Osamu, stay with him.”

Osamu nodded. He guided Atsumu inside, onto the cot. The nurse—a kind, elderly woman who’d seen it all—didn’t ask questions. She just got out the antiseptic, the gauze, the bandages, and got to work.

Atsumu sat in silence as she cleaned his arm. The sting of the antiseptic was sharp, but it was a familiar pain, one he could manage. He watched the blood and dirt come off on the cotton swab, watched the wounds turn from raw red to clean pink, and felt nothing.

Osamu sat on the cot beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Osamu asked, his voice hoarse.

“What was I supposed to say?” Atsumu stared at the ceiling. “‘Hey, Samu, by the way, I’ve been cutting myself for three years, pass the rice?’”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

The nurse finished wrapping the fresh bandage around Atsumu’s arm. She patted his hand gently. “You know where to find me if you need to talk,” she said, and then left the room, giving them privacy.

The door clicked shut. The silence stretched between them like a rubber band about to snap.

“I thought I was handling it,” Atsumu said finally, his voice small. “I thought if I just kept playing, kept practicing, kept being the best setter in the country, I could outrun it. But it doesn’t matter how good I am on the court. When I go home at night, I’m still me.”

Osamu’s hand found his. Their fingers intertwined, a mirror of every childhood game they’d ever played. But now it felt different. Heavier. Like a promise.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu said.

“For what?”

“For not seeing. For fighting with you about stupid shit. For making you feel like you had to hide.”

Atsumu swallowed. His throat was tight. “You didn’t make me feel that way. I just didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want anyone to worry. I didn’t want to be the broken twin.”

“You’re not broken,” Osamu said fiercely. “You’re just… hurt. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be hurt.”

Atsumu laughed, a wet, bitter sound. “Since when are you the wise one?”

“Since I had to watch my brother fall apart in front of the whole team.” Osamu squeezed his hand. “I’m not going to let you do it alone anymore. You hear me? You’re stuck with me.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my nightmare. We’re even.”

Atsumu leaned his head on Osamu’s shoulder. It was a small surrender, a tiny admission of weakness, but it felt monumental. The weight he’d been carrying for years—the secret, the shame, the razor-edged loneliness—eased, just a fraction.

“I need help,” he said. The words felt foreign, like a language he’d forgotten. “Real help. Professional help.”

“Okay,” Osamu said. “We’ll find it. Together.”

“Okay.”

They sat there in the dim light of the nurse’s office. Two halves of a whole, breathing in sync for the first time in a long time.

---

Back in the gymnasium, the team had gathered in a tight circle. Kita stood at the center, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Atsumu is going to be okay,” he said. “But he needs our support. Not our pity, not our guilt—our support. That means no whispering behind his back. No treating him differently. We are his teammates. We are his family. And we are going to act like it.”

Ginjima wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “How did we not know? We see him every day. How did none of us see?”

“Because he didn’t want us to see,” Suna said quietly. His voice was flat, but there was a tremor beneath it. “And because we didn’t look. We saw the setter, the star, the loudmouth. We didn’t see Atsumu.”

“We see him now,” Kita said. “And now we do better.”

The team nodded. No grand speeches, no dramatic vows. Just a quiet, collective understanding that the court they called home was only as strong as the people who played on it. And they’d almost lost one of their own without even realizing it.

Kita looked toward the door that led to the nurse’s office. He thought of Atsumu—brilliant, arrogant, fragile Atsumu—and he made a silent promise.

We will not fail you again.

The gym lights hummed. The evening stretched on. And somewhere in the nurse’s office, a boy who had spent years drowning in silence began to learn how to breathe.