Counting Breaths

The air in Inarizaki’s gym was thick—sweat and floor wax, the squeak of sneakers, the thud of volleyballs. Atsumu Miya stood at the service line with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Hadn’t for weeks.

He tossed the ball, jumped, whipped his arm forward. The serve screamed over the net—white and red blur—then slammed into the floor between two first-years. They flinched. Too slow.

"Pathetic," Atsumu muttered, loud enough they’d hear. He turned, rolled his shoulder, and a sharp stab of pain shot through his ribs. He bit the inside of his cheek and kept walking.

Across the court, Osamu watched his twin through narrowed eyes. Something was off. Atsumu had been louder than usual at practice, barking orders, snapping at underclassmen, pushing way too hard. Same old arrogance, sure, but lately it felt… brittle. Like a mask that might crack if you pressed too hard.

But the thought didn’t stick. This was Atsumu. He was always dramatic, always demanding attention. Rivals, after all. If Atsumu wanted to act like a jerk, that was his business.

Osamu wiped his face with a towel and went back to his drills. The heat of competition—familiar, comfortable. No need to dig deeper.

He should’ve.

---

The Miya household was quiet that evening. Their parents working late, as usual, leaving the twins alone in that cramped house that always felt too small for two oversized personalities. Osamu was in the kitchen, reheating leftovers, when he heard the front door click open.

Atsumu shuffled in, gym bag slung over one shoulder. Hair damp—shower at school. His face was pale under the harsh fluorescent light.

"Oi, dinner's in the fridge," Osamu said without looking up.

No response. Just the soft thud of the bag hitting the floor, the creak of floorboards as Atsumu walked past the kitchen doorway.

Osamu frowned. Heard the bathroom door close. Running water. That was fine—Atsumu always took long showers. But the silence after felt heavier than usual.

He shook it off. Tournament in two days. Atsumu was probably just tired. He always got irritable when he pushed himself too hard. Typical.

Osamu ate alone, washed his dishes, retreated to their shared room. Atsumu’s bed was empty, covers still neatly folded from morning. Bathroom door still closed. Water still running.

"Oi, Atsumu! Take forever why don'tcha," Osamu muttered, loud enough to carry through the thin walls. No answer.

He flopped onto his futon, scrolled through messages. Minutes ticked by. Water kept running.

Something cold settled in his stomach.

He tried to ignore it. Atsumu was fine. Always fine. Just being dramatic, probably sulking about something. Maybe lost a drill. Maybe fought with an underclassman. Maybe just in a mood.

Osamu rolled over, pressed his face into the pillow.

Water kept running.

---

It started three months ago. Atsumu met him at a training camp for the prefectural youth team. Older, taller, with a sharp smile and hands that knew how to find pressure points. A setter too, from a powerhouse school. At first, he made Atsumu feel seen.

Finally, someone who gets what it’s like to be this fucking good, Atsumu had thought.

First time he raised his voice—Atsumu dismissed it as passion. First time he shoved him against a wall—he told himself it was an accident. First time he hit him—closed fist to the stomach, knocking the breath out—Atsumu was too stunned to react.

"I'm sorry," the man said, voice soft, hand cupping Atsumu’s cheek. "You know I love you. I just get so worked up. You make me crazy."

And Atsumu believed him. Because he wanted to. Because the alternative was admitting he finally found someone who saw him, and that person wanted to hurt him.

So he stayed. Hid bruises under long sleeves and high socks. Learned to angle his body in practice so no one would notice the wince when he jumped. Laughed off questions about marks on his wrists.

"Ha, Osamu's getting feisty in our matches," he'd joke when someone spotted a dark purplish bloom on his arm.

No one questioned him. Why would they? Atsumu Miya was loud, arrogant, untouchable. He didn't get hurt. He did the hurting.

But inside, he was crumbling.

---

That night, after the practice that left his ribs aching, Atsumu stood in the bathroom and stared at his reflection. Harsh overhead light, deep shadows under his eyes. Cheek slightly swollen where the man had backhanded him in the parking lot.

"I'm sorry," he said again, right before leaving Atsumu on the curb, split lip bleeding. "You know I don't mean it. You just make me so angry when you flirt with other people."

Atsumu hadn't been flirting. He’d been talking to a teammate about a drill.

He pressed a wet washcloth to his cheek, watched the water turn pink. The pain was a familiar ache now, a constant companion. He’d gotten good at numbing it. But the numbness came with a price: the hollow feeling in his chest, the voice in his head whispering he deserved this.

No one would miss you, it hissed. Osamu would be relieved to have the spotlight. Your parents barely look at you. You're nothing but a burden.

He sank to the floor, back against the cold tile, buried his face in his hands. The tears came silently, as they always did. He’d stopped sobbing months ago. No energy left for that.

He thought about tomorrow. Another practice. Another lie. Another text from the man saying I miss you and I'm sorry and You know I love you. Another night lying awake, wondering if he was worth anything at all.

The answer, he decided, was no.

He stood up slowly, legs trembling. Looked at the bathtub. Then at the kitchen knife block on the counter just outside the door. His mother used those knives to cut vegetables. She would never expect them to be used for this.

His hands were steady when he picked one up. The blade caught the light, cold and sharp.

One more thing, he thought. One more thing before I go.

---

Osamu was drifting off when he heard the bathroom door click open. He lifted his head, expecting the familiar stomp of Atsumu’s footsteps heading to their room. Instead, a strange, soft shuffle. Then the living room lamp clicked on.

He frowned, sat up. Through the half-open door, he saw Atsumu’s silhouette moving toward the couch.

"Atsumu?" he called out, voice groggy.

No answer. But Atsumu walked into the room and stood by Osamu’s futon. Face unreadable in the dim light from the living room. Plain white t-shirt and shorts, hair still slightly damp. The bruise on his cheek hidden by shadow.

"What?" Osamu asked, irritated. "Turn the light off, I'm tryna sleep."

But Atsumu didn't move. He stared at his twin for a long moment, and something in his eyes made Osamu’s irritation falter. Something soft. Something sad.

Then, without warning, Atsumu climbed onto Osamu’s futon and sat on his lap, knees on either side of his hips. Wrapped his arms around Osamu’s neck and pulled him into a tight hug.

Osamu stiffened. "What the hell—"

"Shut up and let me hug you, Samu."

The words were barely a whisper, trembling. Osamu felt his twin’s breath hot against his shoulder. Atsumu’s body was shaking. His hands gripped the back of Osamu’s shirt like he was drowning.

Osamu’s arms hung awkwardly at his sides. "You're being weird," he said, but his voice was softer now.

Atsumu pressed his face into the crook of Osamu’s neck. For a second, he just breathed. Then he pulled back just enough to look at his twin. He reached up and cupped Osamu’s cheek, thumb brushing over the mole under his eye.

"I love you, Samu."

The words were so quiet, so sincere, they cut through the usual sarcasm and rivalry like a blade. Osamu’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Atsumu leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His lips were cold.

"I've always loved you," he said. "Don't ever forget that."

Then he climbed off, walked away, and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Osamu sat there, stunned. The words echoed in his ears. Atsumu had never said that. Not like that. Not without a punchline or a taunt. Something was wrong.

He's just being dramatic, a voice in his head said. Probably drunk or something.

But it didn't feel like that.

Osamu got up and walked to the bathroom door. Raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. What was he supposed to say? Oi, are you okay? After fifteen years of ignoring each other's emotions, that felt hollow.

He put his hand down.

He went back to his futon.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the knot in his stomach to loosen. It didn't.

---

The water was still running.

Osamu checked his phone. Twenty minutes. The sound of running water—a constant hum, starting to gnaw at him. He tried to go back to sleep, but the image of Atsumu’s pale face, the tremor in his voice, the desperate hug—it wouldn't leave him.

With a muttered curse, he threw off the covers and stomped to the bathroom. He’d yell at Atsumu for hogging the water. That would normalize things.

"Oi, Atsumu! Hurry up, I gotta piss!" He banged on the door with his fist.

No answer.

He knocked again, harder. "Oi! What are you doing in there?"

Silence. Just the water.

A cold dread seeped into his bones. He tried the handle. Locked.

"ATSUMU!"

He slammed his shoulder against the door. It shuddered but held. He did it again, and again, the wood groaning with each impact. On the fourth try, the lock gave way, and the door swung open, smacking against the wall.

The sight that greeted him stole the air from his lungs.

The bathtub was full of water, dyed a deep, sickening red. Atsumu lay inside, slumped against the side of the tub, his arms floating on the surface. The kitchen knife lay on the floor, blade stained crimson. Blood seeped from long, deep cuts across his forearms and thighs, and more dripped from the edge of the tub, pooling on the white tiles.

His face was pale, almost gray, and his eyes were closed.

"ATSUMU!"

Osamu’s scream was raw, animalistic. He lunged forward, grabbing Atsumu by the shoulders and yanking him out of the water. The body was limp, heavy, cold. Water and blood splattered across the floor, soaking Osamu’s knees.

"No, no, no, no—" He pressed his fingers against Atsumu’s neck, trying to find a pulse. There—weak, thready. "Fuck, Atsumu, wake up!"

He didn't.

Osamu scrambled for his phone, dialing emergency services with shaking hands. His voice cracked as he gave the address, his eyes fixed on the pale face of his twin. Blood still flowing from the cuts—he grabbed a towel from the rack, pressed it down hard on Atsumu’s arm.

"Stay with me," he whispered, voice breaking. "Please. Stay with me, you idiot. You can't do this. You can't leave me."

The operator’s voice was calm, giving instructions, but Osamu could barely hear her. He pressed the towel against Atsumu’s leg, his hands soaked in his brother’s blood. The smell of iron filled the small room, heavy and suffocating.

He remembered the hug. The kiss on his cheek. I love you, Samu.

This was a goodbye.

Osamu sobbed, forehead pressing against Atsumu’s wet hair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have—I should have known."

Sirens wailed in the distance.

---

The hospital waiting room was stark and cold, plastic chairs that smelled of antiseptic. Osamu sat in one, hands still stained red, blood dried and flaking under his fingernails. His parents had arrived, pale and frantic, but they were speaking to doctors now. He could hear his mother’s sobs through the glass doors.

He didn't move.

He replayed the past weeks in his mind. The flinching. The long sleeves in summer. The way Atsumu had stopped eating at dinner, claiming he wasn’t hungry. The bruises he’d dismissed as practice injuries. The way Atsumu had snapped at everyone, pushing them away.

And the hug. That final, desperate hug.

I love you, Samu.

Osamu had been so caught up in their rivalry, in the petty competition that defined their relationship, that he had missed everything. He had seen the mask and believed it. He had written off his twin’s pain as drama, as attention-seeking, as Atsumu being Atsumu.

But Atsumu had been drowning right in front of him.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they kept coming. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

A nurse touched his arm. "Mr. Miya? Your brother is out of surgery. He's stable. You can see him in a few minutes."

Osamu looked up, vision blurry. "He's alive?"

"Yes. He's alive."

The relief was a sharp knife in his chest. He nodded, unable to speak.

---

The hospital room was dim, lit only by a small lamp beside the bed. Atsumu lay in the bed, arms wrapped in white bandages, IV drip connected to his hand. His face was pale, hair limp, but his chest rose and fell with steady breaths.

Osamu pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down heavily. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if Atsumu would even want to see him.

Minutes passed. Then Atsumu’s eyelids fluttered. He turned his head slowly, gaze hazy, until it landed on Osamu. For a long moment, he just stared.

Then his eyes welled with tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice ragged. "I didn't mean for you to find me."

Osamu’s throat tightened. He reached out and took Atsumu’s hand, careful to avoid the bandages. "Don't. Don't apologize."

"I just—" Atsumu’s voice cracked. "I couldn't take it anymore. He made me feel like nothing. And I thought—I thought everyone would be better off if I was gone."

"Who?" Osamu’s voice was hard, but his hand was gentle. "Who did this to you?"

Atsumu shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. "It doesn't matter. He's gone. I ended it. I just—I didn't think I could survive the emptiness."

Osamu leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Atsumu’s. "You're an idiot," he said, voice breaking. "You're my twin. You're my other half. If you had died, I would have gone with you. Do you understand?"

Atsumu sobbed, a broken sound that tore through the quiet room. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Stop saying that." Osamu pulled back, wiping his own tears with his free hand. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I saw you struggling. I saw the signs. And I ignored them because I was too busy being an ass."

"You weren't—"

"Yes, I was. I told myself you were just being dramatic. I didn't want to deal with it." Osamu’s grip on Atsumu’s hand tightened. "But I'm going to deal with it now. I'm not leaving you alone. Not ever."

Atsumu closed his eyes, a fresh wave of tears spilling down his temples. He nodded weakly.

Osamu stayed there, holding his twin’s hand, as the night stretched on. He watched the steady rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest, counting each breath like a promise.

In the morning, their parents came in, faces drawn but hopeful. They spoke softly, hands hovering over Atsumu as if he were made of glass. Atsumu looked at them, eyes hollow, but nodded when they said they loved him.

Later, a counselor came to talk about therapy, about support groups, about the long road ahead. Osamu listened, jaw set. He’d be at every appointment. He’d learn the signs. He would never let his brother feel invisible again.

As the days passed, the bandages came off, replaced by thin pink scars. Atsumu began to eat again, to speak more than a few words. He told Osamu about the abuse, about the man’s name and the school he attended. Osamu had to be physically restrained from going after him. Instead, they filed a report, and the man was arrested.

The process of healing was slow, painful, messy. Some nights, Atsumu would wake up screaming from nightmares. Osamu would crawl into his hospital bed and hold him until the shaking stopped. They didn’t talk about the rivalry anymore. They didn’t have to.

One evening, as the sun set over the city, painting the hospital room in shades of gold and pink, Atsumu looked at his twin with something like wonder in his eyes.

"Why did you come for me?" he asked softly.

Osamu looked at him, expression serious. "Because you're my brother. Because I love you, too."

Atsumu’s lips trembled. He reached out, and Osamu took his hand.

From that moment on, they never let go.