The Anchor

The whistle screamed through the gym. A mean, final sound that ripped away whatever hope Inarizaki had left. The scoreboard didn't care: Itachiyama 3, Inarizaki 1. Done.

Aran stood with his hands on his knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his chin onto the wood. He watched Itachiyama swarm their setter, Kiyoomi Sakusa—who'd just served an ace, obviously, because the universe is a dick. Sakusa accepted the congratulations with his usual curt nod, but his eyes kept drifting across the net. Looking for something. They landed on Aran, and for a second something flickered there—not victory, but something quieter. Concern, maybe. Aran looked away.

Kita was already shaking hands with the other team, that serene mask locked in place—the same face for winning or losing. Firm grip, precise bow. He was the captain. He had to be the anchor. But his eyes kept slipping to the bench, to the empty spot where Atsumu should've been.

The spot was empty because Atsumu was still on the court.

He hadn't moved since the last point. Just stood at the net, frozen, his hands hanging limp. His fingers twitched—a phantom echo of the last set. The one that went wide. The one that cost them match point. He could still feel the ball's leather against his fingertips, the wrong angle, the sickening drop in his stomach when he knew.

"Atsumu." Osamu's voice was flat, tired. He appeared at his twin's elbow, jersey dark with sweat. "Let's go. Line-up's done."

Atsumu didn't respond. He was staring at the net, at the spot where the ball sailed past, where Komori lunged and missed but the trajectory had already sealed it. The crowd was still clapping, this distant roar that felt like it was happening underwater.

"Atsumu." Osamu grabbed his arm, harder. "Oi. Quit starin'. We gotta bow."

The bow. The ritual of losing. Atsumu let himself be pulled into formation, body on autopilot. He bowed. He shook hands with Itachiyama. Didn't remember a single face. When he reached Sakusa, their palms met for a brief, cold second. Sakusa's grip tightened, just barely—a question in his eyes. Atsumu pulled away first.

The locker room was a tomb.

Quiet that felt heavier than shouting. Younger players with tears in their eyes. Third-years holding it together with clipped reassurances and pats on the back that didn't reach their eyes. Coach Kurosu gave a short, pragmatic speech about learning, about building for the future. No one listened.

Atsumu sat on a bench in the corner, still in his sweaty jersey, staring at the floor. His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs, but the tremor traveled up his arms, into his chest. Lungs tightening.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But the air was thick. Suffocating. Zippers and quiet footsteps and muffled sobs pressing in from all sides. His chest felt like a vice. He needed out. Air.

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking over a water bottle. Osamu looked up from across the room. "Where're you goin'?"

"Bathroom," Atsumu muttered. He didn't meet his brother's eyes. Grabbed his phone from the bench, shoved it in his pocket—but it slipped, clattered to the floor. He didn't notice. Already moving, pushing through the door into the hallway, footsteps echoing on tiles.

Empty hallway. Gym still buzzing with the host team packing up, but here—just him and the buzzing fluorescent lights. He walked faster, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Turned a corner, then another. Found a side exit. Pushed it open, stumbled out into the cold night air.

The city was unfamiliar. Somewhere in Tokyo, maybe—he hadn't paid attention to the name. Streets slick with recent rain, reflecting neon glow from convenience stores and pachinko parlors. He walked. Didn't know where. Just needed to move, to escape the weight of his own failure.

The asthma hit him like a fist.

He doubled over, hands on knees, gasping. Cold air shocked his lungs, but it wasn't enough. Fumbled for his pocket, for the inhaler—always there—but his fingers found only smooth fabric. Nothing.

Shit.

Left it in the locker room. Left everything in the locker room. Phone. Inhaler. Dignity. All of it scattered on that bench while he ran away like a coward.

The alley he'd wandered into was dark, smelling of garbage and stale beer. One streetlamp flickered at the entrance, casting weak, uncertain light. He leaned against the damp brick wall, trying to slow his breathing, force his lungs to cooperate. In. Out. In. Out. It wasn't working. Panic rising, a dark tide.

I choked. I choked so bad. It's my fault. All my fault. If I'd just made that set, if I'd just—

"Hey there."

Voice from nowhere and everywhere. Atsumu's head snapped up. A man stood at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the streetlamp. Older, maybe late thirties, thick build, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You okay, kid? You look lost."

Atsumu tried to answer, but it came out as a wheeze. He shook his head, pushed himself off the wall, tried to move past. Legs shaky. Vision blurring at the edges.

The man stepped closer. "Whoa, easy. You don't look so good. Let me help you."

"I'm—fine," Atsumu managed, words scraping out. "Just—need—air."

"There's a convenience store around the corner. I'll take you there. Get you some water." The man's hand landed on Atsumu's shoulder. Heavy and warm. Too warm. Too heavy.

"Don't—touch me." Atsumu tried to shrug him off, but his body wasn't listening. Limbs like lead. Chest a cage of burning wires.

The man's grip tightened. "Don't be like that. I'm just trying to help." His voice dropped, lower now, losing its friendly veneer. "Come on, pretty boy. Let's go somewhere quieter."

No. No, no, no.

Atsumu's back hit the wall. The man was in front of him now, blocking the exit, body close enough to smell cigarette smoke on his breath, cheap cologne. One hand still on his shoulder; the other came up to cup his jaw, fingers digging into his cheek.

"You're shaking," the man murmured, thumb brushing across Atsumu's lower lip. "That's okay. I'll warm you up."

Atsumu's mind screamed, but his body was frozen. The asthma had stolen his air, his strength, his voice. All he could do was stand there, trembling, as the man leaned in and pressed his mouth against his. Wet and wrong. Stomach lurched. He tried to turn his head, tried to push, but the hand on his jaw held him fast.

"Mm, that's it," the man breathed against his lips. "Nice and quiet. I like 'em quiet."

Atsumu made a sound—a broken, animal whimper—and the man laughed, low and ugly. His hand slid down from shoulder to waist, pulling him closer.

---

Osamu found the phone first.

It was lying on the floor by the bench, screen cracked at the corner, still lit up with an unsent text. The cursor blinked tauntingly. The message was just three letters: I'm s—

He picked it up, stomach dropping. Atsumu never left his phone behind. He was obsessed with the thing—always scrolling through volleyball highlights or texting his boyfriends or posting obnoxious selfies. He didn't just forget it.

"Oi," Osamu called out, sharper than he intended. "Anyone seen 'Tsumu?"

The locker room went quiet. Heads turned. A few first-years shook their heads. Kita, who had been quietly packing his bag, straightened up immediately.

"He went to the bathroom," Osamu said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was a lie. Atsumu had looked wrong. Hollow. Like someone had turned off the lights behind his eyes.

Kita was already moving. "I'll check the bathrooms. You check the hallways. Aran—" He turned to find Aran already on his feet, jaw tight.

"I'll check outside," Aran said. "He might've gone for air."

They split up. The locker room emptied as word spread, the younger players hovering in the hallway, unsure. Osamu jogged down the corridor, calling Atsumu's name, heart hammering. He checked every room, every corner. Nothing.

By the time he circled back to the entrance, Kita was there, face pale but composed. "Not in the bathrooms. I checked twice."

"Outside," Osamu said. "He went outside."

They burst through the side door together, cold night air hitting them like a slap. The street was mostly empty, just a few pedestrians and the distant hum of traffic. A familiar figure stood on the corner, phone pressed to his ear, still in his Itachiyama warm-up jacket.

Sakusa Kiyoomi.

He ended the call as they approached, expression unreadable. "My team is leaving. I told them I'd catch up." His eyes swept past them, scanning the street. "Where is he?"

"We don't know," Kita said, voice steady but tight. "He left his phone. His inhaler too."

Sakusa's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'll help you look."

Osamu wanted to snap at him—you're the reason he's like this, you and your perfect team and your perfect serve—but the look in Sakusa's eyes stopped him. It wasn't triumph or pity. It was fear. The same fear coiling in his own chest.

They split up again, covering blocks around the gym. Aran rounded a corner, long strides eating pavement, eyes scanning every shadow. He was angry—not at Atsumu, never at Atsumu—but at the universe, at himself, at the helplessness clawing at his throat. He should have noticed. Should have seen the signs. Atsumu had been quiet on the bus to the match, quiet during warm-ups, quiet during the huddle. Everyone assumed he was just focused. But Atsumu was never quiet. He was loud and brash and annoying and alive. Tonight, he'd been a ghost.

A sound broke through his thoughts. A voice. Muffled, strained, coming from a narrow alley between two buildings. Aran slowed, heart pounding. He moved toward the entrance, footsteps silent on wet pavement.

What he saw made his blood turn to ice.

Atsumu was pinned against the wall, jersey rumpled, face pale and streaked with tears. A man—big, older, with a hand tangled in Atsumu's hair—was pressing sloppy kisses along his jaw, muttering things Aran couldn't hear and didn't want to. Atsumu's hands were limp at his sides, eyes glassy and unfocused. He looked like a doll. A broken, discarded doll.

"Get the fuck away from him."

Aran's voice was a blade. He stepped into the alley, full height casting a long shadow, hands clenched at his sides. The man froze, head whipping around. His eyes widened when he saw Aran—broad shoulders, murderous expression, the way the streetlight glinted off his sharp cheekbones.

"This ain't what it looks like," the man started, holding up his hands. "Kid was lost, I was just—"

"I said. Get. Away."

Aran took another step forward, and the man finally let go of Atsumu. Atsumu crumpled, sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the wet ground, knees drawn up to his chest. His breathing was ragged, whistling—a sound Aran knew too well.

The man scurried past him, muttering curses, disappearing into the night. Aran didn't watch him go. He was already kneeling in front of Atsumu, hands hovering, not sure where to touch.

"Atsumu. Hey. Look at me."

Atsumu's eyes were closed. His lips were blue. He was shaking so hard Aran could hear his teeth chattering.

"Shit." Aran fumbled for his phone, dialing Kita with one hand while the other found Atsumu's wrist, checking his pulse. Weak, too fast. "Found him. I found him. We need an ambulance—no, wait, we need his inhaler. He's having an attack."

"On my way," Kita said, and the line went dead.

Aran pocketed his phone and took Atsumu's face in his hands, gently this time. "Hey. Hey, 'Tsumu. It's me. It's Aran. You're safe now. You hear me? You're safe."

Atsumu's eyes fluttered open. For a moment they were empty, looking through him. Then recognition flickered, and something broke. A sob tore out of his chest—raw and ugly—and he lunged forward, burying his face in Aran's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, words barely audible between wheezes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Stop. Don't apologize." Aran wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, feeling the frantic flutter of his heartbeat against his own chest. "You have nothing to apologize for."

The others arrived in a storm of footsteps and harsh breaths. Osamu was first, skidding to a halt, face white as paper. He dropped to his knees beside his brother, and for a moment just stared. Then he reached out and took Atsumu's hand, squeezing it hard.

"Idiot," he whispered, voice cracking. "Stupid idiot."

Sakusa stood at the edge of the alley, hands shoved in his pockets, posture rigid. He was looking at Atsumu—the red marks on his neck, the torn collar of his jersey. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the fabric of his pockets.

Kita crouched down and pressed the inhaler into Atsumu's hand, guiding it to his lips. "Breathe," he said softly. "Slowly. You know how."

Atsumu took a hit. Then another. The wheezing eased, slowly, painfully. He sagged against Aran, tears soaking into the fabric of his jersey. No one spoke. There were no words that could fix this. Only the cold ground, the damp air, and the quiet rhythm of six people breathing together.

Sakusa's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and silenced it. His team was waiting. He didn't care.

Eventually, Kita stood and held out his hand. "Can you walk?"

Atsumu looked up at him, eyes red and swollen. He nodded, but when he tried to stand, his legs buckled. Aran caught him, looping an arm around his waist.

"I got him," Aran said. "Let's go."

They made their way back to the gymnasium in a loose, protective formation. Aran and Osamu flanked Atsumu, their bodies a shield. Kita walked ahead, calm and steady. Sakusa brought up the rear, dark eyes scanning the shadows, watching for any sign of the man. He didn't see him. But he memorized his face, just in case.

The team bus was still there, engine running, headlights cutting through the darkness. Coach Kurosu stood by the door, phone pressed to his ear. When he saw them approach, he ended the call and stepped forward, face a mixture of relief and worry.

"Miracle you found him," he said, voice gruff. "Get him on the bus. We're leaving in five."

The bus was warm and bright—a harsh contrast to the cold dark of the alley. Every head turned as they boarded. First-years stared, wide-eyed. Third-years exchanged grim glances. Suna Rintarou was sitting in the middle, phone forgotten in his lap, sharp eyes tracking Atsumu's slow, halting progress down the aisle.

Aran guided Atsumu to an empty row near the back and slid in beside him, keeping a steady hand on his shoulder. Kita took the window seat on the other side. Osamu sat across the aisle, angled so he could see his brother. Sakusa hesitated at the front of the bus, then made a decision. He walked to the back and sat in the row behind them, close enough to touch if he reached out.

The bus rumbled to life and pulled away from the gym. City lights slid past the windows, painting their faces in streaks of neon red and blue.

For a long time, no one spoke. Only the hum of tires and Atsumu's labored breathing, slowly evening out.

Then Atsumu spoke. His voice was a whisper, hoarse and broken.

"I ruined it."

No one said anything. They waited.

"I ruined everything." His voice cracked. "The match. The season. Everything. I played like garbage. I let everyone down. I let you down." He was crying again, silent tears tracking down his cheeks. "And then I—I let him—I couldn't even—"

"Stop." Kita's voice was gentle but firm. He turned in his seat, facing Atsumu fully. "The match was a loss. It was a team loss. We all made mistakes. You are not responsible for the outcome of a six-person game."

"But I—"

"And what happened in that alley," Kita continued, voice dropping even lower, "was not your fault. You did not let him do anything. He took. He chose to hurt you. That is on him. Not you. Never you."

Atsumu's face crumpled. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to hold it in, but the sobs came anyway—deep, wrenching, ugly, from somewhere primal and broken inside him.

Osamu crossed the aisle and knelt in front of him, grabbing his wrists and pulling his hands away from his face. "Look at me."

Atsumu looked. Eyes bloodshot, cheeks blotchy, lips raw from where he'd bitten them.

"You listen to me," Osamu said, voice thick. "You're the best setter I know. You're a goddamn genius on the court. And you're my twin. My stupid, annoying, impossible twin. And I love you. So shut up about ruining things, 'cause you could never ruin anything important. Got it?"

Atsumu stared at him. Then he laughed—a wet, hiccuping sound that was half-sob, half-relief. "That was the worst pep talk I've ever heard."

"Shut up. It worked."

Aran's arm came around him, warm and solid. "Osamu's right. Well, mostly. The 'genius' part, anyway." He pressed a kiss to the top of Atsumu's head. "You're allowed to be sad. You're allowed to be scared. But you're not allowed to blame yourself for things that aren't your fault."

Sakusa leaned forward from the seat behind them, voice quiet but clear. "You played well tonight."

Atsumu's head whipped around. "What?"

"Your sets were sharp. Your decisions were quick. You had three service aces and you dug two of my spikes." Sakusa's dark eyes met his, steady and earnest. "I watched you. I always watch you. And you were brilliant."

Atsumu's lip trembled. "But that last set—"

"Was one play out of dozens. It didn't define the match, and it doesn't define you." Sakusa paused, and then, so softly that only Atsumu could hear, he added, "You define you. And I—we—think you're pretty extraordinary."

The bus fell quiet again, but a different kind of quiet. Softer. Warmer. Atsumu let himself lean into Aran's side, let his head fall onto Kita's shoulder, let his hand reach back and find Sakusa's fingers, lacing them together. Osamu stayed kneeling in the aisle, his hand on Atsumu's knee, grounding him.

The city lights blurred past the windows. The bus hummed its steady song. And Atsumu, surrounded by the people who loved him, finally let himself close his eyes.

He didn't sleep. Not truly. But he rested, letting the warmth of their bodies and the rhythm of their breathing anchor him. He could still feel the cold of the alley, the ghost of hands on his skin, the taste of fear in his mouth. It would take time. It would take help. It would take more nights like this—holding on and being held.

But for now, this was enough.

This was a beginning.