The Sound of Silence

The final whistle screamed through the gym, and Atsumu Miya knew he'd hear that sound every night for the rest of his life. The scoreboard didn't lie: Karasuno 2, Inarizaki 1. Game over. Dream dead.

He stood frozen, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his chin. The crowd noise washed over him like static—loud, meaningless. His hands hung at his sides, still curled into fists, still gripping an imaginary ball he should've served better, set better, been better for.

Around him, his teammates moved in slow motion. Kita-san walked to the net line, back straight, face unreadable. Karasuno players hugged each other, crying and laughing—a picture of joy that made Atsumu's stomach twist with something hot and sour.

He couldn't breathe.

The lights were too bright. Too white. Made everything look sharp and ugly: scuff marks on the floor, the way the net swayed when someone bumped it, the smell of sweat and rubber and losing.

"Hey, Atsumu." Osamu's voice, low and flat, from somewhere to his left. "We gotta line up."

Atsumu didn't answer. He stared at a dark spot on the floor—sweat or a tear, he couldn't tell.

"Atsumu." A hand on his shoulder. Aran. Tall, solid, voice a low rumble. "Come on. Let's do this right."

They lined up. Shook hands. Atsumu's palm slid against Karasuno's players—he didn't see faces, didn't hear words. Just a roaring silence in his head and the weight of every mistake pressing down like a collapsing ceiling.

The toss to the little giant in the first set. Too high, too slow, easily read.

The serve that went long in the second-set tiebreak. Gifted them a point.

The missed coverage in the third, when he'd hesitated half a second and the ball hit the floor behind his feet.

My fault. All my fault.

Team gathered in a loose circle near the bench. Kita spoke first, calm and steady, like they'd lost a practice match, not their shot at Nationals. "We played hard. We made mistakes, but we grew. That's what matters."

Atsumu's jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Osamu said something about next year. Suna made a dry comment about the referee's eyesight—a few weak chuckles. Ginjima nodded, eyes red but dry.

Atsumu said nothing.

His throat was locked. Chest a cage of thorns. He felt the team's eyes slide over him, pausing, wondering, but no one pushed. They all hurt, but his hurt was a different color—darker, sharper, edged with something that felt like drowning.

When the coach dismissed them to the locker rooms, the spell broke.

Atsumu turned and walked. Not toward the locker room. Toward the back exit, the one to the loading dock and service corridor. His legs moved on their own, past equipment carts, stacks of chairs, a janitor who looked up in surprise.

The door slammed behind him.

The corridor was empty, painted dull gray. Fluorescent lights hummed. He leaned against the cinderblock wall, pressed his forehead to the cool surface, and let out a breath half a sob.

"Not here. Not here." He muttered it like a mantra. Not in front of them. Not in front of anyone.

He pushed off the wall and kept moving. There had to be a place. Somewhere dark and quiet, where no one would see him break.

---

The locker room was a tomb.

Osamu sat on the bench, knees spread, jersey still on. He hadn't moved to shower. Neither had most of the others. Some stared at the floor, some slowly untied their shoes, one or two cried quietly.

But one presence was missing.

Osamu's eyes scanned the room twice before he stood. "Where's Atsumu?"

Suna looked up from his phone, scrolling with a blank face. "Haven't seen him. Thought he was with you."

"No." Osamu's voice came out tighter than he meant. "He didn't come in."

Aran, leaning against the lockers, straightened. "He left the huddle weird. Didn't say anything."

Osamu was already moving, shoving open the locker room door into the hallway. The gym was mostly empty—Karasuno's team had retreated to their own space. A few officials packed up equipment.

He checked the restroom. The corner by the vending machines. The trainer's room. Nothing.

His heart started hammering.

He jogged back to the locker room. Suna and Aran waited by the door. "He's not anywhere in the building. And his phone's still here." Osamu held up the device—black case, crack in the corner, familiar as his own reflection.

Aran's eyebrows drew together. "He wouldn't just wander off. Not after a loss like that."

"He would," Osamu said quietly. "He would if he couldn't handle it."

Suna pocketed his phone and sighed. "Bus leaves in, what, forty minutes? If we don't find him, Coach is gonna flip."

"Then we find him." Aran's voice settled it. "I'll take the east side of the venue. Osamu, you go west. Suna, check the parking lot and the street out front. Keep your phones on."

They split without another word.

---

The alley was cold.

Atsumu hadn't noticed how far he'd walked until he stopped. A narrow gap between two buildings, a dead end choked with trash bags and a rusted bicycle. Streetlights cast a weak orange glow that didn't reach the corners. It smelled like rain and garbage and old concrete.

He slumped against the wall, legs finally giving out, and sank to the ground. Bricks rough against his back, cold seeping through his jersey. He pulled his knees up and dropped his head onto them.

The tears came then.

Not the quiet, dignified tears of a defeated athlete. These were ugly, raw, wrenching sobs that tore out of his chest like something alive. He didn't try to stop them. No one here to see. No one to pretend for.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, though he didn't know who he was apologizing to. The ball? His teammates? Himself? "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The match replayed on a loop. Every bad decision. Every mistimed jump. Every serve that didn't land where he needed. He'd trained for years, sacrificed everything, pushed himself to the edge and beyond—for what? To choke on the biggest stage? To let everyone down when it mattered most?

"You're worthless." The words slipped out, raw and jagged. "Nothing but a flashy setter with no results. Can't even win when it counts. What's the point? What's the point of any of it?"

He pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to push the tears back, but they kept coming. Shoulders shook. Breath came in ragged gasps.

He didn't hear the footsteps until they were close.

"Hey. You okay?"

Atsumu's head snapped up. A man stood a few feet away, silhouetted against the dim light from the street. Older—maybe mid-twenties—with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. Hands in his jacket pockets.

Atsumu stared at him, face a mess of vulnerability and defiance.

"You look like you've had a rough night," the man said, taking a step closer. "What's a high school kid doing in a place like this? Lost?"

"I'm fine." Atsumu's voice cracked, ruining the effect. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and tried to stand, but his legs were shaky. "Just go."

The man didn't move. The smirk widened. "Aw, don't be like that. I saw you playing earlier. You're that setter from Inarizaki, right? The one with the twin brother. You were pretty good out there. Tough loss."

Atsumu's blood went cold. He didn't want to be recognized. Didn't want anyone to see him like this, let alone a stranger looking at him with something that made his skin crawl.

"Thanks," he said flatly. "You can leave now."

"I could." The man took another step. Sneakers scuffed on wet asphalt. "Or I could help you forget about the game. I know a place nearby. Quiet. We could talk."

Atsumu's pulse hammered. He pushed himself to his feet, pressing his back against the wall. Trash bags rustled behind him. "I said I'm fine. Get away from me."

The man laughed, low and ugly. "Come on, don't be shy. You look like you need a friend."

"I have friends." Atsumu's voice steadied, anger cutting through the despair. "I don't need one who looks at me like I'm a piece of meat."

The man's eyes narrowed. The smirk hardened. "Watch your mouth, kid. I'm trying to be nice."

Atsumu's jaw set. He was smaller than this man, exhausted, emotionally wrecked—but he'd be damned if he let some creep intimidate him. He met the man's gaze with a glare that'd made teammates flinch. "Try being nice somewhere else."

For a long moment, they just stared. The man's hand twitched in his pocket. Atsumu's heart pounded so loud he was sure it could be heard down the block.

Then the man scoffed, shook his head, and turned away. "Whatever. Waste of time."

He disappeared around the corner, footsteps fading.

Atsumu let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His legs gave out again, and he slid back down the wall, head falling into his hands. The tears returned—silent now, but no less painful.

He was so lost in the spiral that he didn't hear the new set of footsteps until a familiar voice broke through.

"Atsumu."

He looked up. Aran stood at the entrance of the alley, tall frame silhouetted against the streetlight. His face was a mask of concern, eyes scanning Atsumu from head to toe, checking for injuries.

Behind him, Osamu and Suna appeared, both out of breath.

"Found him," Aran called over his shoulder.

Osamu pushed past him, face tight with relief and anger. "What the hell, Atsumu? You left your phone. You just disappeared. We thought—" He stopped, taking in his brother's tear-stained face, the way he huddled against the wall, the red rims of his eyes.

He stopped yelling.

Aran moved closer, crouching down in front of Atsumu. Voice gentle. "We were worried. What happened?"

Atsumu opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Words stuck somewhere between his throat and chest, tangled in the sobs he was trying to swallow.

Suna hung back, leaning against a lamppost, but his eyes were sharp. He'd seen the man walking away. He put the pieces together and said nothing.

Osamu dropped down beside him, sitting on the cold ground without a word. He didn't touch him. Just sat there, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

"You scared us," Osamu said quietly. "Don't do that again."

Atsumu's face crumpled. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I ruined everything. The match—I played like garbage—I let everyone down—"

"You didn't—" Aran started.

"Yes I did!" Atsumu's voice cracked. "That last set, the one to the left side—I put it too far outside. And the serve that went long. And that coverage mistake in the third—I hesitated because I thought I could still get a hand on it, but I knew I couldn't, I just—" He choked on a sob. "I'm supposed to be the best setter in the country. And I played like a scared rookie."

He pressed his palms into his eyes again. "What if I'm not good enough? What if that was my only chance and I blew it? What if I never get another shot? What if I'm just... average? A flashy player who can't deliver when it counts?"

The words poured out like blood from a wound—unstoppable, messy. "I'm afraid. I'm so afraid. That I'll never be as good as I think I am. That everyone will realize I'm just a fraud who talks big and falls apart. That Osamu will outgrow me. That Kita-san and the others will look at me and see someone who wasted their talent."

Osamu's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Atsumu. He stared at the wall across from them. "You're an idiot."

Atsumu's head snapped up. "What?"

"You're an idiot," Osamu repeated, voice flat. "You think you're the only one who made mistakes? I missed two of your sets. Aran got blocked twice. Suna got read on defense. Kita-san said it himself—we played as a team, and we lost as a team. You didn't lose that match by yourself."

"But I—"

"You didn't." Aran's voice cut through, firm and warm. He reached out and placed a hand on Atsumu's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You played your heart out. We all did. Sometimes you lose. That doesn't mean you're worthless."

Atsumu shook his head, fresh tears spilling. "But I wanted it so bad. I wanted to win so bad. For you. For everyone. For the team. I wanted to prove that Inarizaki was the best."

"And we are." Suna's voice came from behind, dry as dust. "But the better team won today. It happens. You're not a god, Miya. You're just a really good setter who had a bad game against an even better team."

Atsumu blinked at him. Suna shrugged, hands in his pockets.

"Don't get me wrong—you still played like a jackass after that first set loss. But that's just you. You always bounce back. You just need to remember that you're not alone in this."

Aran's hand on his shoulder was steady, grounding. Osamu's presence beside him was solid, immovable. And Suna's offhand remark, delivered with that usual flat affect, somehow loosened the knot in his chest.

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. "You guys are... you're..."

"We know," Osamu said. "We're saints for putting up with you."

Atsumu laughed. It was a wet, broken sound, but it was a laugh. He wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing tears and snot across his jersey. "I'm disgusting."

"Very," Suna agreed.

Aran helped him to his feet, steadying him when his legs wobbled. "We need to get back to the bus. It leaves in twenty minutes."

Osamu stood up, dusting off his pants. He didn't say anything else, but he put a hand on Atsumu's back as they started walking, a brief, firm pressure that said everything.

They emerged from the alley into the streetlight. The city hummed around them, indifferent. Atsumu kept his eyes on the ground, but his steps were steadier.

"Thanks," he said, barely audible.

Nobody answered. They didn't have to.

---

The bus was quiet when they boarded. Some of the team were already asleep, heads against windows, snoring softly. Others stared at their phones or out the dark windows. The coach gave them a nod and said nothing.

Atsumu slid into a seat by the window. Osamu took the one next to him, stretching his long legs into the aisle. Aran sat across the aisle, and Suna took the seat behind him.

The engine rumbled to life. City lights began to slide past.

Atsumu pressed his forehead against the cool glass, watching his own reflection blur in the dark. His eyes were red and swollen, but the tears had stopped. In his chest, the tight knot of self-loathing had loosened just enough for him to breathe.

He wasn't okay. He knew that. He'd probably lie awake tonight, replaying every mistake, second-guessing every decision. The loss would sting for a long time.

But he wasn't alone.

He heard Osamu shift beside him, felt the brief weight of his head against his shoulder, just for a second, before he pulled away. A silent gesture. I'm here.

Aran across the aisle gave him a small, tired smile.

And from the seat behind, Suna's voice drifted, barely audible over the hum of the engine. "Next time, try not to get kidnapped by a creep. It's a hassle."

Atsumu snorted, a weak sound, but real.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, surrounded by the quiet, steady presence of his team.