The Weight of Staying

The locker room still smelled like steam and cheap body wash, the fluorescents buzzing overhead like pissed-off insects. Practice ended twenty minutes ago, but the heat clung to everything—damp towels slung over benches, abandoned water bottles on the floor. In the corner by the mirrors, Atsumu Miya stood half-dressed in an oversized black sweater and tailored grey trousers, hair still wet from the shower. He hummed some pop song under his breath while patting tinted moisturizer into his cheekbones with practiced precision.

His teammates lounged around in various stages of undress—some still pulling on uniforms, others scrolling through phones. They were used to this. Atsumu’s post-practice ritual was part of the package: loud, flashy setter who demanded perfection on and off the court. They called him a diva behind his back, sometimes to his face, but nobody told him to hurry. Waiting for Atsumu was as normal as the smell of liniment.

“—and then she said she’d never seen anyone serve like that,” Atsumu said, switching from humming to a story he’d started minutes ago. Didn’t matter if anyone listened. He just liked filling the silence with his own voice. “I told her, ‘Sweetheart, that’s ‘cause you ain’t never seen Atsumu Miya play before.’”

A few teammates chuckled. Osamu, sitting on the bench across from him, rolled his eyes but said nothing. Scrollin’ through his phone, shoulders hunched. Same quiet shadow he’d always been.

Suna Rintarou sat two benches down, legs crossed, phone in hand but eyes fixed on Atsumu instead of the screen. Watched with that detached curiosity he used to study opposing blockers. Atsumu felt the gaze but didn’t acknowledge it. Suna always watched. Meant nothing.

Until it didn’t.

“Atsumu.” Suna’s voice was flat, cut through the hum. The room didn’t go silent immediately—a few boys kept talking—but something shifted. Too deliberate.

Atsumu didn’t look up. Checking his reflection, adjusting his sweater collar. “Yeah?”

“Why’d you try to kill yourself?”

The words hit like a serve spike to the floor. Room went dead quiet. The buzzing lights seemed louder. A towel slipped off a bench and hit the tile with a wet thud.

Atsumu’s hand froze on his collar. Three full seconds he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Then he turned, slow, a practiced smile sliding onto his face like a mask.

“The hell you talkin’ about, Suna?” Voice too high, too bright. “Kill myself? I ain’t never—”

“I saw you.” No inflection, no apology. “At the hospital. A year ago. Your wrists were bandaged. The nurse said you tried to overdose on sleeping pills.”

The smile started twitching at the edges. “You’re crazy. That wasn’t—I was in the hospital for a stomach bug. You must’ve seen someone else.”

“I saw you.” Suna’s eyes didn’t waver. “Room 203. Visiting hours were over, but I was waiting for my aunt in the ER. You walked past the waiting room with Kita-san. I asked him about it the next day. He told me to keep it quiet.”

Suffocating silence. Some boys had stopped breathing. Ginjima looked at his shoes. Akagi’s hands froze mid-tie. Osamu’s phone went dark in his grip, face unreadable.

Atsumu’s hands dropped to his sides. He tried to laugh, but it came out wrong—a choked sound, halfway to a sob. “Why would you bring that up? Why now? That’s ancient history.”

“I’m just curious.” Suna tilted his head. “You act like nothing happened. Like you’re fine. But you’re not fine, are you? I wanted to know why.”

“Why?” Atsumu’s voice cracked. Room closing in, walls leaning closer, floor tilting under his feet. “You wanted to know why? That’s your business, Rintarou?”

“It is if we’re gonna be on the same team.”

Osamu stood up. “Suna, drop it.”

“I’m just—”

“Drop it.” Osamu’s voice low, hard. He didn’t often raise it, but when he did, the team listened. Suna didn’t flinch.

“I’m just trying to understand.” Suna turned back to Atsumu. “You joke around. Act like a peacock. But you tried to die. That doesn’t add up.”

Atsumu’s lower lip trembled. He looked around—faces of his teammates, some averted, some staring wide-eyed, some whispering behind hands. Exposed. Stripped naked, not of clothes but of armor. That carefully constructed fortress of confidence, arrogance, I’m Atsumu Miya and I don’t give a damn—crumbling.

“You don’t know nothin’.” His voice was small, nothing like the loud, brash setter they knew. “You don’t know about my life.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t!” Echo off the tile walls. Eyes wet, tears spilling over despite blinking them back. He scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, smearing moisturizer. “Because you wouldn’t understand. Because nobody—I’m fine now, okay? I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Suna, that’s enough.” Osamu stepped between them. But Atsumu wasn’t looking at Osamu. Not looking at anyone. Staring at the floor, watermarks on the tile, cracks in the grout. World tilting again. Needed to get out. Needed—

The locker room door slid open.

Kita Shinsuke stood in the doorway, holding Atsumu’s jacket. Must’ve come from the gym office, still in practice clothes, hair damp from his own shower. His eyes took in the scene in one sweep: Atsumu trembling, face wet; Suna standing rigid; Osamu halfway between; the other boys frozen.

He didn’t ask what happened.

“Atsumu.” Kita’s voice soft and even. “Let’s go.”

Atsumu looked up. Breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Looked like a cornered animal, like he might bolt or shatter. “Kita-san, I—”

“Outside.” Not a command, just a suggestion. Gentle and firm. He held out his hand, palm open.

Atsumu hesitated. Team watching. Eyes on his back like needles. But Kita’s hand was steady, waiting. And Kita never asked for anything he didn’t need.

Atsumu took a step. Then another. He reached Kita and let his hand be taken—warm, calloused, solid. Kita didn’t say anything else. Led him out, slid the door shut behind them.

The hallway was dim, evening light through high windows casting long shadows. Smelled of floor wax and dust. Atsumu walked beside Kita, head down, shoulders shaking. They didn’t stop until they reached the small alcove by the gym’s side entrance, where vending machines hummed quietly.

Kita let go of his hand. Atsumu slumped against the wall, slid down until he was sitting on the cold floor, buried his face in his knees.

“I’m sorry.” Whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Kita sat down next to him. Not too close, not too far. Close enough their shoulders almost touched. “You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“I made a scene. They all know now. They’re gonna look at me different.”

“Maybe. But that ain’t your fault.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. “Suna asked why I tried to kill myself. In front of everyone. Just like that. Like it was nothin’.”

Kita was quiet for a long moment. Vending machine hummed. A clock ticked somewhere down the hall.

“Suna’s blunt.” Kita said finally. “He don’t always think about how his words land. But he ain’t cruel. He just don’t know how to be soft.”

“He made me feel like—like I was a freak. Like I was broken.”

“You ain’t broken, Atsumu.”

“I tried to kill myself.” Words raw, scraped from somewhere deep. “I took pills. I cut my wrists. I wanted to die. How is that not broken?”

Kita turned to look at him. Face calm, but eyes old. Older than a teenager’s eyes should be. “Being hurt don’t make you broken. It makes you human.”

Atsumu looked up, eyes red and swollen. “How do you know? How do you know I’m not just—faking it? That I’m not just doing this for attention?”

“Because I was there.” Kita said. “I saw the scars. I saw the empty bottle. I saw you in the hospital bed, and you weren’t fakin’.”

Atsumu’s face crumpled. Fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. “I’m okay now,” he said, but it sounded like a question. “I’m okay. I promise. I’m not gonna—I don’t want to die anymore.”

“I know.”

“I still think about it sometimes.” Almost inaudible. “When it gets too loud. When I feel like I’m drowning. But I don’t—I won’t. I promised myself. I promised you.”

Kita didn’t say anything. Just put his arm around Atsumu’s shoulders and pulled him close. Atsumu sagged against him, forehead on Kita’s shoulder, and cried. Not the silent, dignified tears of a practiced performer. Ugly, shuddering sobs that tore through his chest and left him gasping.

Kita held him. Didn’t shush him, didn’t tell him it was okay. Just held him steady while the storm passed.

After a long time, Atsumu’s breathing slowed. Tears stopped. He felt hollowed out, but lighter too, like he’d finally set down a weight he’d been carrying for months.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Mumbled into Kita’s shoulder.

“You’d figure it out.” Kita said. “You’re strong, Atsumu. Stronger than you know.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

“That’s how it works.” Kita said. “Strength ain’t about feelin’ strong. It’s about keepin’ goin’ when you feel weak.”

Atsumu laughed wetly. “That sounds like something you’d put on a motivational poster.”

Kita snorted. “Don’t get smart with me.”

They sat there for a while longer. Silence comfortable now, broken only by the occasional hum of the vending machine. Finally, Kita stood and offered Atsumu a hand.

“Come on. Let’s get you home. You can crash at my place if you want. Osamu’s probably gonna be a while.”

Atsumu took his hand and let himself be pulled up. Wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving a smear of mascara and moisturizer. Probably looked a mess. Didn’t care.

“What are you gonna say to the team?” he asked, as they started walking.

“I’ll handle it.” Kita said. “But you don’t have to talk to them about it if you don’t want to. It’s your story to tell.”

“I don’t want them to treat me like I’m fragile.”

“They won’t. I won’t let ‘em.”

Atsumu nodded. They walked out into the cool evening air, the sky bruised with twilight. Atsumu breathed deep, felt the night settle around him like a familiar blanket.

Inside the locker room, the silence had stretched thin. The team had dressed in near-silence, nobody meeting anyone else’s eyes. Suna sat on the bench, phone forgotten in his lap. He stared at the door Kita and Atsumu had disappeared through.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Osamu’s voice tight. He stood over Suna, arms crossed.

“I just asked a question.”

“You asked a question that wasn’t yours to ask.” Osamu’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what that was like for him. You don’t know what he went through.”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“Then ask me.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “Ask me instead of humiliating my brother in front of everyone.”

Suna finally looked up. Saw the anger in Osamu’s face, but also something else—fear. Worry. Guilt.

“I didn’t mean to humiliate him.” Suna quieter now.

“Well, you did.”

Ginjima stepped forward, hand on Osamu’s shoulder. “Osamu, he didn’t know. None of us knew. We’re all just… processing.”

“Processing?” Osamu spun to face him. “My brother tried to kill himself a year ago, and I didn’t even know until today. Kita knew. But I didn’t. Because Atsumu didn’t want me to know. He didn’t want anybody to know. And now you all know, and I can’t—I can’t put that back in the box.”

His voice broke. He turned away, pressing fists to his eyes. The rest of the team shifted uncomfortably.

Akagi spoke up. “What do we do now?”

Nobody had an answer.

The door slid open. Everyone looked up, expecting Kita or Atsumu. It was Kita, alone. He stepped in, face unreadable.

“He’s okay.” Before anyone could ask. “He’s at my place. He’s gonna be fine.”

A collective exhale passed through the room.

“Kita-san.” Suna stood. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah.” Kita said, not unkindly. “You did.”

“I’ll apologize to him.”

“That’s between you and him. But I’d give him a few days first.”

Suna nodded. Looked smaller than usual, hunched in on himself.

Kita turned to the rest of the team. Didn’t raise his voice, but everyone listened. “I’m gonna tell you what happened, ‘cause you all deserve to know. But you don’t get to use it for gossip, and you don’t get to treat Atsumu any different than you did before. He’s still your teammate. He’s still the best setter you’ve ever played with. And he’s still strong, even if he don’t feel like it.”

The story came out in pieces—a rough tournament loss, the pressure of expectations, the loneliness of being a star. Kita didn’t dwell, didn’t sugarcoat. Told them about the hospital visit, months of therapy, the slow climb back.

“He’s been clean for a year.” Kita said. “He’s not gonna hurt himself again. But it’s still a wound that’s healing. And wounds don’t heal if you keep pickin’ at ‘em.”

The team was quiet. Some looked ashamed. Some looked like they wanted to help but didn’t know how.

“What can we do?” Ginjima asked.

“Just be normal.” Kita said. “Don’t walk on eggshells. Don’t make a big deal out of it. But if you see him havin’ a bad day, just—be there. Let him know you care. Small gestures.”

The conversation broke up after that. Team filtered out, subdued, each lost in their own thoughts. Osamu lingered.

“Kita-san.” He said. “Thank you. For being there when I couldn’t.”

Kita put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to thank me. He’s my friend too.”

Osamu nodded, then left.

The days that followed were careful. Team didn’t avoid Atsumu, didn’t crowd him either. Treated him like always—but with a little more patience, a little more warmth.

Ginjima started eating lunch with him more often. Akagi made sure to compliment his sets after practice. Even Suna, after three days of awkward silence, approached him in the hallway.

“I’m sorry.” No preamble. “I was an asshole.”

Atsumu looked at him for a long moment. Then shrugged. “You were curious. I get it.”

“Still shouldn’t have done it like that.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.” No venom in his voice. “But I’m not mad. Just… don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Then Suna held out a small bag. “Got you this. As an apology.”

Atsumu took it, peeked inside. A face mask—the expensive kind he used to buy before he’d had to cut back.

“It’s the gold one.” Suna said. “I asked the salesgirl which one was best.”

Atsumu stared at the mask. Snorted. “You’re ridiculous, Rintarou.”

“Yeah, well. You’re a diva.”

Atsumu laughed—genuinely, fully. Felt strange and good. “I am. And don’t you forget it.”

Suna almost smiled. Almost.

Life went on. Practice resumed. Team qualified for Nationals. Atsumu played better than ever—sets sharper, serves more precise. The old confidence was back, but different now. Less brittle. More rooted.

One evening, after a particularly grueling practice, Atsumu sat on the gym floor, legs stretched out, back against the wall. Team had left, but Kita stayed behind to lock up. Found Atsumu there, staring at the ceiling.

“Need a ride?” Kita asked.

“Just thinkin’.”

Kita sat down beside him. “About what?”

Atsumu quiet for a moment. “About how close I came to missin’ all this.”

Kita didn’t say anything. Just leaned his shoulder against Atsumu’s.

“I’m glad I didn’t.” Atsumu’s voice soft. “I’m glad I stayed.”

“Me too.” Kita said.

The gym was silent, filled with ghosts of a thousand spikes and serves. The lights buzzed overhead. Outside, first stars appeared.

Atsumu closed his eyes and let himself be still.

He was not fine. Might never be fine. But he was here. And that was enough.