The Echo of Leather on Wood

The locker room smelled like sweat and something chemical—liniment, maybe. Atsumu didn't care. He stood at the far end of the bench, back to everyone, fumbling with the straps on his binder. The fabric was old, stretched out from months of everyday wear, and it dug into his ribs like a bad idea. He'd gotten used to breathing shallow, ignoring the ache that settled under his shoulder blades by lunchtime. Worth it. The shortness of breath, the red lines—anything to flatten that curve that gave him away.

"'Tsumu, you gonna move or what?" Osamu's voice cut through, flat and annoyed. "Coach'll kill us if we're late."

"Yeah, yeah. Comin'." Atsumu yanked his practice jersey over his head. The binder lines showed through the lighter fabric if you looked close, but he'd learned to stand with his shoulders wide, arms loose, chest pushed out. No one noticed. No one ever noticed, because no one looked at him the way he looked at himself.

He caught his reflection in the mirror bolted to the wall: sharp jaw, brown eyes too bright, hair a mess of straw. Looked like a boy. He was a boy. But the mirror lied, dragged his gaze down to where his chest strained against the binder, to the softness of his hips that no amount of practice could fix. He turned away before the thought could set in.

Osamu was at the door, holding it open, giving him a pointed look. "You've been slow all week. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin'." Atsumu pushed past, let the door swing shut before Osamu could ask more. He didn't want to talk. Didn't want to think. Just wanted to hit the ball, feel the sting of leather on his palm, and forget everything else.

But forgetting got harder every day.

---

The classroom was empty by the time Atsumu got there. Everyone had already gone to club activities. He'd said he needed to grab a notebook—a lie, really. He just wanted a minute alone, a minute to sit in the quiet and breathe without the binder squeezing the life out of him. He'd loosened the straps in the bathroom, but the relief didn't last. His ribs ached.

He didn't hear the door open. Didn't hear the footsteps until they were too close.

"Hey, Miya."

Atsumu's head snapped up. Three boys stood in the doorway, blocking the light from the hall. Two he recognized from class—Yamada, stocky, with a permanent sneer, and Tanaka, lanky and quiet in a way that felt wrong. The third he didn't know, taller, with a phone in his hand. Already recording.

"We been wonderin'," Yamada said, stepping forward. "What's under all them layers you wear?"

Atsumu's stomach dropped. He stood slowly, notebook forgotten. "None of your business."

"See, that's where you're wrong." Tanaka circled around to block the other door. "We saw you in the restroom. Seen those wraps or whatever. You ain't a guy, are you? Just a girl playin' pretend."

The words hit like a punch. Atsumu's hands curled into fists. "I'm a boy. Always been a boy."

"Sure don't look like one." Yamada laughed, short and ugly. "What's the matter? Your tits too big to hide anymore?"

Atsumu lunged—

But he was slow, tired, and Yamada was ready. The bigger boy grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him face-first onto the desk. The edge caught his ribs right where the binder pressed hardest. Atsumu gasped, pain flaring white-hot.

"Hold him," Yamada ordered.

Tanaka was there, pinning his legs. The third boy stepped closer, phone steady. "Smile for the camera, Miya. Let's show everyone what you really are."

Atsumu thrashed, but they were stronger. He heard the rip of fabric—his shirt, the binder strap snapping—and then the air hit his skin, cold and cruel. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the sound of the camera shutter was worse. Click, click, click. Each one a bullet.

"Please," he heard himself say, the word scraping out of his throat. "Please, stop."

Yamada leaned close, breath hot in his ear. "You tell anyone, and we'll post this everywhere. Your teammates, your coach, your little brother. They'll all know what a freak you are." Something cold pressed against his cheek—the flat of a knife blade. "And if you're really stupid, I'll use this. Understood?"

Atsumu nodded, cheek scraping against the wood.

"Good boy." Yamada laughed again. "Or should I say good girl?"

They left him on the floor. The door swung shut, footsteps faded. The classroom was silent except for the rattle of Atsumu's breath. He lay there a long time, broken binder loose around his chest, hands shaking as he tried to piece himself back together.

He didn't cry. Couldn't. Crying would mean it was real.

---

Practice that evening was a blur. Atsumu moved through drills on autopilot—set, move, set—but his hands were clammy, his focus kept slipping. Every time someone called his name, he flinched. Every time a hand landed on his shoulder, he tensed up.

"You okay?" Suna asked during a water break, his narrow eyes studying Atsumu's face.

"Fine. Just tired." Atsumu drank from his bottle, but the water tasted like metal. He could still feel the knife against his cheek. Still hear the shutter sound.

After practice, he approached the coach, lingering until the man looked up from his clipboard. "Coach, can I get an extra jersey? For… for practice."

Coach Yamada—no relation, thank God—raised an eyebrow. "You've already got two."

"I lose 'em. Sweat through 'em. Just one more, please."

The coach shrugged, scribbled a note. "Fine. Pick one up from the equipment room tomorrow."

It wasn't enough. The jersey was thin, and the binder lines showed if anyone looked close. But Atsumu couldn't stop wearing it. The pain was a constant reminder that he was still here, still male, still him—even if his body kept trying to betray him.

He started changing in the bathroom stall, after everyone else had gone. He sat in the locker room with his back to the wall, waiting until the last voice faded, before he peeled off his sweaty clothes and wrapped himself in the new binder he'd ordered online. Tighter. Had to be tighter. He couldn't let anyone see.

Osamu noticed. Of course he noticed. They were twins—not telepathic, but close enough. Osamu noticed the way Atsumu ate less, slept worse, and stopped bickering with him in the mornings. He noticed the way Atsumu jumped when Akagi clapped him on the shoulder, and the way he refused to stand anywhere near the classroom door.

"What's goin' on?" Osamu demanded one evening, cornering Atsumu in their shared room. "You've been actin' weird for a week. You're not settin' right. Coach is gonna bench you if you keep it up."

Atsumu kept his eyes on his phone, scrolling through nothing. "I said I'm fine."

"Yeah? Then look at me."

Atsumu didn't.

Osamu grabbed his wrist, forced the phone down. Atsumu flinched away, yanking his arm back. "Don't touch me!"

"Why not? You used to fight back. Now you just—shrink." Osamu's voice was harder now, sharper. Something flickered in his gray eyes—worry, maybe, or anger. "What are you hidin'?"

"Nothin'." Atsumu's pulse hammered. He could feel the bruise where the desk edge had caught his ribs, hidden under layers of tape and fabric. "You're bein' dramatic. I've just been tired."

"Bull."

"I don't owe you an explanation for everythin', Osamu. Butt out."

He pushed past him, slammed the bathroom door. Inside, he locked it, slid to the floor, and pressed his hands over his mouth to muffle the sob clawing up his throat. He couldn't tell. If he told Osamu, the video would come out. Everyone would see. Everyone would know.

He'd rather die.

---

The panic attack hit in the middle of the locker room, after a particularly brutal practice. Atsumu had taken his shirt off to shower—alone, as always—but the mirror caught him off guard. He saw the red welts from the binder, the bruise that had bloomed purple across his ribs. He saw the shape of his body, too soft, too wrong. And then he saw Yamada's face, heard the click of the shutter, felt the cold press of the knife.

His breath stuttered. The room spun. He grabbed the edge of the sink, but his knees gave out, and he slid to the tile floor, gasping like a fish on shore.

"'Tsumu?"

Osamu's voice, from the doorway. He must have come back for his bag. No, no, no—he couldn't see this. Atsumu tried to wave him away, but his hand was shaking too hard.

"Go away," he choked out.

But Osamu didn't go. He knelt, reached out, hesitated. "Your ribs are all bruised. And what's that wrap thing? Is that what's been under your jersey?"

"Don't—don't touch me."

"I'm not gonna touch you. Just talk to me." Osamu's voice was low, steady. He sat back on his heels, giving space. "You're havin' a panic attack. You need to breathe. Slow."

"I can't." Atsumu's chest heaved, but the binder was too tight, the straps digging into his lungs. "I can't, I can't, I can't—"

Osamu's hand hovered near his shoulder, not quite touching. "Then take it off. That thing, whatever it is. Take it off and breathe."

"I can't. If I take it off, you'll see."

"See what?"

Atsumu's tears spilled over, hot and shameful. He was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. "See what I really am."

Osamu's face went still. He looked at the bruise, at the welts, at the way Atsumu curled in on himself, trying to disappear. And then his gaze softened.

"I already know," he said quietly. "You're my brother. That's all I see."

Atsumu broke.

It came out in fragments—the classroom, the knife, the camera. The threats. The video. He couldn't speak in full sentences, just pieces of a nightmare. Osamu sat there and listened, not moving, not interrupting. When Atsumu finally fell silent, chest heaving, face wet, Osamu slowly reached out and took his hand.

"Who was it?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does." Osamu's grip tightened. "You're my twin. My blood. No one gets to hurt you and walk away."

"They'll post the video," Atsumu whispered. "They'll show everyone what I am."

"They'll show everyone what they are." Osamu's voice was hard, harder than Atsumu had ever heard it. "Cowards who go after one kid with a knife. You didn't do anythin' wrong. You're not the one who should be ashamed."

Atsumu shook his head, fresh tears streaming. "I don't want anyone to know. About—about the binder. About me. I just want it to go away."

Osamu was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted, sitting beside his brother on the cold locker room floor. "You can't make it go away by hidin' it. But you don't have to carry it alone, either." He put his arm around Atsumu's shoulders, gentle, careful not to press on the bruises. "I'm not gonna leave you. No matter what."

For a long time, they sat like that. The only sounds were Atsumu's ragged breaths and the distant hum of the ventilation system. Somewhere, the video still existed. Somewhere, the boys who had hurt him were probably laughing. But here, in this small pocket of darkness, there was just Osamu's steady heartbeat and the weight of his arm, solid and real.

Atsumu leaned into him, let himself be held, and for the first time in a week, he breathed.

---

The next morning, Osamu went to the school counselor before practice. Atsumu wasn't there—he'd begged to skip, and Osamu told him to stay in bed, rest. But he couldn't stay silent. The video might leak, but that didn't mean the perpetrators should go free.

The counselor listened, face grave, and then called the coach and the principal. Within a week, an investigation was underway. Yamada and his friends were identified, their phones confiscated. The video was found, and the principal assured Atsumu it would be deleted—no copies, no leaks. They were expelled, with a note on their records that would follow them.

Atsumu didn't feel relieved. He felt hollow, like someone had scooped out his insides and left the shell. But he also felt Osamu's hand on his shoulder, constant, unwavering.

The team was told only that Atsumu had been harassed, that he needed support. Some of them guessed more, but no one pried. Ginjima started sitting with him at lunch. Suna stopped making sarcastic comments about his mood. Akagi clapped him on the back softer, with a questioning look that Atsumu met with a small nod.

The hardest part was the binder. The counselor—a patient woman named Ms. Itou—helped him find a safer one, properly fitted. She also found a therapist who specialized in transgender youth. Atsumu hated the idea of talking to a stranger, but Osamu went with him to the first session, sat in the waiting room, and didn't complain about the magazines.

"You don't have to come," Atsumu said afterwards, slumping in the passenger seat of Osamu's scooter.

"I know." Osamu started the engine. "Shut up and hold on."

---

Three weeks later, Atsumu stepped back onto the volleyball court. His body still ached. His heart still raced when someone approached too fast. But the ball felt right in his hands, the weight of it familiar and safe.

Osamu was at the net, waiting for a toss. Their eyes met, and Osamu gave a single nod.

Atsumu set the ball high, perfect, and watched it arc toward his brother's hand. The spike slammed down, clean and final.

For a moment, there was only the echo of leather on wood.

Then the team cheered, and Atsumu felt something bloom in his chest—not the tightness of the binder, but warmth. A fragile, tentative hope.

He wasn't alone. He never had been.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep going.