The Scar Under the Gym Lights

The gym lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows across the polished floor. The smell of sweat and rubber hung in the air—the usual mix that usually calmed him down. But not tonight. Tonight his stomach was a washing machine on spin cycle, and his palms were still damp even though he’d toweled off ten minutes ago.

Everyone else had left. Osamu grunted something about dinner and shuffled out with the rest of the first-years. The upperclassmen clapped him on the shoulder, said good practice, and disappeared into the cool spring evening. Only Suna remained, sitting on the bench near the wall, scrolling through his phone with that infuriatingly neutral look he always wore.

Atsumu had been waiting for this moment all week. All month, honestly. The words had built up like pressure in a pipe, and now they were ready to burst. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

Just do it. Just say it. What’s the worst that could happen?

He’d rehearsed this a hundred times. In the mirror. In the shower. Lying awake at three in the morning while Osamu snored in the bunk below. He’d imagined Suna’s reaction a dozen ways—surprise, awkwardness, maybe even a quiet smile. He’d never imagined this hollow dread settling into his bones like cold water.

“Hey, Suna.” His voice came out rougher than he wanted. He cleared his throat. “You got a minute?”

Suna looked up, lazy eyes sliding over Atsumu like he was checking out a piece of meat. “What’s up?”

“Can we… talk? Just for a sec.”

Silence. Suna pocketed his phone and tilted his head. A flicker of something—curiosity? wariness?—passed through his features. “Sure.”

Atsumu walked over and sat on the bench beside him, leaving a respectful gap. The gym felt huge and empty now, the silence pressing in from all sides. He could hear his own breathing. Too loud. Too fast. He laced his fingers together in his lap and squeezed until his knuckles went white.

“So, uh.” He laughed nervously, a sound that died before it had a chance to live. “This is kinda embarrassing. But I figured I should just say it, ‘cause I’m not good at keepin’ stuff inside, y’know? And I’d rather you hear it from me than from someone else, even though no one else knows, but I—”

“Atsumu.” Suna’s voice cut through like a blade. “Spit it out.”

Right. Suna hated when people danced around things. Atsumu took a shaky breath and turned to face him fully. In the fluorescent light, Suna’s eyes looked almost black. Unreadable. Beautiful. Sharp. Cold.

“I like you,” Atsumu said. The words fell out, clumsy and raw. “Like, like you. Not just as a teammate or a friend. I’ve felt this way for a while now, and I thought you should know. I don’t expect anythin’ back, I just—I wanted you to know. Because you deserve to know that someone cares about you like that.”

Silence.

The seconds stretched into forever. Suna stared at him, unmoving, and Atsumu felt his carefully built courage crumbling like dry clay. He searched Suna’s face for any hint of softness, any crack in that marble mask. Nothing.

Then Suna laughed. A short, humorless sound. More like a scoff.

“You’re joking, right?”

Atsumu’s heart stuttered. “No, I’m—I’m serious, Suna. I really—”

“I don’t like you.” Flat. Final. Like a door slamming shut. “Not even a little bit. So you can take that confession and shove it.”

Something in Atsumu’s chest cracked. A hairline fissure, spreading outward. “I—okay. I mean, I said I didn’t expect anythin’ back, so that’s fine. I just wanted you to know.”

“Why?” Suna’s voice turned sharp, cutting. “Why did you need to tell me? Did you think I’d be flattered? Did you think I’d fall into your arms and we’d ride off into the sunset together?”

“No, I didn’t—”

“Because I’ve seen the way you look at me during practice. Like a lost puppy. It’s pathetic.”

The fissure widened. Tears burned at Atsumu’s eyes. No. Not here. Not now. “You don’t have to be mean about it. I was just bein’ honest.”

“Honest?” Suna stood up, and suddenly he was looking down at Atsumu, and the angle made something shift in his expression. His eyes were cold, but there was a flicker in them—something darker, something that made the hairs on the back of Atsumu’s neck stand up. “You want honesty? Fine. I think you’re desperate. I think you’re clingy. I think you’re so insecure that you can’t stand the idea of someone not wanting you, so you throw yourself at the first person who shows you any attention.”

“That’s not true.” Weak. Barely a whisper.

“Isn’t it?” Suna stepped closer. “You’re always trying so hard to be liked. By everyone. It’s exhausting to watch. You’re like a dog begging for scraps.”

Atsumu’s hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists. “Stop.”

“Why? Can’t handle the truth?” Suna’s voice dropped, low and venomous. “You’re pathetic, Miya. You always have been. The only reason anyone tolerates you is because you’re good at volleyball. Without that, you’re nothing.”

The tears came then. Hot and humiliating, streaming down his cheeks. Atsumu couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t even think to hide his face. He sat there, frozen, while Suna’s words carved into him.

And then Suna moved.

His hand shot up, palm open, and cracked across Atsumu’s cheek. The sound echoed through the empty gym. The force knocked Atsumu sideways, his head snapping to the side, and he let out a pained gasp. Shock overrode the sting for a split second, then the pain bloomed white-hot.

“What—” he started, but Suna’s hands were already on him, gripping his collar, yanking him up off the bench and slamming him against the gym wall. The back of Atsumu’s head hit the plaster, and stars burst behind his eyes.

“You think you can just confess to me and everything will be fine?” Suna hissed, his face inches from Atsumu’s. His breath was hot, his eyes wide and wild in a way Atsumu had never seen before. “You think I want your pathetic little feelings? You think I’m gonna coddle you like some lovesick fool?”

Atsumu tried to push him away, but Suna’s grip was iron. His fingers found Atsumu’s throat, pressing down. Cutting off air. Panic surged, hot and electric.

“Suna—can’t—breathe—” He clawed at Suna’s wrist, but the pressure only increased.

“Beg,” Suna said, eerily calm. “Beg me to let you go, and maybe I will.”

Terror flooded Atsumu’s veins. His vision spotted, black creeping in from the edges. He gasped for air that wouldn’t come, lungs burning, heart hammering.

“Please,” he choked out, barely a whisper. “Please—Suna—lemme go—”

“Louder.”

“Please!” The word ripped out of him, raw and broken. “Please don’t—I’m sorry—please—”

Suna held him another agonizing second, watching with cold, detached interest. Then he let go.

Atsumu crumpled to the floor, gasping, coughing, sucking in air like a drowning man. His throat burned. His cheek throbbed. He curled in on himself, shaking, tears still streaming. He tasted blood where he’d bitten his tongue.

Suna stood over him, a dark silhouette against the gym lights. “Stay away from me,” he said, flat and emotionless. “And don’t ever tell me how you feel again.”

He turned and walked away. Footsteps echoing on hardwood, fading into the night.

Atsumu stayed on the floor for a long time. Minutes, maybe hours. The gym was silent except for his own ragged breathing and the occasional sob escaping his throat. His face hurt. His neck hurt. His heart hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

Eventually he forced himself to his feet. Legs unsteady, he leaned against the wall to keep from collapsing. The locker room. He needed to get to the locker room. Wash his face. Make himself presentable. Hide what happened before anyone saw.

He stumbled down the hallway, one hand pressed to his bruised throat, the other braced against the wall. The fluorescent lights buzzed, too bright, too loud. Every sound made him flinch. Every shadow made his heart race.

The locker room door felt heavy. He shoved it open and stumbled inside. The smell of soap and damp towels hit him. He made it to the sinks, gripped the edge of the counter, and looked up at the mirror.

Red-rimmed eyes. Swollen lips. A livid handprint blooming across his left cheek. And on his neck, the dark impressions of fingers, purple and angry.

He looked away. Couldn't bear to see himself.

His legs gave out, and he slid down to the tiled floor, back against the lockers, and buried his face in his hands. The tears came again, silent this time, shaking his shoulders, stealing his breath. He felt hollowed out. Scraped clean.

The door creaked open.

“Tsumu? You still here?”

Osamu’s voice. Of course it was Osamu. Who else would come looking for him?

Atsumu didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His voice was gone.

Footsteps. Then a sharp intake of breath.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Atsumu looked up, and the expression on Osamu’s face—shock, then fury, then something softer and more terrifying—made him break all over again. He couldn’t speak. Just shook his head, tears spilling.

Osamu dropped to his knees in front of him, hands hovering, not quite touching, like he was afraid Atsumu would shatter. His eyes traced the bruise on his cheek, the marks on his neck. His jaw tightened.

“Who did this?”

The question hung in the air. Atsumu opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He tried again, and his voice emerged as a hoarse whisper. “Suna.”

Osamu went still. The silence stretched, and then he stood up, movements sharp and purposeful. His hands were shaking.

“Where is he?”

“Samu, don’t—”

“Where is he, Atsumu?”

Atsumu grabbed his brother’s wrist, grip weak but desperate. “Please. Don’t. It’ll only make things worse.”

Osamu stared down at him, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—a memory, a shadow from their childhood. Their mother’s handprints on Atsumu’s arm. Their mother’s voice, sharp and cruel. Atsumu cowering in the corner of their bedroom while Osamu stood in front of him, fists clenched, trying to shield him.

He’d failed then. He wouldn’t fail now.

“I’ll be back,” Osamu said, voice like ice.

He pulled his wrist free and walked out.

The hallway was empty. The gym was dark. But Osamu knew where Suna lived. He’d been to his house a dozen times, eaten dinner at his kitchen table, laughed at his dry jokes. He’d considered Suna a friend. One of his closest friends.

That friendship? Ash.

He found Suna outside the school gates, phone in hand, walking toward the convenience store like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just put his hands on Osamu’s brother.

“Suna.”

Suna turned, expression barely flickering. “Oh. It’s you.”

“What did you do to Atsumu?”

A pause. Suna’s eyes narrowed. “He told you?”

“I saw it. His face. His neck.” Osamu’s voice was rising, the calm cracking. “You choked him. You hit him. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Suna’s lips curled into a smirk. “He confessed to me. I rejected him. He didn’t take it well, so I had to… handle it.”

“Handle it? You put your hands on him. You assaulted him.”

“He’s fine. He’s dramatic. You know how he is.”

Something in Osamu snapped. He lunged, grabbed Suna by the front of his jacket, and slammed him against the gate. The metal rattled. Suna’s head knocked back, his smirk vanishing into surprise.

“You listen to me,” Osamu snarled, face inches from Suna’s. “You ever go near him again, I’ll destroy you. I don’t care how good of a blocker you are. I don’t care if we lose every match. I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand?”

Suna stared at him, and for a second, Osamu saw something in his eyes—fear? Recognition? Then it was gone, replaced by that cold, unreadable mask.

“Let me go, Osamu.”

“Answer me.”

“I heard you.”

Osamu released him, shoving him back. Suna straightened his jacket, expression carefully neutral, but his hands were shaking. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

Footsteps. Osamu turned to see Kita and Ginjima rounding the corner, drawn by the noise. Aran was behind them, phone in hand, looking concerned.

“What’s going on?” Kita asked, voice calm but sharp.

Osamu didn’t answer. He just looked at Suna, and the look said it all.

Ginjima stepped forward, eyes landing on the red marks on Osamu’s knuckles, then on Suna’s disheveled appearance. “Osamu?”

“Ask him what he did to Atsumu,” Osamu said, flat.

Three pairs of eyes turned to Suna.

Suna’s mask cracked. He looked away, jaw tight. “It was nothing. He was being dramatic.”

“He has bruises on his neck,” Osamu said. “Handprint-shaped bruises.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Aran’s face went pale. “Suna. Tell me that’s not true.”

Suna said nothing.

Kita stepped forward, expression unreadable. “We need to see Atsumu.”

They found him still on the locker room floor, curled into a ball, his face hidden. When he heard footsteps, he flinched, and the sight of it—Atsumu Miya, the loudest, most obnoxious person on the team, flinching like a scared animal—made something cold settle in Kita’s chest.

He knelt down, gentle. “Atsumu. It’s Kita. Can you look at me?”

Slowly, Atsumu raised his head. His face was a mess—bruised, swollen, tear-streaked. His eyes were empty.

Kita’s jaw tightened. He turned to Suna, who stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at Atsumu.

“You’re done,” Kita said, quiet but final. “You’re off the team until further notice. I’ll talk to the coach.”

Suna’s head snapped up. “You can’t—”

“I can. I will.” Kita stood, his presence filling the room. “What you did is unforgivable. You are no longer welcome here.”

Ginjima stepped aside, leaving a clear path to the door. Aran’s eyes were hard, his usual warmth replaced by cold disappointment. Osamu stood guard beside Atsumu, arms crossed, ready to block anyone who came too close.

Suna looked around the room—at the faces of his teammates, his friends, people he’d spent years training with—and saw nothing but hostility. Rejection. He was alone.

He turned and walked out without another word.

The door swung shut behind him, and the silence that followed was heavy.

Osamu sank down next to Atsumu, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Atsumu flinched, then slowly, hesitantly, leaned into the touch.

“I got you,” Osamu murmured, voice rough. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Atsumu didn’t answer. He didn’t have the strength. But he closed his eyes and let himself be held, let the steady rhythm of his brother’s heartbeat anchor him to something real.

The others filtered out one by one, each offering a quiet word, a hand on the shoulder, a promise of support. But the scars Suna left behind—the ones on Atsumu’s neck and the ones carved into his soul—would take much longer to heal.

Osamu stayed until the janitor came to lock up, then helped Atsumu to his feet, guided him out into the cold night air, and walked him home in silence. He didn’t let go of his brother’s hand. Atsumu didn’t pull away.

When they got home, Osamu made tea and sat with him until he fell asleep on the couch. He covered him with a blanket and watched the faint rise and fall of his chest, the bruises standing out stark against his pale skin.

His phone buzzed. A message from Suna.

I didn’t mean to hurt him. Tell him I’m sorry.

Osamu deleted it without reading it fully. He blocked the number, set the phone aside, and sat in the dark, keeping watch over his twin.

In the morning, Atsumu woke with a gasp, hands flying to his throat. Osamu was already there, grounding him, telling him where he was. The terror took its time leaving his eyes.

“He’s gone,” Osamu said quietly. “He’s not comin’ back. You’re safe.”

Atsumu nodded, but the movement was wooden, mechanical. He didn’t believe it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But when Osamu reached out and took his hand, he held on tight.

And that was enough to keep him breathing for one more day.