The Roots We Buried

The salt air hit Atsumu first—the same wet, suffocating smell he'd been trying to get out of his lungs for four years. The train station was empty, last local gone twenty minutes ago. He stood on the platform with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie pulled up to hide the dark circles under his eyes, the hollows in his cheeks that even the locker room lights had started to notice.

He hadn't told anyone he was coming. Not the team. Not the manager. Not Osamu.

Especially not Osamu.

The walk to the old neighborhood took him past the beach where they used to practice setting until their fingers bled. Past the convenience store where they'd buy cheap energy drinks before morning practice. Past the park bench where, at sixteen, he first realized the way he looked at his brother wasn't how brothers were supposed to look at each other.

He'd buried that for years. Smothered it under championships, under the roar of crowds, under the perfect chaos of a set. But it never died. Just grew roots, deep and tangled, until every time Osamu's name showed up on his phone, his chest cracked open.

The apartment he'd kept was small and musty—a relic from his pre-MSBY days when he stayed in town during off-seasons. He dropped his bag by the door, didn't bother with the lights. The moon was full enough, painting the tatami mats silver-grey, casting long shadows from the single window.

His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number—but he knew it by heart.

You're back.

He didn't ask how Osamu knew. They always knew.

Atsumu typed: Where?

Same place. Midnight.

The old quarry, half a mile into the woods. Their secret meeting spot since they were kids, long before it became something else.

He got there early, like always. The air was cooler, thick with damp earth and pine needles. He sat on the flat rock they used to pretend was a pirate ship, and waited.

Osamu came at five past midnight, silent as a shadow. Wearing a jacket over his shop apron, still smelling like teriyaki and rice vinegar. His face was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes—those identical eyes—held something that made Atsumu's throat tighten.

"You look like shit," Osamu said.

"Missed you too."

They didn't talk after that. Words had become secondary, something they couldn't afford. Osamu crossed the distance, took Atsumu's face in his hands, and kissed him.

Desperate. Hungry. Wrong—Atsumu knew it was wrong, knew Osamu had a wife at home, two daughters asleep in their beds, a life that didn't include this. But Osamu's hands were warm and steady, and when he whispered "I've got you" against Atsumu's neck, Atsumu let himself believe it.

Later, tangled on the rock, Osamu traced patterns on Atsumu's bare shoulder. Touch reverent, almost apologetic.

"Season was hard?" Osamu asked.

Atsumu didn't answer. The season was fine. He was the best setter in the V.League, maybe in Japan. But none of that mattered when he came home to an empty apartment, when the only person he wanted to celebrate with was married to someone else.

"Tsumu."

"Don't." His voice cracked. "Don't pretend you care."

"I do care."

"Then leave her."

The words hung in the air, ugly and desperate. Osamu's hand stilled.

"You know I can't."

"Why not?" Atsumu sat up, pulled away from Osamu's touch. "You don't love her, Samu. You love me. I know you do."

"Atsumu—"

"You think I don't see it? The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention? The way you come here, night after night, even though you know it's destroying me?"

Osamu's jaw tightened. "It's not that simple."

"It's exactly that simple!" Atsumu's voice broke on the last word, and he hated himself for it. "You choose her. Every time. You choose your perfect little family, and you leave me here, bleeding out in the dark."

"That's not—"

"Then what is it?" Atsumu was on his feet now, naked and shivering, tears streaming down his face. "Tell me, Osamu. Explain it to me. Because I've been trying to understand for four years, and all I've figured out is that I'm not enough. I'll never be enough."

Osamu reached for him, but Atsumu flinched.

"You're enough," Osamu whispered. "You're everything. But I have responsibilities. Mio—she doesn't deserve this. The girls—"

"So I deserve this?" Atsumu laughed, bitter and hollow. "I deserve to be your dirty secret? Used and discarded while you go home to a warm bed?"

"Used?" Osamu's voice rose. "You think I'm using you?"

"What else do you call it?"

They stared at each other, the distance between them vast and insurmountable. Atsumu could feel Osamu's pain, mirroring his own, amplified by the bond they'd never been able to sever. Agony, loving someone who loved you back but couldn't choose you.

"I should go," Osamu said finally. "Mio will worry."

"Of course she will." Atsumu turned away, pulling on his clothes with shaking hands. "Wouldn't want to make her worry. Wouldn't want to make anyone uncomfortable."

"Tsumu—"

"Just go."

Osamu hesitated. For a moment, Atsumu thought he might stay. But then came the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel, fading into the night.

Atsumu sat alone on that rock until the sky turned grey. Then he walked home, hauled a blade from his kitchen drawer, and carved a thin red line into his forearm.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last.

---

The pattern repeated for three weeks. Each night, Atsumu waited at the quarry. Each night, Osamu came. They'd touch, kiss, pretend the world outside didn't exist. And each time, Osamu would leave, and Atsumu would go back to his apartment and add another scar to the collection on his arms.

He wore long sleeves now, even in the heat. His teammates noticed, asked questions. He deflected with jokes about the weather, about air conditioning, about anything that wasn't the truth.

The truth was he was hollowing out from the inside. The person he'd been—cocky, arrogant, brilliantly selfish setter—was gone. In his place a ghost, going through the motions, setting perfect tosses to teammates who praised his intensity while he silently screamed for someone—anyone—to see what was happening.

One night, after Osamu left particularly early, Atsumu didn't bother with the blade. He sat on the bathroom floor, phone in hand, and called the one person he shouldn't.

Osamu answered on the second ring, voice hushed. "Are you okay?"

"No." Atsumu's voice was flat. "I'm not okay. I think I'm dying."

"Where are you?"

"Home. Your home? Doesn't matter."

"Stay there. I'm coming."

"Don't." Atsumu's laugh was broken. "Don't come. You'll just leave again."

"Atsumu—"

"Tell me you love me."

A pause. "You know I do."

"Tell me you'll choose me."

Silence.

"That's what I thought." Atsumu hung up.

He didn't cut that night. Just lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, wondering if his mother had felt this way before she left. If the despair was genetic, a poison passed down through blood.

---

The last night, Atsumu knew, was going to be different. He could feel it in the way the air pressure changed before a storm, in the way his bones ached like before a fever. He showered, dressed in clean clothes, and walked to the quarry without a plan.

Osamu was already there, standing under the gibbous moon. Tired, shadows under his eyes, hair unwashed.

"I told Mio I'm working late," he said.

"How late?"

Osamu didn't answer.

Atsumu stopped a few feet away. Thin t-shirt, no jacket, no long sleeves. The scars on his arms were visible in the moonlight—some healed white, some still pink and angry.

Osamu saw them. His face crumpled.

"Tsumu—"

"Don't." Atsumu's voice was calm, steady. He'd rehearsed this. "Don't pretend to be surprised. You knew. You always know."

"I didn't—"

"You knew." Atsumu repeated. "You knew I was breaking, and you kept coming. Kept holding me and leaving. Kept giving me just enough to keep me alive, but not enough to let me live."

Osamu took a step forward. Atsumu took a step back.

"I have a question," Atsumu said. "And I want you to answer honestly."

"Anything."

"Will you end my pain?"

Osamu's face went pale. "What?"

"Will you take my life?" Atsumu's voice didn't waver. "Bleed me out? Or watch me do it myself?"

"No." Osamu grabbed him, shook him. "No, no, no. Don't say that. Don't ever say that."

"Then choose me." Atsumu's composure finally shattered. Tears streaming down his face. "Choose me, Osamu. Let me be enough."

Osamu pulled him close, held him so tight Atsumu could barely breathe. "I'll leave her. I'll divorce her. Just—please. Please don't hurt yourself. You're precious to me. The most precious thing in the world."

"Liar."

"I mean it. Give me time. Give me—"

"It's too late." Atsumu pulled away, wiping his face. "I've already decided. I just wanted to hear you say it."

"Don't go."

Atsumu looked at his twin, the reflection of himself in another life. Same face, same voice, same soul. But Osamu had chosen light, and Atsumu had chosen shadow.

"Goodbye, Samu."

He walked away. Osamu called after him, but Atsumu didn't stop. Walked back to his apartment, locked the door, sat on the bathroom floor.

The blade was clean. He'd sharpened it earlier, ritualistically, the way he used to prepare for matches.

This time, he didn't stop with one line.

---

Osamu couldn't shake the feeling. A physical weight in his chest, a cold dread spreading like ice water through his veins. He'd felt it once before—when they were seven and Atsumu fell into the river, when Osamu pulled him out by the collar, gasping and coughing.

He drove to Atsumu's apartment without thinking. Lights off. Door locked.

He broke it down with his shoulder.

Bathroom light on. Door cracked open.

Osamu pushed it open and saw his brother on the floor, surrounded by a pool of red that was spreading, spreading, spreading.

"No." The word left his mouth without sound. "No, no, no."

He dropped to his knees, grabbed Atsumu's wrist—the cuts were deep, too deep, the blood warm and slick on his hands. Atsumu's eyes were open, glassy, still alive.

"Stay with me," Osamu choked out, dialing emergency with shaking fingers. "Stay with me, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

Atsumu's lips moved, but no sound came out. Osamu leaned closer.

"'S okay," Atsumu whispered. "Don't have to choose anymore."

"I choose you. I choose you. Please, God, I choose you."

The ambulance came. Osamu rode in the back, holding Atsumu's hand, not caring that his hands were covered in blood, that his shirt was ruined, that his wife was calling and calling and he didn't answer.

At the hospital, they stabilized him. Surgery. Blood transfusions. A waiting room with plastic chairs and fluorescent lights that hummed like angry insects.

Osamu called Mio. Her voice was cold when he told her he wouldn't be coming home. Not tonight. Not ever.

"What did I tell you?" she said. "I told you he would destroy us."

"He didn't destroy us," Osamu said. "I did."

He hung up. Sat in the waiting room until a doctor came out and told him Atsumu would live.

"I want to see him."

"Visiting hours are—"

"Now."

The doctor must have seen something in his face, because she nodded.

Atsumu was pale against the white sheets, arms bandaged, IV lines running into his skin. He looked small. Looked like the boy Osamu had pulled from the river, shivering and scared.

Osamu pulled a chair to the bedside and took Atsumu's hand.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

Atsumu's eyes fluttered open. For a long moment, they just looked at each other.

"Does it hurt?" Atsumu asked, voice raw.

"Everything hurts."

Atsumu's laugh was weak, barely a breath. "Good."

Osamu pressed his forehead to Atsumu's hand. "I'm sorry. Sorry for every time I left. Sorry for not being brave enough."

"I'm sorry for making you choose."

"You didn't make me. I should have chosen long ago."

Silence. Then Atsumu's fingers curled, barely, around Osamu's.

"What happens now?" Atsumu asked.

"I don't know." Osamu looked up, eyes red and swollen. "But we figure it out together. If you'll have me."

"I don't think I have a choice." Atsumu's smile was fragile, almost translucent. "You're stuck with me now."

"Always was."

They stayed like that, hands intertwined, until the first grey light of dawn crept through the blinds. Outside, the coastal town stirred to life—fishermen heading to the docks, mothers walking kids to school, the world continuing its indifferent rotation.

But inside that hospital room, two broken boys—men, now—held onto each other, clinging to the fragile thread of a future they'd almost destroyed.

The scars would remain. On Atsumu's arms, on Osamu's heart, on the delicate architecture of their bond. They'd need time, therapy, honesty. They'd need to rebuild trust from ashes.

But for the first time in years, Atsumu looked at his brother and saw not the source of his pain, but the promise of something new.

"How long do I have to stay in this place?" Atsumu asked.

"Until you're better."

"I'm never going to be better."

Osamu squeezed his hand. "Then I'll stay until you are."

And he did.