The Setter's Fall

The weight in his chest. That’s what woke him up.

Not the usual ache from skipping morning practice, not the dull throb of a pulled muscle. Something heavier. A stone lodged under his ribs that he couldn’t cough out. Pale light bled through his curtains, and his phone screen glowed sickly across the ceiling, buzzing like a trapped fly. It’d been going off for hours—frantic vibrations against the nightstand he’d tried to ignore. But consciousness clawed back anyway, and pretending stopped being an option.

He grabbed it. Thumb swiped across the glass without thinking.

His notifications were a battlefield. Hundreds of tags. Messages from numbers he didn’t recognize. A cascade of red icons that made his stomach drop before he even read a word. The first thing he saw was a tweet, pinned to the top of his timeline by some algorithm he couldn’t escape.

“LMAO look what I found, the Inarizaki setter is a slut 🤡”

A link. A timestamp. His own face, flushed and unaware, frozen mid-laugh in a thumbnail that turned his blood cold. He didn’t click it. Didn’t need to. That video came from Takeru’s phone—the ex-boyfriend he’d dumped three months ago, the one who promised to delete everything when Atsumu ended things. He’d been stupid enough to believe him.

His thumb scrolled on autopilot. “OH MY GOD… He’s so nasty.” “Can’t believe I used to look up to this guy.” Then a username he didn’t recognize: “Takeru said he’s been passing that around for weeks. Guess we know what ‘Miya Atsumu’ is really good at.”

The air left his lungs in a shudder. His room—familiar and cluttered with volleyball posters, dirty laundry, a half-empty water bottle on his desk—turned into a cage. Walls closed in. Ceiling dipped. He rolled onto his side, pulled his knees to his chest, and let the phone clatter to the floor.

He didn’t cry right away. That came later, when the shock wore off and shame hit like a freight train. He’d loved Takeru—or thought he had. Trusted him. Let him film stuff in the dark of his bedroom because Takeru said it was special, just for them, a memory to keep. Now that memory was being passed around like a party favor, a joke, a weapon.

The first sob tore out of him—raw, ugly. He buried his face in his pillow, muffling it, but it didn’t matter. No one was home. Parents at work. Osamu probably already at school, sitting through morning homeroom like nothing was wrong. Like the world hadn’t just collapsed under Atsumu’s feet.

He stayed like that for hours. The phone buzzed and buzzed and buzzed, a relentless drone he couldn’t escape even when he pressed his hands over his ears. Every notification was another nail in his reputation’s coffin. Every tag a stranger laughing at the most intimate parts of him. He wanted to delete everything—the account, the app, his entire existence—but he couldn’t move. Limbs made of lead. Mind a fog of static and pain.

By the time the sun climbed higher and shadows shifted, Atsumu had stopped crying. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his phone a forgotten gravestone on the floor. He didn’t check it again. Didn’t need to. The damage was done.

The first knock came around noon.

“Atsumu? You in there?”

Osamu’s voice, flat but tinged with something Atsumu couldn’t name. Worry, maybe. Or irritation. Atsumu didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stared at the water stain on the ceiling and tried to make his mind go blank.

“Ma said you haven’t been to school. You sick?”

Another pause. The door handle rattled.

“Oi, Atsumu. I’m coming in.”

He should’ve locked it. Meant to, but when he’d stumbled back from the bathroom that morning, his hands shook too hard to turn the deadbolt. The door swung open, and Osamu’s silhouette filled the frame, backlit by the hallway light. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Osamu stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“You look like shit,” he said, but his voice was softer than the words. He crossed the room, picked up the phone from the floor. Atsumu’s heart lurched.

“Don’t.”

Osamu’s thumb was already on the screen, swiping through notifications. His face—usually so unreadable, carefully neutral—tightened. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

“How long have you been looking at this shit?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” Osamu’s voice cracked, just a little. “It’s everywhere. The volleyball chat, the school group, even some of the practice matches. I saw it this morning when I got to homeroom.” He set the phone down on the nightstand, face-down, like he couldn’t bear to look at it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Atsumu’s voice came out hoarse, broken. He hadn’t used it all day, and it felt like sandpaper scraping up his throat. “‘Hey ‘Samu, guess what, your twin brother’s a whore’?”

“Don’t.” Osamu’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you fucking say that.”

“It’s what they’re saying.” Atsumu finally turned his head, meeting his brother’s gaze. His eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. He knew he looked pathetic. Knew Osamu was seeing him like this—weak, broken, the exact opposite of the cocky setter who talked shit on the court. “So just… leave me alone.”

Osamu didn’t move. Stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. Atsumu could feel the frustration radiating off him. Familiar tension—the push and pull of being twins who were nothing alike. Osamu always been the steady one, the calm one, the one who didn’t need attention. Atsumu fought for the spotlight. And now that spotlight had turned into a magnifying glass, burning him alive.

“I’m not leaving,” Osamu said finally. “I’m going to get you some food. You’re gonna eat it. And then we’re gonna talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Too bad.”

He left before Atsumu could argue, the door clicking shut behind him. Atsumu lay there, listening to his brother’s footsteps retreat down the stairs, and felt the tears start again. Not the loud, ugly sobs from before. A quiet, steady leak, like a faucet he couldn’t turn off.

---

The next few days blurred together in half-sleep and avoidance. Atsumu didn’t go to school. Didn’t answer his phone. Didn’t eat, despite Osamu shoving bowls of rice and miso soup under his nose. The only thing he did was lie in bed, scrolling through the comments again and again, like he was punishing himself.

“Fucking disgusting, can’t believe he plays for Inarizaki.”

“He’s so desperate, it’s embarrassing.”

“Imagine being his teammate, having to interact with him after seeing that.”

“I heard he did it for money. Slut.”

Each word was a knife, and he kept turning them over in his hands. Some comments were from people he knew—classmates, teammates, even a few from other schools. One from a girl in his literature class: “I always knew he was fake. All that confidence was just a cover for being a total mess.”

That one hurt the most, because it was true. He was a mess. Built his entire identity on being the best, the strongest, the most untouchable. And now they’d seen him at his most vulnerable, and they were laughing. All of them.

He stopped responding to Osamu’s voice. Stopped leaving his room. The world shrank to the size of his bed, the glow of his phone, the ache in his chest.

---

On the third day, Osamu came home from school with red-rimmed eyes and a fresh bruise on his knuckles.

He didn’t tell Atsumu what happened, but Atsumu heard him on the phone with their mother later that evening, his voice low and tight. “Some idiot at practice said something. I handled it.” Their mother sighed. “I know. I don’t care. He’s my brother.”

Atsumu pressed his palms against his ears, but the words still echoed. He didn’t want Osamu fighting for him. Didn’t want anyone fighting for him. He wanted to disappear.

---

The climax came on a Thursday night, five days after the video first appeared.

Atsumu sat on the floor of his room, back against the bed, phone clutched in his hands. He’d found a new comment—a thread from Takeru’s friends, laughing about how “easy” he’d been. One of them posted a screenshot of a text conversation, Takeru bragging about how he’d convinced Atsumu to “star in a little project.”

Tears streamed down his face, hot and relentless. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he didn’t even try to stop them. He felt hollowed out, scraped clean. Nothing left of the person he used to be.

The door slammed open.

Osamu stood there, chest heaving, hair disheveled, eyes wild. Like he’d run up the stairs. In his hand, he held a printout of something—an article, maybe, or a screenshot. He threw it on the floor.

“What the hell is this?”

Atsumu didn’t look up. “What?”

“This—” Osamu stabbed a finger at the paper. “Takeru’s friend is saying you asked for it. That you wanted the video out. That you’re, quote, ‘just a whore who wanted attention.’”

The words hit Atsumu like a physical blow. He doubled over, the phone slipping from his fingers. “I didn’t—I never—”

“I know you didn’t.” Osamu’s voice cracked. He dropped to his knees in front of Atsumu, gripping his shoulders. “I know. But you’re sitting here, letting them win. You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, you’re not even looking at me.”

“‘Samu, just leave me alone.”

“No.”

“I can’t do this.” Atsumu’s voice rose, cracking on the last word. “I can’t go back. Everyone’s seen me. They’ve all seen me. I can’t—I can’t look them in the face without remembering what they’ve watched. I can’t be me anymore.”

“Then be someone else.” Osamu’s grip tightened. “Be whoever you need to be. But don’t disappear.”

Atsumu let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “You don’t get it. You’re not the one who’s broken.”

“You’re not broken.”

“I wish I was dead.”

The words hung in the air between them, a poison cloud. Osamu’s face went pale. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Atsumu in a crushing hug.

“Don’t you dare say that.” His voice was fierce, trembling. “Don’t you dare. You’re my brother. You’re the only person who gets me, and I’m not letting you go. Not over some asshole who doesn’t know what he threw away.”

Atsumu sobbed into his shoulder, tears soaking through Osamu’s shirt. He tried to push him away, but his arms were weak, and Osamu held on tighter.

“I’m here,” Osamu said, his voice breaking. “I’m not going anywhere. And I don’t care what anyone says—you’re still Atsumu. The annoying, cocky, idiot setter who never shuts up. That’s my brother. And I love him.”

The fight drained out of Atsumu’s body. He collapsed against Osamu, letting himself be held, letting himself fall apart in the safest place he knew. They sat on the floor for a long time, the printout forgotten, the phone dark, the world outside reduced to the sound of two brothers breathing.

---

The next morning, Osamu didn’t go to school. He called their coach first, then the school counselor. Atsumu sat beside him at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, eyes hollow but dry. He listened as Osamu explained—the video, the harassment, the threats. The coach’s voice was tight with anger, promising to handle the situation. The counselor’s was soft, clinical, offering resources.

When Osamu hung up, he looked at Atsumu. “There’s a meeting this afternoon. With the principal, the coach, and a few of the teachers. They want to talk about disciplinary action against anyone who’s been spreading it.”

“What about Takeru?”

“He’s not at our school. But his school’s being contacted. And the police, if we want to press charges.”

Atsumu shook his head. “I don’t want to go to court. I just want it to stop.”

“Then it stops.” Osamu reached across the table, covering Atsumu’s hand with his own. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything. But he didn’t pull away.

---

Returning to school was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

He wore his uniform like armor—shoulders squared, chin up, the mask of the confident setter sliding back into place. But his hands were shaking, and his heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. The hallways were a gauntlet of whispers and stares. He caught fragments of conversation as he passed: “that’s him,” “can you believe,” “I heard he’s not even sorry.” Each one a fresh wound.

But then he saw his teammates.

They were waiting by the gym door, a cluster of nervous energy. Suna leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Ginjima shifted from foot to foot. The first-years, Akagi and Omimi, looked like they wanted to be anywhere else. And Kita—Kita was standing at the front, calm and steady as always.

“Miya,” Kita said, his voice even. “Good to have you back.”

Atsumu blinked. “You’re not…?”

“Not what?” Kita raised an eyebrow. “We’re a team. We’ve always got your back.”

Ginjima stepped forward. “Yeah. And if anyone says anything, they’ve got to go through us.”

Atsumu’s throat tightened. He looked at Osamu, standing just behind him, a silent pillar of support. Then he looked back at his teammates—the people who had seen him at his best and his worst, who had every right to judge him and chose, instead, to stand by him.

“Thanks,” he managed. Came out rough, barely a whisper.

Suna pushed off the wall with a shrug. “Don’t thank us. Just get back on the court and set some balls. We’ve got nationals coming up.”

A laugh escaped Atsumu—a real laugh, rusty and surprised. It felt foreign on his lips, but good. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He walked into the gym, the familiar smell of sweat and polish filling his lungs. The court stretched out before him, a sanctuary of lines and nets, a place where rules were clear and the only thing that mattered was the game.

He wasn’t okay. He knew that. The comments still lived in the back of his mind, and some nights he still woke up in a cold sweat, the shame washing over him in waves. But he wasn’t alone. And for the first time in days, that felt like enough.

---

That night, walking home under the streetlights, Atsumu stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Hey,” he said.

Osamu turned, eyebrows raised.

“Thanks for not giving up on me.”

Osamu snorted, but his eyes were soft. “Don’t get sappy on me now. You’ll ruin your reputation.”

Atsumu smiled. Small, fragile, but real. “Too late for that.”

“Nah.” Osamu clapped him on the shoulder, a light, steady pressure. “The real Atsumu’s still here. He’s just got a few more scars now.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, side by side, the moon casting their shadows long and intertwined. And when Atsumu finally crawled into bed that night, he didn’t reach for his phone. He closed his eyes, let out a long breath, and let himself rest.

The road ahead was still long. But for the first time, he thought he could walk it.