The Weight of Gold

The locker room smelled like fabric softener and nerves. New jackets hung from every hook—red, white, black—the Inarizaki fox stitched in gold across the back. The team had been hyped about them for weeks. Custom-made. A gift from some local sponsor who believed in the program. Now they were here, stiff and perfect, waiting.

Atsumu Miya grabbed his without thinking. Size large—he liked room to move. He shrugged it on, the material cool against his practice jersey, and turned to face the mirror bolted to the far wall. Fit was good. Sleeves hit his wrists exactly. The fox sat proud between his shoulder blades.

“Lookin’ sharp, Miya,” Suna said from his left, already in his own jacket, phone out.

“Always do.” Atsumu’s voice came out lighter than usual. Practiced. He tilted his chin up, ran a hand through his hair—freshly dyed, a shade brighter than last week—and pulled out his phone.

The selfie came easy. He knew his angles. Left side, slight smirk, eyes half-lidded like he didn’t care. The flash caught the gold stitching.

His thumb hovered over the camera roll. He’d send it to Kita. Kita always liked seeing the new gear. He’d say something like Looks good on you or Don’t forget to hang it properly—that calm, measured voice that made Atsumu’s chest go warm.

Then it hit him.

His thumb froze. The contact name wasn’t there. He’d deleted it two weeks ago. After the party. After everything.

“—send this to Kita-san?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Flat. A habit.

The locker room went quiet.

Atsumu blinked, the screen blurring. He felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes. Suna stopped typing. Ginjima, halfway into his own jacket, froze. Akagi stared from the bench where he sat retying his shoes.

And Osamu. Two lockers down, already watching him the way he always did—quiet, patient, like he was waiting for Atsumu to break.

“I mean—” Atsumu laughed, short and hollow. “Brain fart. Forgot he ain’t—yeah. Whatever. I’ll just redo my makeup before I send it. Lighting’s shit in here anyway.”

He turned back to the mirror, pulling out a compact. His hands were steady. He’d practiced this. The act of normalcy. The routine of being fine.

“Tsumu.” Osamu’s voice—low. Careful.

“What?” He didn’t look up. Swiped concealer under his eye even though there was nothing to hide. Skin clear. He’d been sleeping fine. Eating fine. Playing fine.

“You don’t gotta do that.”

“Do what? Fix my face? It’s called self-respect, Samu. You should try it sometime.”

The joke landed flat. No one laughed.

Atsumu snapped the compact shut and forced a smile into the mirror. It didn’t reach his eyes. His mouth was doing all the work, and his eyes were just… empty.

“Seriously, I’m fine.” He turned to face them. “It’s just a jacket. Nice jacket. Gonna take a picture, send it to the group chat, then we’re gonna go over that new drill. Right?”

He lifted his hands to unzip it. Practical motion. Wanted it off, hang it up, step back into the version of himself that didn’t flinch at a name. The zipper was new. Stiff. He tugged.

It didn’t budge.

He tugged again, harder. It jammed halfway down, caught on a thread or a fold. He pulled at it with his fingernails, frustration already pricking at the edges.

“Come on,” he muttered, yanking. Fabric wrinkled. Zipper stayed stuck.

“Just take it off over your head,” Akagi said, standing.

“No, I got it.” Atsumu’s voice went thin. He pulled harder, the tab digging into his thumb. The jacket constricted around his chest, pinning his arms.

“Atsumu.” Ginjima stepped closer.

“I said I got it!”

The shout echoed off the tile. Atsumu stopped, breathing hard. Jacket half-off, half-on, twisted around his torso like a trap. His fingers were shaking.

He looked at his reflection. The blond hair. The empty eyes. The stuck zipper.

And something inside him—something he’d been holding together with tape and denial and pretending—gave way.

It started as a hitch in his breath. A tiny, ragged sound he couldn't swallow. Then another. Then his face crumpled, and the first tear fell, and he couldn’t stop.

“It’s stuck,” he said, voice cracking. “The goddamn zipper is stuck.”

He pulled at it again, sobbing now—ugly, wet. “I can’t—why won’t it—it’s just a stupid zipper—”

His knees buckled.

He hit the floor hard, jacket still twisted around him, hands still clawing at the metal tab like if he could just get it open, everything would be okay. His shoulders heaved. The sound wasn’t crying—it was keening. A wounded animal noise he’d held in for two weeks.

“I lost him,” he gasped between sobs. “I lost Kita. I lost him and I can’t—I can’t get it back—I can’t fix it—”

The team moved.

Akagi dropped to his knees first, hands gentle on the jacket. “Let me help. Let me get it off.”

Atsumu didn’t fight. He let Akagi work the zipper free, let Ginjima kneel on his other side, let Suna rest a hand on his shoulder. The jacket came loose, and he sagged forward, forehead nearly touching the floor.

“I was supposed to send him a picture,” Atsumu whispered. “He always liked seein’ the new gear. Said it made him proud. And I just—I keep reachin’ for my phone and he’s not there—and I did that. I did that to us. I pushed him away because I was scared, and now he’s gone, and he’s movin’ on, and I’m still here, and I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

“Breathe with me.” Akagi’s voice steady, a captain’s. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Come on, Atsumu. Copy me.”

Atsumu tried. Inhale, ragged. Exhale, shudder. Another inhale. Another exhale. The sobs slowed from gulping to crying.

Through it all, someone was beside him. A solid presence. A hand on his back, rubbing slow circles. He knew that hand. Same shape as his own. Same knuckles. Same warmth.

Osamu hadn’t said a word.

He didn’t need to.

Atsumu turned his head, cheek pressed to the cold floor, and looked up at his twin. Osamu’s face was unreadable, but his eyes were wet.

“Samu,” Atsumu choked out.

“I know.” Osamu’s voice rough. “I know, Tsumu.”

He didn’t say I told you so or you should’ve talked to him or you messed up. He just sat there, on the locker room floor, in the middle of scattered jackets and a silent team, and let his brother cry.

The team didn’t leave.

Suna moved to lean against the lockers, arms crossed, but his phone was pocketed. Ginjima brought a water bottle. Akagi stayed on the floor, one hand still on Atsumu’s shoulder, grounding him. The underclassmen hovered at the edges, unsure, but present.

Atsumu cried until there was nothing left. Until his chest ached and his eyes burned and his throat was raw. And when the last sob faded into a sniffle, he sat up slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

The jacket lay in a heap beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t know why I—”

“Don’t.” Osamu cut him off. “Don’t apologize for bein’ human, Tsumu. It’s a bad look.”

A wet laugh escaped Atsumu’s lips. Ugly and broken, but real.

Akagi stood, offered him a hand. “We’re your team, Miya. On and off the court. You don’t have to pretend with us.”

Atsumu took the hand. Got to his feet. Stood there in his practice jersey, jacketless, exposed.

He looked at the jacket on the floor. The gold fox. The red lining. The stuck zipper.

He still missed Kita. Still angry at himself. The wound was still raw and bleeding.

But for the first time in two weeks, he wasn’t pretending it wasn’t there.

“Can I have a minute?” he asked, voice small.

“Take all the time you need,” Ginjima said.

The team filtered out slowly. Suna gave his shoulder a squeeze. Akagi nodded. The underclassmen shuffled past with soft murmurs of support.

Osamu stayed.

He picked up the jacket, folded it neatly, and set it on the bench. Then he sat down, back against the lockers, legs stretched out.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Atsumu slid down the wall beside him. Their shoulders touched. For a long moment, neither spoke.

“I really messed up, Samu.”

“Yeah. You did.”

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. “He ain’t comin’ back, is he?”

Osamu was quiet. Then, softly: “Probably not. But you’re still here. And we’re still here. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Atsumu leaned his head against his brother’s shoulder.

The locker room door was still open. The hallway was quiet. Somewhere far off, he could hear the echo of the team’s footsteps, the clatter of volleyballs, the sound of a world that kept moving.

He wasn’t ready to join it again. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Osamu’s arm came around his shoulders, steady and warm.

And Atsumu let himself be held.