Roots Digging In

The weight didn't hit him all at once. It snuck up, bit by bit, starting sometime in June.

Summer training camp was brutal that first week. The heat was disgusting, drills went on forever, and between trying to be Inarizaki's perfect setter and just surviving the day, Atsumu found himself grabbing onigiri from the convenience store almost every night. Instant ramen too, when he couldn't sleep. He told himself it was fuel. His body needed it. Made sense.

By the end of July, the scale said otherwise.

"Tsumu, you're getting thick," Osamu said one evening, not even looking up from his phone. They were sprawled out in their shared dorm room, the ceiling fan doing nothing. "Your shorts look tight."

"Shut up, 'Samu." Atsumu tugged his practice jersey down over his stomach. It fit fine. Everything was fine. He was fine.

Suna, lounging on the other futon, tilted his head with that lazy stare. "He's not wrong. You've got some junk in the trunk now, Miya."

Atsumu laughed it off. That's what he did—smile, deflect, joke about cultivating mass for nationals. But later that night, with the lights off and Osamu's breathing steady, he stood in front of the tiny bathroom mirror. Turned sideways. His thighs looked thicker. His ass filled out his shorts in a way it hadn't before.

He sucked in his stomach, held it for five seconds. Ten. Then let it out and looked away.

It's fine. You're fine. You're still good. You're still—

But the doubt was already there, roots digging in.

---

The comments came from everywhere.

His mother started leaving articles about healthy eating on the kitchen counter. She was never cruel, just honest. "Atsumu, honey, you know volleyball's about agility," she said one morning, pushing a bowl of plain oatmeal toward him instead of rice and fish. "Maybe cut back on the carbs a little?"

The team's manager, a well-meaning second-year, suggested a new conditioning program. "For explosiveness," she said brightly. "And, you know, overall fitness."

Even Kiyoomi, his boyfriend of eight months, managed to make his distance felt through a screen. Their texts had dried up—a few dry replies to Atsumu's updates, a missed call here and there. When Atsumu sent a selfie after practice, sweaty and grinning, Kiyoomi's response came five hours later: You look tired.

Atsumu stared at those three words until his phone screen went dark.

You look tired. Not You look good. Not I miss you. Just tired. Like he was exhausting to look at.

He started taking photos from higher angles, tilting his phone so his face looked thinner, his jaw sharper. He deleted way more than he kept.

---

The breaking point came on a humid August afternoon, two weeks before fall season.

He'd been avoiding trying on his uniform. Practice jerseys were stretchy, forgiving. But the game jersey—that crisp, fitted Inarizaki black and white—was unforgiving. He'd worn it with pride for two years, the fabric hugging his lean frame perfectly.

He pulled it over his head. The sleeves were snug around his biceps. The fabric pulled across his stomach. He could zip it, but it was tight. And then the shorts.

They didn't button.

He tried again. Held his breath. Sucked in his stomach. The button refused to meet the hole by a solid inch.

Atsumu sat down on the edge of his bed, the unbuttoned shorts hanging loose around his hips, and the first sob tore out of him like something physical. He pressed his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound, but it didn't help—the tears came hot and fast, dripping onto the white fabric in dark spots.

He didn't hear the door open. Didn't hear Osamu's footsteps.

"Tsumu?"

Atsumu looked up, his face a mess of tears and snot and shame. "I can't even—" His voice cracked. "The shorts don't fit, 'Samu. They don't fit."

Osamu was at his side in an instant, dropping to his knees on the floor. He didn't say anything for a long moment. Just looked at his twin—the red-rimmed eyes, the trembling hands, the way Atsumu's chest heaved like he was drowning.

"They're just shorts," Osamu said carefully.

"No, they're not." Atsumu's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm a burden. I'm—I'm not fast enough, I'm not good enough, I'm not pretty enough for him, and I can't even fit into my own uniform—"

"Stop." Osamu's hands found Atsumu's shoulders, gripping firm. "Stop it."

"What's the point?" Atsumu whispered, the words hanging in the air like smoke. "What's the point of any of this if I can't even—if no one wants me around?"

Osamu pulled him into a hug so tight it hurt. Atsumu crumpled against him, sobbing into his twin's shoulder, and Osamu held him like he was the only thing keeping Atsumu tethered.

"The team needs you," Osamu said, his voice rough. "I need you. You're my brother, Tsumu. You're my twin. There's no world where I don't want you around. You hear me?"

Atsumu didn't answer. He just cried until he had nothing left, and Osamu held him the whole time.

---

The next morning, Atsumu started his new diet.

It wasn't a diet, he told himself. A reset. A cleanse. A way to get back where he needed to be.

He chewed gum for breakfast. Drank water for lunch. For dinner, he allowed himself a small portion of whatever Osamu had cooked, pushing the food around his plate more than eating it.

"Eat more," Osamu said on the third night.

"Not hungry."

"Bullshit. You've had three sticks of gum today."

Atsumu forced a smile. "I ate a rice ball at practice."

"A rice ball isn't enough."

"It's fine, 'Samu. I know what I'm doing."

But he didn't. He only knew that when his stomach growled, he felt a twisted sense of victory. When he stepped on the scale and saw the numbers dropping, he felt like he was finally in control of something.

The fainting started in September.

First time was during practice. One moment he was setting to Aran, the next the world tilted sideways and he was on the floor, the gym ceiling spinning above him.

"Whoa, Miya, you okay?" Aran's face appeared above him, concerned.

"Yeah, yeah, just—stood up too fast." Atsumu scrambled up, waving off helping hands. "I'm fine."

Second time was in the hallway between classes. He woke up with Suna's hand under his head and a small crowd of students staring.

"Maybe see a nurse," Suna said, and his voice didn't have its usual lazy drawl. He sounded genuinely worried.

"I'm fine," Atsumu said again.

Third time, he didn't wake up so quickly.

---

The notes started appearing in his locker toward the end of September.

Plain paper, folded into neat squares. No signature. Just simple words in careful handwriting.

You played well today. Keep going.

Your setting is improving. Don't forget to rest.

You are more than your body. Remember that.

At first, he thought they were from Osamu, but the handwriting wasn't right. Too tidy. Too deliberate. He thought about asking around, but something stopped him. The notes felt like a secret. A kindness he didn't deserve but couldn't bear to lose.

He kept them all, tucked into the pages of his notebook.

Meanwhile, his phone buzzed less and less. Kiyoomi's texts grew colder, more clipped. When Atsumu called, he got voicemail. When he sent photos, he got vague responses or silence.

Missing you, Atsumu typed one night, his thumb hovering over the send button.

He deleted it.

Thinking of you.

Deleted.

Do you even love me anymore?

He threw the phone across the room and buried his face in his pillow.

---

Kita Shinsuke watched Atsumu Miya fall apart, and it broke something inside him.

He'd loved Atsumu for years. Quietly. Patiently. From a distance that felt necessary because Atsumu was bright and loud and alive, and Kita was... Kita. Steady. Reliable. The kind of person you lean on but never look at twice.

He watched Atsumu laugh at practice, his voice too high, his eyes not reaching his smile. He watched him push food around his plate at team dinners. He watched the way Atsumu's hands shook during time-outs, the way he pressed his palm to his stomach like he was trying to hold himself together.

The notes were a small thing. A tiny, pathetic thing. But Kita didn't know what else to do. He couldn't march up to Atsumu and say I love you, and I'm terrified you're destroying yourself because I see it happening and no one else seems to notice.

So he left notes. And he prayed it would be enough.

---

The match against Seijoh was supposed to be a warm-up. A friendly. Nothing serious.

But Atsumu was pushing himself harder than ever, running sets with a frantic energy that bordered on desperate. The score was close—24-23, Seijoh in the lead—and the pressure was building. Atsumu called for the ball, his voice sharp, his body coiled.

He leaped.

The world went white.

He felt himself falling, but there was no ground. Just air. Just nothing. And then there were hands—strong hands, catching him before he hit the floor.

"ATSUMU!"

The voice was distant, underwater. He tried to respond, but his mouth wouldn't move. His body felt like lead.

"Get the nurse! Move!"

He was being carried. The arms around him were solid and warm, and for a moment—just a moment—he felt safe. He let himself drift.

---

The nurse's office smelled like antiseptic and old paper.

Atsumu woke slowly, his head pounding, his throat dry. The fluorescent lights were too bright. He blinked, trying to piece together what happened.

"You're awake."

He turned his head. Kita Shinsuke sat in the chair beside the cot, his hands folded in his lap, his gaze steady and calm. Behind him, Osamu stood with his arms crossed, his face a mask of barely contained fury.

"What—" Atsumu's voice came out as a croak. "What happened?"

"You collapsed on the court." Kita's voice was gentle. "You've been out for about twenty minutes."

"Oh." Atsumu stared at the ceiling. "I'm sorry."

"Don't." Osamu's voice cracked. "Don't apologize, Tsumu. Not for this."

Atsumu's eyes welled up. He didn't know why. He was so tired of crying, so tired of feeling like a broken record of sadness and shame. But the tears came anyway, sliding down his temples and into his hair.

"I don't—" He swallowed. "I don't feel good enough. For anyone. I keep trying, I keep trying, but I'm not fast enough, I'm not thin enough, I'm not what he wants, I'm not what anyone wants, and I don't know why I'm even—"

"Stop." Kita leaned forward, his hand finding Atsumu's. The touch was light, barely there, but it silenced him.

"Atsumu." Kita's voice was soft but steady. "I've watched you for three years. I've watched you work harder than anyone on this team. I've watched you laugh and fight and fall and get back up. I've watched you play, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Atsumu's breath hitched.

"You are enough." Kita's thumb traced a slow circle on the back of Atsumu's hand. "You've always been enough. You're not a burden. You're not too much. You're Atsumu Miya, and you deserve to be cared for. You deserve to be loved."

The admission hung in the air, fragile and raw. Osamu, still standing by the door, went very still.

"You don't have to say anything," Kita continued. "You don't have to respond. I just need you to know that someone sees you. All of you. Not just the setter. Not just the smile. You. And I think—" He paused, his composure finally cracking, just a little. "I think you're extraordinary."

Atsumu stared at him, tears still wet on his cheeks. His chest felt like it was splitting open, but not in a bad way. In a way that let the light in.

"You wrote the notes," he whispered.

Kita's ears turned pink. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't watch you suffer in silence." Kita's grip on his hand tightened. "Because I love you."

The words fell into the quiet room like stones into still water. Atsumu's lips parted. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Osamu cleared his throat. "I'm gonna—" He gestured vaguely at the door. "I'll be outside."

He left, pulling the door closed behind him. But he didn't go far. He leaned against the wall, pressed his hand over his mouth, and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

He's going to be okay, Osamu told himself. He's going to be okay.

---

Atsumu ended things with Kiyoomi that night.

The text was short and final: I can't do this anymore. I deserve better. Goodbye.

He stared at the screen for a long time, waiting for a reply that never came. And somehow, the silence was the loudest confirmation he could have asked for.

He never loved me, Atsumu realized. Not really. Not the way I needed.

He turned off his phone, set it on the nightstand, and lay back in the darkness of his room. For the first time in months, he didn't feel the urge to cry.

---

The recovery was slow.

Sessions with a nutritionist, carefully planned meals that Osamu cooked and watched him eat. Therapy appointments where Atsumu learned to untangle the knots in his chest. Conversations with Kita that started awkward and hesitant and slowly, over weeks, blossomed into something warm and safe.

The first time Kita held his hand in public, Atsumu's face turned so red that Suna actually laughed. Not his usual dry chuckle, but a real laugh, surprised and genuine.

"Finally," Suna said. "I thought you two would dance around each other forever."

"Shut up, Suna," Atsumu muttered, but he didn't let go of Kita's hand.

Fall turned to winter. Winter turned to spring. Atsumu stepped on the scale one morning and didn't flinch at the number. He didn't check again for another week. He was learning to live without constantly measuring his worth.

He was learning to be enough.

---

On the last day of the school year, Atsumu found another note in his locker.

Plain paper, folded into a neat square, just like the old ones. But this time, the handwriting was different.

I'm proud of you, Tsumu. Always have been. Always will be. — Osamu

Atsumu smiled, and it reached his eyes.

He folded the note carefully and tucked it into his pocket, next to the collection of letters from Kita that he carried everywhere. His treasures, these pieces of paper. Proof that someone saw him. That someone loved him.

That he was worth loving.