The Color of an Unanswered Question

The gym at Inarizaki smelled like sweat and polish. Late afternoon light cut through the high windows, catching dust in the air. Volleyballs thudded, shoes squeaked, people breathed.

Atsumu stood at the water station, hands shaking so bad he nearly dropped his bottle. He'd been waiting for this moment for three weeks, seventeen days, countless hours. His chest felt like a cage of sparrows—wings beating against his ribs as he watched Kita towel off on the other side of the court.

Just ask him. It's simple. Just ask.

He pushed off the wall, legs moving before his brain could stop him. The team was on water break, scattered around. Suna leaned against the bleachers, half-lidded eyes watching everything and nothing. Aran was chugging water like a dying man. Ginjima stretched his calves. The rhythm had paused, and Atsumu stepped into the silence like walking toward a guillotine.

"Kita-san."

Kita turned, expression placid as a still pond. His dark eyes held no warmth, no coldness—just watchful patience, like someone who learned long ago to keep his cards pressed flat.

"Atsumu." A single word, measured and neutral.

Atsumu's throat tightened. He felt the weight of his twin's gaze—Osamu had stopped drinking, eyes narrowed. Suna tilted his head, a knowing smirk ghosting his lips. The whole team was a room of held breaths.

"I was wonderin'," Atsumu started, his voice too high, too thin. He cleared his throat. "What color d'you think my eyes are?"

The question hung like a bad note. Ginjima's stretching paused. Aran lowered his water bottle. Suna's smirk sharpened.

Kita's expression didn't change. He looked at Atsumu the way he might solve a math problem. The silence stretched, elastic and dangerous.

"Why are you askin' me that?"

"'Cause I wanna know if you remember." Atsumu's voice cracked. He hated it. Hated how small he sounded, how desperate. But he couldn't stop. "You used to say they were like caramel. Like the kind in those fancy chocolates your grandma liked. You said they were warm."

Something flickered in Kita's eyes—there and gone so fast Atsumu almost missed it. A shadow over still water.

"I don't remember."

The words were soft, almost gentle, and they hit Atsumu like a blade between his ribs. The air left his lungs. The floor tilted. Three weeks of rehearsing, and this was the one response he'd never prepared for.

"Don't lie to me." A whisper, then a plea. "Please, Kita-san. Just—just tell me you remember. Tell me you remember me. Tell me I'm not crazy."

Kita's jaw tightened. For a moment, his composure cracked—a hairline fracture in marble. His hands curled into fists. When he spoke again, his voice was colder, like he'd pulled up ice from inside.

"I said I don't remember. Why can't you just accept that and move on?"

Atsumu's vision blurred. A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down his cheek, falling to the gym floor. He watched it darken the wood—a tiny stain that would get wiped clean by the mop at the end of practice. Just like everything else.

"Was it because of Heather?" His voice bitter now, edged with broken glass. "Did she tell you not to talk to me anymore?"

Kita's expression went blank. Totally, completely, terrifyingly blank. The face of someone who'd pulled down every emotional shutter and locked them tight.

"She had nothin' to do with this."

"Really?" Atsumu laughed, no humor in it. "Because I remember you holdin' her hand in the hallway. Her laughin' at your jokes. Her puttin' her head on your shoulder in the library." His voice broke again. "And I remember you lookin' at her the way I always wanted you to look at me."

The gym was a tomb. Even the ambient sounds seemed dead. Atsumu could feel the team's eyes on him like needles, but he couldn't stop. The words were a flood, the dam collapsed.

"I was in love with you, Kita-san. I think maybe I still am. And I know—I know it's stupid, and wrong, and there's no future in it. But you could at least have the decency to look me in the eye and tell me the truth."

Kita's face was stone. But his hands were shaking.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about."

The words hit like a final bullet. Something inside Atsumu shattered—jagged, ugly, leaving shards. He stepped back, then another. His face wet, and he didn't care anymore.

"Fine." His voice hollow. "Fine. You don't remember. I'm just some stupid setter who imagined everythin'. I'm just a teammate you happen to talk to. I'm just—I'm just nothin'."

He turned and ran. Not dignified, not calculated—a full desperate sprint for the doors, sobs echoing off the walls. The doors slammed behind him. The silence that followed was suffocating.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Then, slowly, every head turned toward Kita.

Suna's eyes were narrow slits of cold judgment. Aran had his arms crossed, posture rigid with disapproval. Ginjima looked torn between anger and sadness. The first-years had gone pale, wishing they were anywhere else.

No one said a word. They didn't have to. The accusation was in every glance, every clenched jaw, every heavy exhale.

Kita stood in the center of the court, the last honeyed light falling across his face. His expression still blank, still controlled. But his hands still shook.

Say something. Defend yourself. Explain.

He had nothing. He'd done exactly what they were accusing him of: looked at someone who loved him, who'd bared his heart, and lied. He'd looked at Atsumu's caramel-brown eyes—those warm, honey eyes he'd once traced with his fingertips in the dark—and said he didn't remember.

He remembered everything.

The first time Atsumu smiled at him, bright and reckless like a firework in a quiet room. The way his laugh sounded after a good practice, breathless and full of joy. The texture of his hair, the warmth of his hand, the taste of his lips on a summer evening when they'd both pretended it didn't mean anything.

The moment he realized he was in too deep, and the moment he decided to drown rather than admit it. Heather—kind, sweet, absolutely wrong—and how he'd used her as a shield, a wall to keep Atsumu at arm's length. The fight, the accusations, the tears. Watching Atsumu walk away and telling himself it was for the best.

Every single second. And he'd lied because the truth was too terrifying to face.

Atsumu loved him. Atsumu loved him.

And Kita Shinsuke, who prided himself on always knowing the right thing, had no idea what to do with that.

"I'm going to check on him." Osamu's voice cut through the silence like a blade. He'd been standing frozen by the water station, his bottle crushed in his grip, plastic warped and useless. His face was barely controlled fury.

Aran stepped forward. "Osamu, maybe you should—"

"Should what?" Osamu's voice low, dangerous. "Should let him cry alone? Should pretend I didn't just watch my brother rip his heart out and hand it to someone who threw it on the floor?"

"Osamu." Aran's voice firm, a captain's voice trying to prevent disaster.

But Osamu wasn't listening. He walked toward Kita, each step measured, deliberate. The team parted around him like water around a stone. Suna straightened. Ginjima grabbed a first-year's arm, pulling him back.

Osamu stopped in front of Kita. Same height, same face, but different expressions. Where Atsumu's eyes were caramel warmth, Osamu's were flint and steel.

"What did you do to him?"

Kita met his gaze without flinching. "I didn't do anythin'. He came to me."

"Don't play dumb." Osamu's voice shook, rage barely contained. "I saw his face. I heard what he said. He's been a mess for weeks, and you knew. You knew why, and you just let him twist in the wind."

"I can't control how he feels."

"You could have told him the truth." Osamu stepped closer, close enough that Kita could see the red rimming his eyes, the tension in his jaw. "You could have let him down easy. Instead, you made him beg. You made him cry. In front of the whole team."

Kita's composure cracked—a hairline fracture, barely visible. "I didn't—"

"You didn't what?" Osamu's voice rose, sharp and jagged. "You didn't mean to hurt him? You didn't realize what you were doin'? Bullshit. You're the smartest person I know, Kita-san. You knew exactly what you were doin'. You just didn't care."

"That's not true."

"Then what is it?" Osamu grabbed Kita's practice jersey, fisting the fabric and yanking him forward. The team surged, but Aran held up a hand, freezing them. "What is it, Kita? Explain it to me. Because from where I'm standin', it looks like you played with my brother's heart and then threw it away when it got too real."

Kita's hands came up—not to push Osamu away, but to rest on his wrists. His touch was gentle, almost apologetic.

"I was tryin' to protect him."

"From what?"

"From me."

The words were quiet, almost inaudible. Osamu's grip loosened, confusion flickering across his face.

"What are you talkin' about?"

Kita looked away, eyes fixed on some middle distance. When he spoke, his voice was hollow, stripped of pretense.

"I'm not good for him, Osamu. I'm too cold, too controlled. I don't know how to give him what he needs. He deserves someone who can love him openly, without fear. Someone who won't hurt him."

"So you hurt him first?" Osamu's voice disbelieving. "That's your logic? You hurt him to save him from being hurt?"

"I don't expect you to understand."

"No." Osamu let go of Kita's jersey, stepping back. His hands dropped to his sides, clenched into fists. "No, I don't understand. And I don't want to. All I know is that my brother is cryin' in the locker room because of you, and I'm not gonna let it happen again."

He turned and walked toward the doors, then stopped. His back to Kita, shoulders rigid.

"If you ever make him cry again, I'll make you regret it. And I don't mean a lecture or a fight. I mean I will ruin you, Kita-san. You understand?"

He didn't wait for an answer. The doors swung shut behind him. The gym fell into heavy, uncomfortable silence.

Kita stood alone in the center of the court, the last rays of sunlight fading into twilight. The team avoided his eyes, gathering equipment in awkward silence. Suna gave him a long, unreadable look before turning away. Aran sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

No one spoke to Kita. No one approached him.

He gathered his things in silence, movements mechanical, automatic. His water bottle still full—he'd never taken a drink. The towel around his neck still dry.

What have I done?

The question echoed as he walked out of the gym, footsteps loud in the empty hallway. The locker room was ahead, door slightly ajar. He could hear voices—Osamu's low murmur, Atsumu's broken sobs.

He stopped a few feet from the door, close enough to hear but not close enough to be seen.

"—the hell, 'Samu. I made a fool of myself."

"You didn't. You were brave."

"I was pathetic."

"No. You were honest. There's a difference."

A pause, filled with Atsumu's ragged breathing.

"He doesn't love me back."

"He's a damn idiot, then."

A wet laugh, painful and raw. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."

Kita's hand hovered over the door handle. He could push it open. Walk in. Fall to his knees and tell Atsumu the truth—that he'd never stopped loving him, that he was a coward, that he wanted nothing more than to hold him and never let go.

He didn't.

He let his hand fall. He turned away. He walked out of the school into the gathering dusk, the weight of his own cowardice pressing down like a stone.

The gym doors were locked when he left. Late practice was over.

But the memory of Atsumu's tear-streaked face was burned into his mind, a ghost that would haunt him for a long, long time.

---

The train station was nearly empty. Kita stood on the platform, bag heavy on his shoulder, phone buzzing in his pocket. He ignored it. Probably Aran, or Ginjima, checking in, trying to smooth things over.

He didn't want to be smoothed over.

He wanted to feel the sharp edges of what he'd done. Hold onto the guilt like a rosary, counting his failures one by one.

He loved me. He said it out loud. And I told him I didn't remember.

The lie sat in his chest like a stone, cold and immovable. He'd told it to protect himself—to protect both of them, or so he'd told himself. But the truth was simpler and uglier: he was afraid.

Afraid of what loving Atsumu would mean. The judgment, the whispers, the way people would look at them. Afraid of the way Atsumu's love consumed everything it touched—bright and burning and impossible to contain. Afraid of being consumed.

But he'd consumed Atsumu instead. Eaten his heart and left the bones.

The train arrived. Kita stepped on without looking back. Found a seat by the window and watched the city lights blur past, his reflection a ghost in the glass.

He thought about Atsumu's eyes—caramel brown, warm, like the chocolates his grandmother used to make. The way Atsumu had looked at him, desperate and hopeful and breaking.

The tear that had fallen, darkening the wood of the gym floor.

Osamu's threat, and how he almost wished the younger twin would follow through. At least then the pain would be external, physical, something to fight against. Instead, it was a cancer in his chest, eating him from the inside out.

The train pulled into his station. Kita stood. Walked home through streets that suddenly felt foreign—familiar landmarks turned strange and ominous. The key turned in the lock of his apartment door. The silence inside was absolute.

He didn't turn on the lights. Sat in the dark, back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

Atsumu's face was the only thing he could see.

Somewhere across town, Atsumu was wrapped in his brother's arms, crying into his shoulder. Osamu was whispering promises—I'm here, I'll always be here, you're not alone. Atsumu was nodding, trying to believe it, trying to find a way forward.

They would be okay. Eventually.

But Kita knew, with a certainty that felt like a blade, that he would not be okay. He'd chosen this. Built this prison with his own hands. And now he had to live in it.

The night stretched on, dark and endless.

And in the morning, when he pulled on his jersey and walked back into that gym, he would see Atsumu's eyes across the court, and he would have to pretend he didn't remember.

But he would remember.

He would always, always remember.