The Last Sip

The airport hummed. Fluorescent lights buzzing, luggage wheels clicking, announcements blurring into static. Atsumu Miya sat hunched on a plastic chair near the window, legs crossed, a half-empty cup of matcha latte warming his palms. Too sweet—Osamu had picked it out, because Osamu always picked out his stuff, like Atsumu couldn’t make his own choices. But he took it without complaining. Complaining meant talking, and talking meant he’d have to deal with the thing sitting on his chest.

His family—if you could call it that—had shown up thirty minutes ago. Osamu booked this trip to some hot spring in Nagano, calling it “brother bonding,” but Atsumu knew it was really an excuse for Osamu to hang out with Suna without pretending it was a family vacation. Suna Rintarou stood a few feet away, holding an airport map upside down like he was trying to decode a secret. Osamu was beside him, complaining about the price of airport sushi. Same old drone Atsumu had heard a million times.

“We’ll be back before boarding,” Osamu said, not even looking at him. Already steering Suna toward a row of souvenir shops glittering with keychains and regional snacks. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Atsumu nodded. Sharp, automatic. He watched them disappear into the crowd—Osamu’s broad shoulders cutting through, Suna trailing behind like a kite string. The lights flickered. A kid ran past screaming. Atsumu tightened his grip on the matcha cup.

He pulled out his phone. Scrolled through Twitter, Instagram, the same photos of volleyball courts and team dinners. Paused on a message from his mom: Have a good trip, Tsumu. Let me know if you need anything. He didn’t reply. Locked it. Unlocked it. Scrolled again.

The noise grew louder. Footsteps. Laughter. The screech of a luggage cart. He looked out the window—planes taxied across the tarmac like silver fish in a gray ocean. Sky was overcast, clouds pressing down on the glass. He imagined the plane lifting off, the shudder, oxygen masks dropping. Himself sealed inside that metal tube with nowhere to run.

His chest tightened.

Stop.

He forced his eyes back to the phone. Opened a game. Lost three rounds in a row. The cup felt slippery. He set it on the seat beside him, wiped his palms on his jeans. Heart was pounding too fast. Probably the coffee from breakfast. Or the stress of traveling. Or nothing. It was nothing.

But the nothing swelled.

His mind started spinning, dropping into that familiar dark corridor. He saw Osamu walking away from the souvenir shop—not toward the gate, but toward the exit. Toward a taxi. Toward a life without him. The image sharpened: Osamu getting into a car, Suna beside him, the door closing, tinted windows rolling up. Atsumu reaching out, but his hand was glass. Shattered against the glass of the car.

Stop.

He saw the plane crash. News report. Wreckage scattered across a field. Osamu’s face on a missing poster—that high school photo where he looked annoyed because Atsumu had stolen his jersey. Himself standing at a funeral, his mom crying, the coffin too small.

Stop, stop, stop.

His breath hitched. The cup toppled, green liquid spilling across the seat, pooling on the floor. He didn’t notice. He was scrabbling at his bag, unzipping pockets, fingers numb and clumsy. The inhaler. Always in the side pocket, the one with the orange zipper. But his fingers hit only crumpled receipts and a half-eaten granola bar. He tried the main compartment—clothes, a book, a charging cable—nothing. Front pocket. Back pocket. The tiny zippered pouch where he kept loose change.

Nothing.

He’d left it in the hotel. On the bathroom counter. Rushing to catch the shuttle, he’d grabbed the bag, but the inhaler stayed behind. A small blue cylinder sitting innocently on the marble sink.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, voice cracking. He dumped the bag’s contents onto the floor—clothes spilled, a novel landed open, a pair of socks flew under the seat. Passengers turned. A woman with a toddler frowned. A guy in a business suit glanced up from his laptop. Atsumu didn’t see them. He was on his hands and knees, patting the carpet, tears blurring his vision.

His lungs were closing. Each breath was shallow—not enough, never enough. The terminal spun. The overhead announcements became a roar in his ears. He tried to stand, but his legs gave out, and he collapsed back into the chair, chest heaving, hands clawing at his throat.

“—are you okay?”

A voice. A young flight attendant crouched beside him. Her lips moved, but the words sounded underwater. He shook his head. Couldn’t speak. His vision narrowed, a tunnel closing. He could see the child pointing, the mother pulling him away, whispers spreading like ripples.

“Call for medical assistance,” the flight attendant said, voice sharp. A crackle of radio. “Code Blue.” Then the crowd parted as two figures in blue uniforms rushed toward him.

One knelt, stethoscope cold on his chest. “Can you tell me your name? Can you take a deep breath?”

Atsumu tried. The air hit a wall. He gagged, coughed, tears streaming down his face. The other medic asked about medications, allergies, preexisting conditions. He couldn’t answer. Just gestured frantically toward his bag, toward the scattered contents, hoping they’d understand the absence of that small blue inhaler.

“No inhaler?” the medic asked. “Do you have asthma? Panic disorder?”

Panic disorder. The words stabbed through the fog. No one knew. No one was supposed to know. He’d hidden it—from his teammates, from his coach, from his own brother. His mother knew, but she kept his secret, because Atsumu Miya was the strong one, the confident one, the setter who never faltered. He couldn’t falter. Not here. Not now.

But he was faltering. Falling.

A hand touched his shoulder. He jerked away. Through the haze, he saw a familiar head of dark hair. Osamu. And behind him, Suna’s sharp, assessing gaze.

Osamu had stopped at the edge of the crowd. His face was pale, jaw slack. He held a bag of airport souvenirs—Atsumu could see the corner of a box of wasabi peas—and he looked like a man who’d walked into a room and found a ghost.

“Atsumu?” Osamu’s voice was hoarse. He took a step forward, but Suna’s hand shot out, gripping his arm.

“Wait,” Suna said, low and firm. “Let them work.”

Osamu shook him off. “What the hell is happening? Atsumu—hey, look at me—”

Atsumu couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at anything but the crushing gray of the ceiling, which seemed to be pressing down, down, down. His lungs were empty. Heart frantically irregular. The medics were saying something about oxygen, a stretcher, an ambulance.

I can’t breathe.

He heard his own voice, a ragged whisper. Osamu.

His brother’s name was a rope thrown across a chasm. Osamu shoved past the medics, ignoring their protests, and dropped to his knees in front of Atsumu. His hands—warm, calloused, the same hands that had fished him out of the river when they were six—cupped Atsumu’s face.

“Look at me. Just look at me.”

Atsumu’s eyes were glassy, unfocused. But he heard the voice. He clung to it. Managed to lock eyes with Osamu—and what he saw made everything worse. Shock. Confusion. The dawning horror of a brother who had no idea what was happening, who had never been told that the person he thought he knew was a carefully constructed lie.

Atsumu’s lips tried to form an apology. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to see this. But no sound came.

His chest seized. A violent spasm wrenched his shoulders back, and he gagged, a strangled sound that sent a ripple of gasps through the onlookers. The medics moved quickly—one holding his shoulders, another pressing an oxygen mask to his face. Atsumu’s vision blurred to black around the edges. He felt himself slipping, fading.

Then he saw Osamu’s face, contorted with something he’d never seen before—fear. Not angry fear, not frustrated fear. Pure, desperate fear.

“Atsumu, stay with me. Please.”

Atsumu reached out. His hand felt heavy, detached. His fingers brushed Osamu’s cheek, a whisper of contact, before his arm fell limp. His body went slack.

The EMT slid a needle into his arm. A sedative. The world softened, edges dissolving into a warm, silent tide.

The last thing he heard before the dark was Osamu’s voice, cracking, calling his name.

---

The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and fluorescent lights. Osamu sat in the narrow seat beside the stretcher, his hand wrapped around Atsumu’s cold, clammy fingers. Suna stayed behind to deal with the luggage, to call their mother, to do all the practical things Osamu couldn’t process. The paramedic worked silently, monitoring vitals, adjusting the oxygen. Atsumu’s chest rose and fell in shallow, even breaths, face slack, tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

Osamu stared at him. At the face that was a mirror of his own, but softer, more fragile, more prone to laughter and anger than his own stoic mask. He’d always thought Atsumu was unbreakable—the one who could take anything, never cracked, fought for every point with manic energy. The one who didn’t need anyone.

But he’d watched his brother crumble in minutes. Seen the silent terror in his eyes, the clawing at his own throat. He’d seen a stranger in Atsumu’s place.

“What is this?” Osamu whispered, voice raw. “What happened to him?”

The paramedic glanced at him, professional but sympathetic. “We’ll know more after he’s stabilized. It appears to be a severe panic attack, possibly with an underlying respiratory condition. Has he ever had these before?”

Osamu shook his head. “I don’t know. He never told me.”

The paramedic nodded, like that wasn’t surprising. Osamu felt a cold lump form in his stomach.

---

At the hospital, the ER was a stark white maze of curtains and beeping machines. They wheeled Atsumu into a bay, and nurses swarmed him with practiced efficiency. Osamu was pushed back, told to wait, sit down, fill out forms. He did none of those things. He stood at the foot of the bed, watching as they attached leads to Atsumu’s chest, drew blood, slid an IV into his arm.

He looked so small. In pajamas. Without his usual bravado, without the smirk or loud laugh. Like a child.

Suna arrived an hour later, followed by their mother. Osamu hadn’t called her; Suna must have. She rushed in, pale, eyes red. She kissed Atsumu’s forehead, then turned to Osamu with a look he couldn’t decipher.

“You didn’t know,” she said. Not a question.

“Know what?” Osamu’s voice cracked. “What is this? He has asthma? He has panic attacks? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

His mother took a deep breath. She sat down in the chair beside the bed, hands folded in her lap. She looked old suddenly, the lines around her eyes deep and tired.

“He didn’t want you to know,” she said quietly. “He’s had separation anxiety since you two were kids. It got worse after high school. He’s been seeing a therapist, taking medication. But he’s always been afraid that if you knew, you’d think he was weak. Or that you’d feel trapped. He didn’t want to be a burden.”

Osamu stared at her. “A burden? He’s my brother.”

“I know. But Tsumu doesn’t know how to let people in. He thinks he has to be perfect, strong, in control. And the only way he can keep that image is to hide the parts that aren’t.”

Suna stood in the corner, hands in his pockets, watching. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His gaze was steady, understanding, and it made Osamu feel even more alone.

Osamu sank into the chair on the other side of the bed. He took Atsumu’s hand again. It was warm now, circulation returning, grip weak but present.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know. I should have known.”

Hours passed. The hospital room grew dark. His mother went to get coffee. Suna fell asleep in a plastic chair, arms crossed, head lolling. Osamu didn’t move. He watched the steady rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest, the flicker of his eyelids, the occasional twitch of his fingers.

At some point, Atsumu’s eyes opened.

They were glassy, unfocused, but they found Osamu’s face. Recognition flickered. Then fear. Then shame. Atsumu tried to look away, but Osamu tightened his grip.

“Don’t,” Osamu said, voice hoarse. “Don’t you dare look away.”

Atsumu’s lip trembled. “You saw.”

“Yeah. I saw.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched. A machine beeped. The heater hummed. Atsumu’s eyes filled with tears,