The Space Between Tosses

The gym smelled like sweat and polished wood. Volleyballs thumped against palms, a rhythm you could set your watch to. Late afternoon sun sliced through the high windows, lighting up dust motes floating around like tiny stars. Practice had slowed to a lull—players scattered in small groups, drinking water, catching their breath. Somewhere outside, a car passed, the sound mixing with the squeak of shoes on the court.

Atsumu Miya stood near the net, still breathing hard. But his focus wasn't on the ball. It was on Kita Shinsuke, calmly toweling off by the sideline. Kita moved with this deliberate, almost surgical precision. The way he folded the towel. The way he tilted his head to drink. The way his dark eyes swept across the gym—every little thing seemed intentional. Grounded.

Atsumu's heart was pounding so loud he could hear it. For weeks now, he'd caught Kita looking at him during drills. Not just glancing—looking. Like there was something more behind those steady eyes. It made his stomach flip, sent this warm feeling spreading through his chest. He'd imagined this moment a hundred times in his room, rehearsing words that now felt stupid and clumsy.

He wiped his hands on his shorts and walked over, footsteps echoing off the bleachers. "Kita-san," he called, voice a little hoarse.

Kita turned. Same calm expression. Dark eyes meeting his. "Atsumu. Rest well?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Atsumu forced a grin, but it felt shaky. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Kita could hear over the gym noise. "Can I talk to you for a sec? Alone?"

A flicker of surprise crossed Kita's face. Then he nodded. They moved to a corner near the storage room, away from everyone. The smell of rubber and old sweat clung to the space. Atsumu's hands trembled, so he clenched them into fists. "I know you look at me sometimes," he started, voice barely a whisper. "During practice, when you think I'm not looking. And I've been thinking... maybe you feel something too?"

He looked up, eyes wide, vulnerable. The light caught the amber flecks in his irises. "Kita-san, I like you. A lot. And I wanted to know if... if you'd wanna go out with me?"

Silence stretched. Just the distant chatter of teammates, the dull thud of a ball being dribbled. Kita's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shuttered, like a door closing. He took a slow breath. When he spoke, his voice was calm. Almost clinical. "Atsumu, I don't like you. Not in that way. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression."

Atsumu felt like he'd been spiked in the chest. His face went cold. "But... the looks..." he stammered, voice cracking.

Kita's gaze stayed steady, no emotion. "I was probably just observing your technique. You're a talented setter. And I've had an ex-girlfriend, Heather. So I know what I do and don't feel. This isn't it."

Heather. The name stuck in Atsumu's throat like a bitter pill. He'd never heard Kita mention an ex before. The rejection plus that—double hit. His world tilted. Tears came before he could stop them, hot and shameful. "I see," he choked out, barely audible.

Before Kita could say anything else, Atsumu turned and ran. Footsteps pounded past startled teammates, through the double doors, into the hallway. The sound echoed off the lockers until he reached the locker room, slammed the door shut, and slid down against it, sobbing into his hands. The cool metal pressed against his back, but he couldn't feel it. All he felt was this gaping hole in his chest, humiliation burning in his gut.

In the gym, the team had frozen. Suna Rintarou lowered his water bottle, sharp eyes tracking the scene. Ginjima Hitoshi exchanged a worried glance with Akagi Michinari. And Osamu Miya, who'd been watching his twin from across the court, felt his blood boil.

He marched toward Kita, fists clenched. The team fell silent behind him. "What did you say to him?" Osamu demanded, voice low but seething.

Kita met his gaze without flinching. "I told him the truth. I don't have feelings for him."

"The truth?" Osamu's voice rose. "You've been staring at him like he's the only thing in the room, and now you're saying you don't feel anything? That's a load of crap, Kita."

"I was observing his form," Kita repeated. But something flickered in his eyes—doubt? guilt?—like a shadow passing over.

Osamu stepped closer, jaw tight. "You hurt him. You made him cry. And you don't even look sorry." He spat the words, then turned and stalked out, leaving the team in uncomfortable silence. Suna let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, that's going to be awkward for a while."

The locker room was dim and cold. Just a single fluorescent light humming softly. Atsumu sat on the bench, face buried in his jersey, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The fabric was damp, and he could taste salt on his lips. Humiliation twisted in his gut. He'd been so sure. He'd seen the softness in Kita's eyes, the way he always positioned himself near Atsumu during water breaks, the gentle way he corrected his form. How could he have misread it so completely?

He didn't hear the door open, but he felt someone sit beside him. The bench creaked. "Tsumu." Osamu's voice was gentle now, all the anger gone.

Atsumu didn't look up. "Go away, 'Samu."

"No." Osamu placed a hand on his twin's shoulder. Warm, contrasting with the cold in Atsumu's chest. "You're my brother. I'm not going anywhere."

They sat in silence. The hum of the light filled the space, punctuated by Atsumu's shaky breaths. Finally, he lifted his head. Eyes red and puffy, cheeks blotchy. "I really thought he liked me," he whispered. "I've liked him for so long. I just... I wanted him to know. But he looked at me like I was nothing."

Osamu's expression softened. "He's an idiot. He doesn't know what he's missing."

"But maybe I'm the idiot," Atsumu continued, voice cracking. "I mean, why would someone like him want someone like me? I'm loud and cocky and I mess up all the time. I just... I hoped so bad. And now it's ruined. I ruined everything."

"You didn't ruin anything," Osamu said firmly, squeezing his shoulder. "You took a chance. That takes guts. He's the one who messed up by being a coward." He paused. "And for what it's worth, I don't think he was being honest."

Atsumu looked at him, hope flickering like a dying ember. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I've seen the way he looks at you. It ain't just observation. There's something there. But Kita's always been closed off. Maybe he's scared." Osamu sighed, running a hand through his hair. "But that doesn't excuse him hurting you."

Atsumu let out a shaky breath, shoulders sagging. "I don't know what to do. I feel so stupid."

"You're not stupid. You're just in love." Osamu said the word with a hint of resignation. "Let's go home. We'll get some food and forget about this for a while."

Atsumu nodded, let Osamu help him up. His legs felt weak, chest hollow. They left the locker room, avoiding the gym, and walked home in the fading light. Streets quiet, sky painted with streaks of orange and pink. Atsumu kept his eyes on the ground, watching his shoes scuff against the pavement.

That night, in their shared room, Atsumu lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars he'd stuck up years ago offered dim comfort. He replayed every look, every word from Kita, searching for a lie. And deep down, a stubborn part of him clung to the hope that Osamu was right. But the hope hurt. A dull ache that refused to fade.

Across town, Kita sat alone in his silent house. Evening stretched long and empty, rooms too quiet. He hadn't eaten dinner, stomach churning with a discomfort he couldn't name. He sat at his desk, hands folded, staring at the wall. He thought of the way Atsumu's eyes had filled with tears, the raw hurt in his voice. He had been honest, hadn't he? He told Atsumu he didn't feel that way. But as the hours passed, the weight of that lie pressed down on him. Suffocating.

Heather. He hadn't thought of her in months. She was part of his past, a fleeting connection that taught him the risks of vulnerability. After they broke up, he swore to protect himself from that kind of pain. Built walls, kept people at arm's length. And then Atsumu came—bright and brash, shattering every barrier with a smile. Kita watched him, yes, but not to observe technique. He watched because his heart ached every time Atsumu laughed, because he wanted to memorize the curve of his neck as he set the ball, the way his fingers seemed to dance with it.

It was terrifying. And when Atsumu confessed, every fear rushed back. Fear of falling, of losing control, of being hurt again. So he lied. Pushed Atsumu away, used Heather as a shield. But the result wasn't protection—it was regret. Sharp and unforgiving.

He clenched his fists on his knees, nails digging into his palms. "What have I done?" he whispered into the darkness. The question hung, unanswered.

The next morning, Kita woke with a resolve that felt foreign. He couldn't undo the pain, but he could try to repair the damage. He dressed quickly, movements deliberate, and headed to school, hoping to find Atsumu before classes. But practice was cancelled for the day, and Atsumu wasn't answering his phone. The call went straight to voicemail, the beep a hollow sound. Frustrated, Kita checked his usual spots: the gym, the classroom, the rooftop. Nothing.

Finally, he remembered the park near Atsumu's house. Small, quiet place with a bench overlooking a pond, ringed by willow trees. Kita had seen Atsumu there once, during summer, practicing his tosses alone in the early morning light. It was a long shot, but he hurried there anyway, heart pounding in a way it rarely did.

The park was empty except for a single figure sitting on the bench, hunched over. Kita's breath caught. It was Atsumu, shoulders curled inward, face buried in his hands. The scene mirrored the locker room, and guilt twisted in Kita's chest. He slowed his approach, footsteps crunching on the gravel path. Atsumu didn't look up until Kita stood in front of him, blocking the sunlight.

Atsumu's eyes were swollen, his face a mask of weariness and wariness. Hair disheveled, jersey wrinkled. "What do you want?" His voice was flat, devoid of its usual energy, like the spark had been extinguished.

Kita took a seat on the bench, leaving a careful distance between them. The wood was cool through his pants. "I need to talk to you," he said, voice steady but quiet.

"I don't think