The Weight of Water

The smell of chlorine hit you the second you walked into the Inarizaki pool. Late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, turning the water into sheets of gold and amber. It was that kind of warm, forgiving light that made you forget your legs ached and your muscles screamed.

The volleyball team had just finished three hours of hell. Jerseys soaked, legs like lead. But Coach Kurosu tossed them a bone—thirty minutes in the pool before the locker room. The place erupted. Within seconds, shirts and shoes were flying, bodies hitting the water.

Ginjima cannonballed first, soaking Suna’s towel. Suna flicked a drop off his arm like it offended him, then slid into the shallow end with that cat-like grace he always had. Osamu followed, splashing Ginjima in revenge for the noise. Then everybody else—shouting, shoving, dunking each other. The pool turned into a chaos of splashes and laughter.

Atsumu sat on the wooden bench near the wall, still dressed.

He’d peeled off his jersey and shoes, but he kept his compression shorts and a dry t-shirt on. Legs pulled up, forearms resting on his knees. A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth as he watched the others goof off. The sun caught the damp ends of his blond hair, made them look like spun gold. He looked peaceful. He also looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Oi, Atsumu!” Ginjima shouted from the middle of the pool, treading water. “Get in here! Water’s perfect!”

Atsumu shook his head, smile widening just a little. “Nah. I’m good.”

“Don’t be a killjoy,” Omimi said, floating on his back. “You’ll make us feel guilty.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.” That familiar arrogant lilt. “Maybe I’m just too cool to get all pruny like you lot.”

Groans and laughter. Suna, submerged up to his chin, opened one eye. “He’s afraid of the water.”

“Shut up, Suna.”

“No, seriously,” Ginjima said, paddling closer. “What’s the deal? Afraid you’ll mess up your perfect hair?”

Atsumu snorted, flicking a strand out of his face. “Maybe I just don’t feel like it.”

“It’s a pool, dummy. You don’t ‘feel like it’?” Kosaku chimed in. “That doesn’t make sense.”

The teasing was good-natured—that was Inarizaki. Sharp tongues, rough edges, but the bite never went deep. They jibed because they were comfortable. Atsumu was one of them. The loudest, the brashest. His arrogance was part of the team’s identity.

But today, something felt off. Atsumu’s smile flickered. His fingers curled into the edge of the bench.

Osamu, floating a few meters away, watched his twin. He hadn’t said anything, but he noticed the tension in Atsumu’s shoulders, the way his jaw tightened every time someone called his name across the water. Osamu knew his brother better than anyone. Atsumu was a lot of things—loud, proud, insufferable—but he was never still. And right now, he was sitting like a statue.

“Oi, ‘Samu,” Ginjima called, noticing Osamu’s silence. “Talk to your twin. Tell him to stop being a princess and get in.”

Osamu shrugged. “He’s a big boy. He can decide for himself.”

“Spoilsport,” Ginjima muttered, but let it go.

The splashing resumed. The golden light shifted, deepening into early evening. Atsumu’s smile softened. For a moment, he almost looked relaxed again.

Then Aran climbed out of the pool.

He was dripping, dark skin glistening, broad shoulders still holding the memory of practice. He shook his head like a dog, sending droplets everywhere. Atsumu flinched. Aran didn’t notice. He was grinning.

“Alright, Atsumu,” he said, voice warm but firm. “I’ve had enough of you sitting around like some lord. You’re coming in.”

Atsumu’s smile vanished. “No. I told you, I’m not swimming.”

“And I told you that’s a dumb excuse.” Aran took a step closer. “One splash and you’ll be fine. You’ll thank me.”

“Aran. Seriously. Just leave it.”

But Aran was already moving. He’d played with Atsumu long enough to know the setter sometimes needed a push. So he bent down, wrapped his arms around Atsumu’s torso, and lifted him off the bench.

“Aran! Put me down!”

“Relax, I’m just gonna—”

“Put me down! Put me down! No! No! NO!”

The change was instant.

Atsumu went rigid. His legs kicked wildly. His hands clawed at Aran’s arms, his shoulders, anything he could reach. His breath came in ragged gasps. “No! No! Let me go! LET ME GO!”

The laughter died.

Heads turned. Splashing stopped. Atsumu’s screams bounced off the tiled walls—sharp, desperate. Aran froze, grin wiped clean. He’d expected a struggle, maybe some cursing. Not this. This was terror.

Atsumu’s face had gone pale. His eyes were wide, unfocused, darting around like a trapped animal’s. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He was sobbing—huge, ugly, helpless sobs that wracked his whole body.

“Atsumu—Atsumu, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aran stammered, loosening his grip. He set him down at the edge of the pool, hands hovering, not sure what to do. “I didn’t mean—I was just joking—”

But Atsumu’s legs gave out as soon as his feet touched the tiles.

The floor was wet. Slick from all the splashing. Atsumu’s bare soles slipped, and he pitched backward with a strangled cry.

Time slowed.

Osamu saw it first. Treading water near the shallow end, he watched his brother’s arms windmill, watched his head snap back, watched his mouth open in a scream that never came. The splash wasn’t loud. The water barely rippled.

Atsumu disappeared under the surface.

For one eternal heartbeat, nothing. The water lay still, gold-flecked and serene. Then a hand broke the surface, followed by a frantic geyser of spray. Atsumu erupted upward, gasping, choking, arms flailing in blind animal panic. He couldn’t find the bottom. His feet kicked uselessly, sending him sideways. He went under again, then surfaced, coughing, grabbing at the air.

“HELP HIM!”

It was Osamu’s voice, but it didn’t sound like him. Raw, jagged—nothing like the bored drawl he usually carried. He was already swimming, long arms cutting the water with desperate speed. The other boys were frozen. Ginjima’s face was a mask of horror. Suna had gone perfectly still.

Atsumu went under a third time. His movements were weakening.

Osamu dove.

The water was clear. He could see everything—his brother’s open eyes, wide with terror. The bubbles escaping his mouth. The limp flutter of his fingers. Memories don’t flash before your eyes when you save someone, but Osamu saw them anyway: Atsumu laughing in the kitchen, Atsumu yelling at him for stealing the last onigiri, Atsumu crying in the dark of their shared room three years ago, shaking, unable to explain where he’d been.

Osamu grabbed a fistful of Atsumu’s shirt.

He kicked hard, pulling his brother upward. His lungs burned. He didn’t care. He broke the surface with Atsumu in his arms, hauling the larger boy against his chest, kicking toward the edge.

“I got you,” Osamu gasped. “I got you, dumbass. I got you.”

Aran was already at the edge, scrambling to help. He and Kosaku grabbed Atsumu’s arms and pulled him out, laying him flat on the tiles. Atsumu vomited pool water, coughing, sputtering. His whole body shook with violent tremors. His skin was pale, almost blue, eyes red-rimmed and lost.

Osamu climbed out beside him, dripping, face a mask of barely controlled fury and fear. He knelt down, one hand reaching out to touch Atsumu’s shoulder. Atsumu flinched, but Osamu didn’t pull away. He let his hand rest there, warm and solid.

The team gathered in a loose circle, silent. No one knew what to say. The teasing was gone, replaced by a heavy, suffocating stillness. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the tiles.

Ginjima broke the silence first. “Atsumu... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Atsumu didn’t respond. He was still crying, but quietly now, tears leaking from closed eyes as he curled onto his side. Arms wrapped around his stomach, forehead pressed against the cool tile. He looked small. Nothing like the brash, invincible setter who commanded the court.

Aran knelt beside him. “Atsumu... please. Talk to me. I didn’t know. I didn’t—”

“Stop,” Osamu said, voice flat. “Just give him a minute.”

But Atsumu’s shoulders shook. His breath hitched. And then, in a voice so small it barely carried, he spoke.

“I can’t swim.”

Suna shifted. “We figured that part out, ‘Tsumu.”

“No.” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “I mean... I used to. I could swim. I was good at it.”

He lifted his head just enough to look at the pool. Its surface was smooth again, unbothered by the chaos. The golden light reflected off it—beautiful and cruel.

“When I was in middle school,” Atsumu whispered, “there was a man. A coach at the public pool. He... he said he would teach me. Said I was special.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

“He took me to the deep end. Said it was the best place to learn. And then he...” Atsumu’s voice broke, and he pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to hold the rest in. But it came anyway, spilling out like blood from an open wound. “He held me down. Underwater. Said I wasn’t trying hard enough. Said I needed to be... disciplined.”

A sob tore through him. Osamu’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“I almost drowned. Thought I was going to die. And when I got out, I couldn’t... I couldn’t remember how to swim. Couldn’t put my face in the water. Couldn’t even take a bath without... without feeling his hands on me.”

Silence.

Aran’s face had gone ashen. He was kneeling in a puddle of water from his own body, but he didn’t feel the cold. He felt like he’d swallowed glass.

“Atsumu...” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“Of course you didn’t know.” Atsumu’s voice was bitter, but the bitterness cracked at the edges. “I never told anyone. Not even ‘Samu. I just said I forgot how to swim. I lied. I’ve been lying for three years.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. His eyes burned—not with anger at Atsumu. He was furious at the man who’d done this, at himself for not seeing, at the world for making his brother carry this alone.

“You’re not lying anymore,” Osamu said, voice rough. “You hear me? You’re done carrying this alone.”

Atsumu looked up at him, eyes swollen and red. For a moment he just stared at his twin. Then he buried his face in his hands and wept.

The team stood in silence, the weight of it pressing down like lead. Ginjima wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Suna looked away, jaw set. Omimi crossed his arms, fingers digging into his biceps like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart.

Aran moved first. He shifted from kneeling to sitting cross-legged on the floor, close to Atsumu but not touching. “I’m not gonna touch you again without asking,” he said quietly. “I promise. But I’m gonna stay here. If that’s okay.”

Atsumu didn’t answer, but he didn’t tell him to leave.

The others followed. One by one, they sat down on the cold, wet tiles, forming a loose circle around their fallen setter. No one spoke. There was nothing to say that could undo what had been done, no words to stitch up a wound that had been festering for three years.

The sun dipped lower, casting the pool room in deep shadows. The water grew dark, the reflections fading.

Osamu shifted closer, until their shoulders pressed together. He didn’t say anything—Osamu never had the right words anyway. But he didn’t move away. He stayed.

And slowly, haltingly, Atsumu leaned into him.

His breathing was still ragged, his body still trembling, but something had changed. The weight of the secret, the terrible pressure of three years of silence, had cracked open. It hurt. It hurt more than he’d ever imagined. But he wasn’t alone in the water anymore.

Aran reached out, hesitant. “Can I...?”

Atsumu gave a barely perceptible nod.

Aran placed his hand on Atsumu’s knee—light, grounding. “We’ve got you,” he said, voice thick. “Whatever you need. Whenever you’re ready. We’ve got you.”

Suna, from the edge of the circle, added quietly, “And if you ever want to try again... we’ll be in the water with you. Every step.”

Ginjima sniffled. “Yeah. What he said.”

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. He was exhausted, hollowed out, raw. But sitting there, surrounded by his teammates, his brother’s warmth pressing against his side, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

The evening deepened. Light faded to soft gray. Someone turned on the overhead fluorescents, flooding the pool in stark white. The water shimmered, placid and cold, waiting for someone brave enough to enter.

Atsumu stared at it for a long moment.

Then he closed his eyes and rested his head on his brother’s shoulder.

He wasn’t ready yet.

But for the first time, he thought maybe someday he could be.