Where the Sleeves End

The gymnasium hummed with the usual practice noise—squeaking shoes, volleyballs thudding, players yelling. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the high windows, throwing long shadows across the polished floor. Inarizaki’s team moved through drills with that practiced efficiency, all steady current and easy camaraderie.

Atsumu Miya burst through the doors ten minutes late, hair a mess, jersey untucked. He was breathing hard, like he’d sprinted all the way from the locker room. His eyes darted around the gym, checking for Kita, for Osamu, for anyone who might’ve noticed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he called out, voice carrying that usual confident lilt, but it landed flat—off-key, somehow. “Overslept.”

Ginjima raised an eyebrow. “You? Oversleep? Sun forget to rise?”

“Shut up, I’m human.” Atsumu forced a smirk, but the corners of his mouth barely moved. He grabbed a ball from the rack and started his warm-up serves, each strike a little too hard, a little too sharp. The ball slammed into the court with a crack that echoed.

Kita Shinsuke stood near the net with a clipboard, watching him for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on Atsumu’s neck—the faint smudge of makeup that didn’t quite cover a thin, raised line. Kita said nothing. Just turned back to the drill and made a note.

Practice went on. Atsumu played with that brittle intensity, his sets precise but his movements stiff. He kept his sleeves pulled down, tugging at the cuffs between plays. When Osamu barked a command during a scrimmage, Atsumu’s response came sharper than needed.

“I know what I’m doing, Samu. Just hit the ball.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. “Then set it right, you jackass.”

The tension between them was nothing new—twins fought like wildfire—but today it felt different. Heavier. The air around them thickened as the rally stretched. Atsumu’s movements got sloppy. He missed a dig, blamed the floor. Snapped at Suna for being in the way. The team exchanged glances, unease rippling through their usual rhythm.

It happened during the next play. Atsumu set a ball too low, forcing Osamu to lunge awkwardly. The spike went wide. Osamu spun around, eyes blazing.

“What the hell was that? You call yourself a setter?”

“Maybe if you weren’t so slow, you’d have gotten there!”

“You’re off today. Your head’s not in it.”

“And you’re just a whining—”

Osamu grabbed Atsumu’s arm. Instinct, the way brothers grab each other during a fight—a pull, a shake, a demand for attention. But the fabric of Atsumu’s sleeve was worn, and the tug was too strong. The sleeve rode up, exposing his forearm.

The scars were impossible to miss.

Thin, white lines ran across his wrist, some faded, some pink and newer. Neat, deliberate, arranged in a pattern that made the whole gym freeze. The ball bounced twice, rolled to a stop at Akagi’s feet.

Silence. The kind that swallows sound whole.

Osamu’s grip loosened. His face shifted—anger to confusion to a dawning horror that drained the color from his cheeks. His mouth opened, but no words came.

Atsumu yanked his arm away, stumbling backward. He fumbled with his sleeve, pulling it down with shaking hands. His eyes darted around the gym, landing on each face in turn. Ginjima’s shock. Suna’s stillness. Omimi’s slow blink. The underclassmen frozen, unsure whether to look away or stare.

Someone dropped a water bottle. The clatter was deafening.

“It’s nothing,” Atsumu said, his voice cracking. “Just—don’t—it’s nothing.”

But his other hand flew to his neck, pressing against the collar of his jersey. The makeup smeared further. Another scar peeked through—a thin, pale line curving along his throat.

Kita set down his clipboard. Soft, deliberate. He walked across the court with that same steady pace he used for everything—measured, unhurried, like a man who knew exactly when to step in.

“Everyone, take a break,” he said. Calm, but it carried. No one moved. “Now.”

The team scattered like startled birds, grabbing towels and bottles, retreating to the benches. But their eyes kept drifting back.

Kita stopped a few feet from Atsumu. He didn’t reach for him. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, waiting.

Atsumu’s breath came in shallow gasps. His hands were shaking so hard he clasped them together to make them stop. He looked at Kita, and for the first time all afternoon, the mask cracked.

“Captain,” he whispered.

“Come with me.”

Kita turned and walked toward the far corner of the gym, near the storage room. He didn’t look back. Atsumu followed, steps unsteady, head bowed. The team watched them go, a silence so thick it pressed against their ears.

Behind the stacked mats and equipment carts, the gym felt smaller. Quieter. The distant sounds of practice resumed—a ball being dribbled, voices low—but muffled, like they were underwater.

Atsumu leaned against the wall, forehead touching cool concrete. His shoulders shook.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for anyone to see.”

Kita stood a foot away, hands clasped behind his back. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes, I do. I messed up practice. Made everyone uncomfortable. Osamu—he looked at me like—like I was broken.”

“You’re not broken.”

“Then what am I?” Atsumu’s voice cracked again. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Because I feel fucking broken, Kita-san. I feel like I’m falling apart.”

Kita didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it sit, let Atsumu’s words hang in the air. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

“Tell me.”

And Atsumu did.

It came out in a flood—jagged, raw, spilling over itself. The sleepless nights. The weight sitting on his chest like a stone. The mornings when getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. The first time he’d found his father’s razor in the bathroom, the way the blade had felt cold against his skin. The relief that turned to shame, shame to guilt, guilt multiplying until he couldn’t breathe.

“Twice,” he said, barely audible. “Twice I tried. First time, I stopped myself. Second time, I almost—” He choked. “I almost made it. Woke up in my own blood, and I was so angry. Angry that I was still here. Angry that I had to wake up.”

Kita listened. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t offer platitudes. Just stood there, an anchor in the storm.

“I thought if I just played harder, if I just won more matches, it would go away. But it doesn’t. It’s always there. In the quiet moments. When I’m alone. When I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize the face looking back.”

He sobbed. There was no other word for it—a broken, ugly sound that tore from his throat. He slid down the wall, knees giving out, and sat on the dusty floor with his head in his hands.

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “So scared. What if it doesn’t get better? What if I can’t do this?”

Kita lowered himself to the floor. Sat cross-legged, close but not touching, and let Atsumu cry. After a long moment, he spoke.

“I don’t have the answers. I wish I did. But I know this: you’re not alone. You haven’t been alone. You just didn’t let us in.”

Atsumu shook his head. “I couldn’t. If the team knew—if Coach knew—they’d bench me. They’d treat me like I’m fragile. I can’t be that. I’m Atsumu Miya. I’m supposed to be the best.”

“You are the best,” Kita said quietly. “And you’re fragile. Both things can be true.”

The words hung in the air. Atsumu looked up, eyes red and swollen, makeup streaked down his cheeks. “You really think that?”

“I know it. You’re human, Atsumu. You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to struggle. But you’re not allowed to give up.”

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. “Feels like I already have.”

“You’re still here. You showed up to practice. You let me see you.” Kita’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “That’s not giving up. That’s fighting.”

“I don’t know how to keep fighting.”

“Then let us fight with you.”

Atsumu closed his eyes. The tears kept coming, but quieter now. He didn’t know if he believed Kita. Didn’t know if he believed anything. But for the first time in months, the weight on his chest felt a little less crushing.

“I don’t want anyone to know the details,” he said after a long silence. “I don’t want pity. I just—I need—someone to talk to. Someone who won’t look at me different.”

“I can be that person,” Kita said. “If you want.”

Atsumu nodded, a small, fragile movement.

“We’ll talk more later. Privately. And Atsumu?”

He looked up.

“You should consider talking to a professional too. Someone trained for this. They can help more than I can.”

Atsumu’s throat tightened, but he nodded again. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

Kita stood and offered a hand. Atsumu took it, letting the captain pull him to his feet. The gym still felt too big, too bright, but the corner they stood in felt safe.

“Take a few minutes,” Kita said. “When you’re ready, come back out. I’ll make sure everyone knows to give you space.”

“They’re all going to stare.”

“Maybe. But they’ll also adjust. Give them time.”

Atsumu wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing makeup and tears into an ugly mess. He let out a humorless laugh. “I look like a disaster.”

“You do,” Kita agreed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “But you’re still here. That’s what matters.”

When Atsumu finally emerged from the corner, practice had resumed in a subdued rhythm. The team ran drills, but their movements were careful, like they were afraid to make noise. Every set of eyes flicked to him and then away, not lingering, but not ignoring either.

Osamu was at the net, practicing spikes alone. He didn’t turn when Atsumu approached. The ball slammed into the floor, over and over, with a violence that spoke louder than words.

“Samu.”

The ball stopped. Osamu’s back was still turned.

“Don’t,” Osamu said, voice low. “Don’t you dare apologize to me.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Osamu spun around. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression a mask of barely controlled fury. “Then what? You were just going to pretend it didn’t happen? Pretend I didn’t see? You think I can just unsee that?”

“No. I don’t think that.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

Atsumu’s hands hung at his sides. He stared at the floor, at the lines of the court, at the scuff marks from a thousand practices. “I’m going to try. That’s all I can do right now.”

Osamu’s anger cracked. His shoulders sagged, and he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I’m your brother. Your twin. And you—you couldn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t know how.”

“I would have helped.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you come to me?”

Atsumu looked up. His eyes were hollow, but they held Osamu’s. “Because I was ashamed. Because I didn’t want you to see me like that. Because I thought if I ignored it, it would go away.”

Osamu’s voice broke. “It almost killed you.”

“I know.”

They stood in silence, the tension between them a living thing. Then Osamu stepped forward and grabbed Atsumu by the shoulders. Not hard, not violent—just held him firm.

“Don’t you dare leave me alone,” he said, voice rough. “Don’t you dare. I don’t care how dark it gets. You come to me. You hear me?”

Atsumu’s eyes burned. He nodded.

“Say it.”

“I hear you.”

Osamu pulled him into a rough embrace, the kind they hadn’t shared since they were kids. Atsumu stiffened, then sagged into it, letting himself be held.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu whispered. “For grabbing you earlier. For everything.”

“Shut up, Samu.”

They stayed like that until the coach’s whistle blew, calling them back to practice. The team moved around them, giving them a wide berth.

The next few days were strange. The gym felt different—softer, somehow. The underclassmen stopped teasing Atsumu about wearing long sleeves even in summer. Ginjima started making sure there was a full water bottle by his spot before practice. Akagi would casually check in, asking if he’d eaten. Suna never said anything directly, but he started sitting closer during breaks.

Kita kept his promise. After practice, they’d talk in the storage room, sitting on old volleyball crates, voices low. Atsumu talked about the weight, the numbness, the days when volleyball felt like the only thing keeping him tethered. Kita listened. Sometimes he offered advice. Sometimes he just sat.

And slowly, Atsumu started to believe that maybe—just maybe—he could get through this.

Three weeks later, during a practice match against a local team, Atsumu’s sleeve rode up while he was setting. The scars were visible for a split second. The opposing setter noticed, did a double take. Atsumu saw the look on his face—pity, confusion, judgment.

For a moment, panic clawed at his throat. But then he heard Kita’s voice in his head: You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to struggle. But you’re not allowed to give up.

He finished the set. The ball arced perfectly to Osamu, who spiked it down with a roar.

After the match, Atsumu didn’t pull his sleeve down. He walked off the court with his scars exposed, and no one on his team stared.

They didn’t need to.

They already knew.