The Distance Between Confessions

The gym still smelled like sweat and floor wax, volleyballs thudding faintly in the distance. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but the echoes hung around. Most of the team had already shuffled off to the showers, leaving only a few stragglers—Kita coiling nets, Aran gathering balls, and Osamu wiping down benches with a towel slung over his shoulder.

Atsumu stood near the net post, heart hammering so loud he swore the whole gym could hear it. He’d been planning this for weeks. Rehearsing in the bathroom mirror until his voice cracked. He’d even scribbled it on a napkin once, then tossed it because it sounded stupid.

Now, with Kiyoomi Sakusa only a few feet away, tightening his shoelaces, all those words just… vanished.

“Sakusa-san.” His voice came out too high. He cleared his throat.

Sakusa looked up, dark eyes unreadable. Already in his jacket, mask pulled up, a clean towel around his neck. The picture of someone ready to leave.

“What?”

Atsumu’s palms were slick. He wiped them on his shorts. “Can I, uh… talk to you for a sec? Alone, maybe?”

Sakusa’s gaze flicked around the empty gym—empty except for Kita, Aran, and Osamu, all pretending not to listen. “We are alone,” he said flatly.

Atsumu swallowed. This was it. His heart in his throat, a frantic bird beating against his ribs. He stepped closer, then closer, until he could see the faint lines at the corners of Sakusa’s eyes—probably from frowning. Or squinting. Or both.

“I like you,” he blurted. “Like, really like you. I know we’re teammates and you’re from Tokyo and you’re probably gonna go to some fancy university, but I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I like you, Sakusa-san. Like… like you.”

His cheeks burned. He could feel the heat radiating off his face. He tried to smile, but it came out crooked. Desperate.

Sakusa didn’t move. For one long, terrible second, the only sound was the squeak of Aran’s sneakers as he paused mid-step.

Then Sakusa spoke.

“I don’t like you.”

Flat. Final. They landed like a spike straight into Atsumu’s chest.

Atsumu blinked. “What?”

“I don’t like you,” Sakusa repeated, voice carefully neutral. “Not in that way. I don’t think of you as anything other than a teammate. You’re good at volleyball, but that’s all.”

The bird in Atsumu’s chest stopped beating. Everything stopped.

“But—” His voice cracked. “But we—I thought—you always—”

“You thought wrong.” Sakusa stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. That wasn’t my intention.”

He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded like he was reading from a script.

Atsumu felt something hot and wet slide down his cheek. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. “Sakusa-san, please, just—can we talk about this? I know I’m not—I mean, I can be a lot, but I thought you might—”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Sakusa’s voice hardened, just a fraction. “I don’t feel the same way. Please respect that.”

And then he turned and walked toward the exit, his footsteps echoing in the sudden, crushing silence.

Atsumu stood frozen. The gym lights seemed too bright. The air too thin. He heard Osamu drop the towel. Heard Aran mutter something under his breath. Heard Kita’s soft footsteps.

But all he could feel was the gaping hole where his hope used to be.

“Atsumu.” Osamu’s voice was low, dangerous. “What the hell did he do?”

Atsumu shook his head, but the tears wouldn’t stop. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to push them back, but they just kept coming. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I just—I need a minute.”

He ran.

The gym doors slammed behind him, and the outside air hit his face like a slap. The sun was low, painting the schoolyard in shades of orange and gold. Atsumu didn’t see any of it. He kept running—past the club shed, past the vending machines, past the cherry tree that was just starting to bloom—until he reached the isolated bench near the equipment storage, hidden behind a row of hedges.

He collapsed onto it, burying his face in his hands, and let the sobs tear through him.

Inside the gym, the atmosphere had shifted from quiet to cold.

Osamu threw the towel against the wall. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“Osamu.” Kita’s voice was calm, but firm. “You’re not going to kill anyone.”

“Did you hear what he said? ‘I don’t like you like that.’ My brother doesn’t cry. He never cries. And Sakusa just—just dismissed him like he was nothing.”

Aran sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was harsh. Even for Sakusa. But we can’t just—”

“I don’t care,” Osamu snapped. He was already walking toward the doors. “I’m going to find him, and then I’m going to tell him exactly what I think.”

“Samu, wait.” Kita stepped in front of him, blocking the exit. His gray eyes were steady, unblinking. “Think about what you’re going to say. Angry words won’t fix anything.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. “Then what will?”

“Let me talk to Sakusa first. He’s still in the changing room, probably. I’ll handle it.” Kita’s voice left no room for argument. “You go check on your brother. He needs you more than you need to pick a fight.”

For a long moment, Osamu looked like he was going to argue. Then his shoulders sagged. “Fine. But if he says one more thing—”

“He won’t,” Kita said, though he didn’t sound entirely sure.

---

Sakusa was in the changing room, alone, when Kita found him.

He was sitting on the bench in front of his locker, unmasked, staring at his hands. The usual stoicism was there, but something else flickered behind his eyes—a tension in his jaw, a slight tremor in his fingers.

“Sakusa.” Kita closed the door behind him.

Sakusa didn’t look up. “If you’re here to lecture me, save your breath.”

“I’m not going to lecture you.” Kita sat down on the bench opposite him, folding his hands in his lap. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I’d like you to answer honestly.”

“I don’t see why I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t. But I think you owe it to yourself.” Kita’s voice was gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh tone Osamu would have used. “Did you mean what you said to Atsumu?”

Sakusa’s hands stilled. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “Yes.”

“Is that the truth?”

A pause. Longer this time.

Sakusa’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked away, toward the window, where the setting sun cast long shadows across the floor. “…I don’t know.”

Kita waited.

“I don’t know,” Sakusa repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t like him. I don’t. But when he was standing there, crying, something… hurt. I didn’t expect it to hurt.”

“Maybe because you do like him.”

“No.” Sakusa’s voice sharpened. “I can’t. I don’t do… that. I don’t get attached. I don’t let people in. It’s easier that way.”

“Easier, or safer?”

Sakusa flinched, and Kita knew he’d hit a nerve.

“I had someone once,” Sakusa said, after a long silence. “Back in Tokyo. She said she loved me. I believed her. And then she left, because I was too cold, too distant, too much to deal with. She said I made her feel like she was never enough.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “So I made a choice. I decided I wouldn’t let anyone close enough to hurt me again. I wouldn’t let myself care that much.”

Kita nodded slowly. “And now Atsumu has made you care.”

Sakusa closed his eyes. “He’s too bright. Too loud. He doesn’t know when to stop. He’s exhausting.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here, thinking about him.”

Another long pause. Then, barely audible, “Yes.”

Kita stood up. “You should tell him that.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I already hurt him. I told him I didn’t like him. If I go back now, I’ll just make it worse. He’ll think I’m lying. He’ll think I’m pitying him. And I—I can’t do that to him. Not again.”

Kita placed a hand on Sakusa’s shoulder. “He won’t think that. He’s hurt, yes, but he’s also hopeful. That’s who Atsumu is. He always believes there’s a chance.” He squeezed once, then let go. “The question is, do you?”

---

Outside, the sky had turned from gold to deep violet. The stars were just beginning to show.

Atsumu had stopped crying, but his eyes were still red, and his throat felt raw. He stared at the ground, watching ants march in a line, wishing he could just disappear.

He heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

He didn’t look up.

“Atsumu.”

Sakusa’s voice. Atsumu’s heart lurched, but he forced himself to stay still. “Go away.”

“I can’t.”

“You already said what you had to say. There’s nothing left.”

Sakusa sat down on the bench beside him. Close, but not touching. “I lied.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I lied.” Sakusa’s voice was rough, like he was forcing the words out. “When I said I didn’t like you. I lied.”

Atsumu stared at him, eyes wide, fresh tears threatening to spill. “That’s not funny, Sakusa.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.” Sakusa turned to face him fully. In the dim light, his scars looked softer, his expression almost vulnerable. “I was scared. I am scared. I’ve been hurt before, and I convinced myself that I didn’t want to feel anything again. But when you looked at me today, so hopeful, and I watched that hope shatter because of what I said… I felt it. I felt everything. And I couldn’t run from it anymore.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. “You—you actually like me?”

“Yes.” The word came out like a confession. Like a relief. “I like you, Atsumu. I’ve liked you for a while. I just didn’t know how to say it, so I said the opposite. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The silence stretched. Atsumu’s mind was spinning. He wanted to believe it, but the memory of Sakusa’s cold rejection was still too fresh.

“Why should I believe you?” he whispered.

“Because I’m still here,” Sakusa said. “Because I could have just walked away and never looked back. But I didn’t. I came back for you.”

Atsumu’s lips trembled. “You hurt me.”

“I know. And I will spend as long as it takes making up for that, if you let me.” Sakusa reached out, hesitant, and placed his hand over Atsumu’s. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be soft, or how to say the right things. But I want to try. For you.”

The tears came again, but this time they were different—relief, not heartbreak. Atsumu let out a shaky laugh and turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with Sakusa’s. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Sakusa’s mouth. “I know.”

They sat like that for a long moment, hands intertwined, the night air cool against their skin. Then, without warning, Atsumu leaned forward and buried his face in Sakusa’s shoulder, his body shaking with quiet sobs.

Sakusa stiffened for a second, then wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. He pressed his cheek against Atsumu’s hair and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I’m sorry.”

They stayed like that until Atsumu’s crying subsided. When he finally pulled back, his face was blotchy and his nose was running, but he was smiling. A real smile.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Atsumu muttered.

Sakusa snorted. “I’m not cute.”

“You are. You’re adorable. Like a grumpy cat.”

“I am not a cat.”

“A very cute, very grumpy cat.”

Before Sakusa could retort, a new voice cut through the night.

“What the hell is this?”

Osamu stood at the edge of the hedges, arms crossed, face a storm of barely contained fury. His eyes flicked from Atsumu’s tear-streaked face to Sakusa’s arm, still wrapped around his twin’s shoulders.

“Samu, wait, it’s not what you think,” Atsumu said quickly, scrambling to his feet.

“Not what I think?” Osamu’s voice was dangerously low. “I think he broke your heart two hours ago. And now you’re cuddling? Are you for real?”

“He apologized,” Atsumu said. “He explained everything. He didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean it?” Osamu stepped closer, glaring at Sakusa. “You told my brother you didn’t like him. Made him cry. And now you’re telling him you didn’t mean it? That’s a load of crap.”

“Samu, please.” Atsumu grabbed his arm. “Just listen. He was scared. He has a past, and—”

“I don’t care about his past. I care that he made you cry.”

Sakusa stood up, his expression calm but sincere. “I did make him cry. And it was the worst thing I’ve ever done. I can’t undo it, but I can promise you—I will never hurt him like that again.”

“Promises are cheap.”

“I know.” Sakusa met Osamu’s gaze without flinching. “But I mean it. You don’t have to believe me now. But I will prove it.”

Osamu stared at him for a long, tense moment. Then he looked at Atsumu—saw the way his twin’s eyes were red but no longer broken, saw the way his hand was still clutching Sakusa’s sleeve. Saw the hope that had come back to life.

He let out a long, frustrated sigh. “If you hurt him again, I will make your life a living hell. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And you’re buying dinner. For both of us. For a month.”

Sakusa blinked. “…Deal.”

Osamu turned and walked away, muttering under his breath about idiots and twins and crying. But when he passed them, he gave Atsumu a quick, rough pat on the back.

“Text me if you need a ride,” he said, not looking back. Then he disappeared around the corner.

Atsumu let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “He’s not usually like that. He’s just protective.”

“I know.” Sakusa looked at him, and the softness in his eyes made Atsumu’s heart skip. “He loves you. That’s a good thing.”

Atsumu smiled, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah. He’s a good brother. Annoying, but good.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the night fully settled around them. The stars were brighter now, scattered across the sky like tiny lights.

“I’m still scared,” Sakusa admitted quietly.

“Me too,” Atsumu said. “But we can be scared together.”

Sakusa looked at him, and for the first time, a genuine smile crossed his face. It was small, barely a curve of his lips, but it was real.

“Together,” he repeated.

---

The next morning, practice started as usual. The gym was filled with the sound of shoes squeaking and balls slamming against the floor. But something was different.

Sakusa arrived earlier than usual. He didn’t hover by the door like he normally did, waiting for the air to clear. Instead, he walked straight to where Atsumu was stretching, and sat down beside him.

The entire team watched.

Kita gave a small, approving nod. Aran grinned. Osamu just rolled his eyes and focused on his own stretches.

“Morning,” Sakusa said.

“Mornin’,” Atsumu replied, his voice bright. He didn’t try to hide the way his face lit up.

They practiced together, side by side. When Sakusa executed a perfect serve, Atsumu whooped and clapped. When Atsumu messed up a receive and groaned dramatically, Sakusa rolled his eyes but said, “You’ll get it next time.”

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t a big romantic gesture. But it was them.

And at the end of practice, when everyone was packing up, Atsumu caught Sakusa’s eye and gave him a small, private smile. Sakusa returned it, just as small, just as private.

They still had a lot to figure out. There would be difficult conversations and awkward moments. But for now, they had this.

A beginning.

And a promise to be honest, even when it was hard.