The Song Beneath the Steam

The locker room was thick with steam and the low buzz of tired athletes. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, throwing everything into that flat, clinical white that made the wooden benches look pale and the tile floor gleam like wet stone. The air smelled of chlorine, cheap body wash, and the metallic tang of sweat from practice jerseys dumped in piles.

Most of the team had already changed. They sprawled across the benches in different states of undress—some still damp from quick showers, others in track pants and hoodies, lazily scrolling through phones or passing a half-empty water bottle. Post-practice chatter filled the space: jokes about Osamu’s terrible onigiri that morning, a debate over which convenience store had the best fried chicken, a half-hearted argument about the upcoming Seijoh match.

But the sound that cut through everything, that made everyone pause every so often, was the singing.

It came from the showers. Atsumu Miya.

His voice was clear and full, carrying over the hiss of the last running faucet. He was singing something slow, something aching—a pop ballad about heartbreak he’d been obsessed with for weeks. He hit every note with a precision that felt almost theatrical. The team had long stopped being surprised. Atsumu did everything with that kind of flair. Loud. Bright. Impossible to ignore. And he took forever in the shower.

“How long’s he been in there?” Ginjima asked, not looking up from his phone.

“Forty minutes,” Suna said flatly. He sat on the bench with his legs crossed, scrolling through social media with the bored expression of a cat watching a particularly uninteresting insect.

“That’s normal for him,” Osamu muttered. He sat across from Suna, his own bag already packed. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He never did when Atsumu was the topic.

The singing continued, swelling into a chorus that made a few younger players exchange amused glances. It was good. Embarrassingly good. The kind of good that made you wonder why he was a volleyball player instead of an idol.

Finally, the water shut off. The singing stopped, replaced by the rustle of fabric and the click of a hair dryer. More murmuring. They were used to the wait. Another five minutes passed. The door to the showers swung open.

He walked out like he was stepping onto a stage.

Atsumu wore knee-high heeled black boots that added three inches to his height, the leather polished to a mirror shine. Black mini shorts sat high on his thighs, paired with translucent black tights that caught the harsh light and made his legs look impossibly long. An oversized white top hung off one shoulder, the fabric so voluminous it seemed to float around him. Over that, a beige short trench coat, belted loosely at the waist. A black headband held his still-damp blond hair back, and his face was touched with subtle makeup—a hint of eyeliner, a gloss that made his lips look full and soft.

He smelled like expensive cologne and coconut shampoo.

The room went quiet for a beat. It always did. Then the younger players let out a round of good-natured wolf whistles, and Atsumu grinned, wide and practiced, twirling a bit as he crossed to his locker.

“Missed me?” he said, his voice light and teasing.

“Like a hole in the head,” Suna replied, but there was no bite in it.

Atsumu laughed, bright, as he pulled his bag open and started stuffing things inside. The conversation resumed around him, but he was the center of gravity now, the way he always was. Someone asked about the song. Someone else complimented his boots. He answered them all with easy charm, his hands moving as he talked, his smile never faltering.

He was beautiful. He was magnetic. He was the best setter in the country.

And he was hiding.

The chatter lasted another ten minutes, drifting from volleyball to school gossip to weekend plans. Atsumu leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, occasionally interjecting with a teasing remark or a boast about his own skill. The team laughed. Comfortable. Normal.

Then Suna said, “Hey, Atsu.”

Casual. Unremarkable. Atsumu glanced over, still smiling.

“What?”

Suna didn’t look up from his phone. His finger scrolled lazily, but his voice was flat, factual.

“Why did you try to kill yourself?”

The room froze.

The smile on Atsumu’s face didn’t drop so much as solidify. It became a mask, tight at the edges, his eyes going wide for a fraction of a second before they narrowed. He let out a laugh—too quick, too sharp.

“The hell are you talkin’ about, Rintarou?”

Suna finally looked up. His expression was unreadable, those pale eyes boring into Atsumu’s with clinical detachment. “Last year. I saw you at the hospital. Your wrists were bandaged. Blood was seepin’ through.”

The words fell like stones into still water. The team’s laughter evaporated. Heads turned. Whispers started, low and confused.

Atsumu’s laughter died in his throat. He stood frozen, the mask on his face cracking at the edges. His hands, so animated moments before, hung still at his sides. One twitched.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said. His voice thinner now. “That wasn’t—that wasn’t me. You must’ve seen someone else.”

“I saw your face. You were in a wheelchair, and your mom was pushin’ you out of the psych ward. I didn’t say anything because I figured you’d tell us when you were ready.” Suna’s tone hadn’t changed. Still flat. Matter-of-fact. “But it’s been a year. So I’m askin’ now.”

The silence was suffocating.

Atsumu’s chest rose and fell faster. His hands were shaking. The mascara he’d so carefully applied made his eyes look hollow, and the gloss on his lips suddenly seemed grotesque—a bright, fake smile painted over something raw.

“I didn’t—” he started. His voice cracked. He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “I didn’t try to kill myself. I’m fine. I’m always fine. You know me.”

But his voice trembled now, and the team was staring. Some looked away, uncomfortable. Others whispered behind their hands. Osamu sat rigid on the bench, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the floor. He hadn’t said a word.

“Atsumu.” Kita’s voice cut through the noise.

Quiet. Steady. He’d been there the whole time, but Atsumu hadn’t noticed him. Kita sat at the far end of the bench, his towel around his neck, his bag packed neatly at his feet. He hadn’t been part of the conversation. Just there, present, watching.

Now he stood.

The room fell even quieter. Kita had that effect. He walked over to Atsumu with slow, deliberate steps, his wooden sandals clicking against the tile. He didn’t look at anyone else. His eyes were fixed on Atsumu, and there was no judgment in them. No surprise.

He stopped in front of him.

“I know,” Kita said. Just two words. Soft. Heavy.

Atsumu’s breath hitched. His eyes went wide, and for a moment, he looked like a cornered animal. “What?”

“I know,” Kita repeated. “You came to my house that night. In the rain. Your wrists were wrapped in kitchen towels. You said you didn’t know where else to go.”

The team let out a collective breath. A sharp inhale from one of the first-years. A whispered “what the fuck” from someone else.

Atsumu’s face crumpled. The mask shattered completely. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His hands flew to his face, pressing against his eyes as if he could block out the world. His shoulders shook.

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken. “I was so careful. I was so—I was fine. I was fine.”

Kita reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, grounding. “You don’t have to be fine here.”

Atsumu sobbed. An ugly sound, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He sagged forward, and Kita caught him, pulling him into a steady embrace. Atsumu’s hands clutched at the back of Kita’s practice jersey, his knuckles white.

“I don’t know what happened,” he gasped out. “One day I just—I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t see a reason. I couldn’t—I tried to tell myself it was stupid, that I had everythin’, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. And I thought if I just got better, if I just pretended hard enough, it would go away. So I did. I got better. I got better and no one knew.”

Kita held him, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back.

“I got better,” Atsumu repeated, his voice breaking. “I did. But I never healed. I just got better at hidin’.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

The team was silent. Some had tears in their eyes. The first-years looked lost, unsure what to do with their hands. Ginjima had his head bowed. Aran stared at the floor, his fists clenched.

Suna was still sitting. His phone was in his lap, his face pale. For the first time, he looked uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice small. “I didn’t mean—I just thought you should talk about it.”

Atsumu didn’t answer. He was still trembling in Kita’s arms.

Osamu stood up. He walked over to his twin, his steps heavy. He stopped a few feet away, his face unreadable. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching his brother cry.

Atsumu pulled back from Kita, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. The mascara was smeared. The gloss was gone. He looked raw, exposed, like a wound that had been unbandaged.

“I can’t,” he said, barely a whisper. “I can’t do this. Not here.”

He turned and bolted.

The door to the locker room slammed open and then shut, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. His boots clicked against the tile of the hallway, growing fainter as he ran.

Kita didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his bag in one swift motion, tossed it over his shoulder, and followed without a word.

The team was left in the humming silence of the locker room. The fluorescent lights still buzzed. The air still smelled of steam and soap. But everything had shifted. The casual banter was gone, replaced by a heavy, choking guilt.

Osamu stared at the door his brother had disappeared through. His fists were clenched at his sides.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” he said, his voice low. The first thing he’d said all evening, and it was directed at Suna.

Suna looked at him, his face pale. “He needed to talk about it.”

“Not like that. Not with everyone watchin’.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “He spent a year buildin’ a wall around it. And you just smashed it down.”

Suna opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t have an answer.

The team sat in the heavy silence, waiting.

---

The hallway stretched out ahead, empty and cold. The lights were dimmer here, the walls lined with dusty trophy cases and faded banners from decades past. Atsumu had run until his lungs burned, until the heeled boots threatened to twist his ankle, and then he’d collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

He was sobbing. Ugly, heaving sobs that made his whole body shake. The mascara ran down his cheeks in dark streaks. His perfect outfit was ruined. His perfect mask was gone.

He heard the footsteps. Slow. Steady. Familiar.

Kita’s sandals stopped a few feet away.

“I’m so embarrassed,” Atsumu choked out between sobs. “I’m so—I’m pathetic. I thought I had it under control. I thought I was better. And then one question and I’m—I’m right back in that shower, watchin’ the blood run down the drain.”

He pressed his palms into his eyes, but the tears kept coming.

Kita didn’t say anything. He just sat down beside him on the cold tile floor, his back against the wall. He didn’t reach out. Just sat there, a quiet presence.

Atsumu’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you know what it feels like to want to die? Not to want to be dead. But to want the act of dying? To want to feel the pain because at least then you’re feelin’ somethin’?”

Kita was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “No. I don’t.”

Atsumu laughed bitterly. “Lucky you.”

“But I know what it feels like to watch someone you care about go through it,” Kita continued, his voice soft but steady. “And I know what it feels like to hold them while they bleed. To wrap their wrists in kitchen towels because they can’t stop shakin’. To sit in the hospital waiting room and pray that they’ll be okay.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. His hands fell from his face. He turned to look at Kita, his eyes red and swollen.

“You never told anyone,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“It wasn’t my story to tell,” Kita said. “And I knew you would come to me when you were ready. I just didn’t expect it to happen like this.”

Atsumu’s lip trembled. He looked down at his hands, at the faint scars that he usually covered with bracelets or long sleeves. He hadn’t worn any today. He’d thought he was safe.

“They’re never gonna look at me the same way,” he whispered. “They’re gonna see the broken kid now. Not the setter. Not the twin. Just the broken kid who tried to kill himself.”

Kita reached out and took his hand. His palm was warm, calloused from years of farming and volleyball.

“They might,” Kita said. “For a while. But that’s not all you are. And they’ll remember that. Because you’ll show them.”

Atsumu shook his head. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t have to do it alone this time,” Kita said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You don’t have to be fine all the time. You don’t have to hide. You can just… be. And we’ll be here.”

Atsumu squeezed his eyes shut. The tears were still falling, but quieter now. He let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said.

“You don’t have to deserve it,” Kita said. “You just have to accept it.”

They sat there for a long time. The hallway was silent except for the sound of Atsumu’s breathing evening out. The cold tile seeped through his shorts, but he didn’t care. Kita’s hand was warm in his.

Eventually, Atsumu whispered, “I’m scared to go back in there.”

“Then don’t,” Kita said. “Stay here as long as you need. I’ll stay with you.”

Another long silence. Then Atsumu laughed, a broken, wet sound. “You’re gonna ruin the dry cleanin’ on that jacket.”

Kita glanced down at his blazer, already rumpled from the hug. “It’s just a jacket.”

Atsumu leaned his head on Kita’s shoulder. Small. Tentative. Kita didn’t move away.

“Thank you,” Atsumu said. Barely audible.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know. But I’m gonna anyway.”

They sat for another few minutes. Then footsteps echoed from down the hall. Slow, hesitant. A pair of heads appeared around the corner—Ginjima and Aran, their faces cautious.

“Hey,” Ginjima said, his voice soft. “We just wanted to check on you. Everyone’s still in the locker room. They’re not talkin’. They’re just… waitin’.”

Atsumu tensed. He looked up at Kita, his eyes asking the question he didn’t want to voice.

“You can go back when you’re ready,” Kita said. “Or we can go home. Your choice.”

Atsumu took a shaky breath. He looked at his hands. At the faint scars. At the black headband that had slipped halfway off his head. At the smeared makeup. At the boy beside him, steady as a rock.

“Let’s go back,” he said. Quiet but firm. “I don’t wanna run anymore.”

Kita nodded. He stood first, then offered Atsumu his hand. Atsumu took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. His heeled boots clicked against the tile as he steadied himself.

Ginjima and Aran fell into step beside them as they walked back. No one said anything. They didn’t have to.

The door swung open. The team was exactly where they’d left them—sitting in silence, some looking at the floor, some at their phones, some with their heads bowed like they were praying. Suna was still on the bench, his face pale and drawn. Osamu was standing near the wall, arms crossed, his eyes shadowed.

When Atsumu walked in, every head turned. He felt the weight of their stares like a physical thing. But he didn’t flinch. He walked to his locker and started packing his bag with slow, methodical movements.

The silence stretched.

Then Suna stood up. He walked over to Atsumu, stopping a few feet away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that in front of everyone. That was stupid of me.”

Atsumu didn’t look at him. He kept folding his shirt. “You were tryin’ to help.”

“I wasn’t,” Suna said. “I was just… curious. And I thought you were fakin’ it. The whole ‘I’m fine’ act. I thought if I called you out, you’d drop it and we’d laugh about it. I didn’t think—I didn’t know it was real.”

Atsumu stopped. He looked at Suna, really looked at him. His eyes were still red, but the sharp edge of panic had dulled.

“It’s real,” he said. “But I’m still here.”

Suna nodded. His jaw tightened. “Yeah. I’m glad.”

Clumsy. Awkward. But honest.

One by one, the team approached him. Some just nodded. Others muttered something quick—sorry, glad you’re okay, we’re here if you need us. A few first-years looked like they wanted to say more but didn’t know how. They settled for awkward pats on the shoulder.

Atsumu accepted it all. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t flinch either. He let them see him—the smeared makeup, the red eyes, the trembling hands. He let them see the cracks.

Because hiding had been harder.

When the last of them had said their piece, the room fell into a quieter, more comfortable silence. They began to pack up slowly, their movements subdued but not sad. The tension had loosened. Something new was forming—fragile, but real.

Kita stood by the door, his bag over his shoulder. He waited until Atsumu was ready.

Atsumu zipped his bag, looked around at the team one last time. They were watching him, but not with pity. With something softer. Concern, maybe. Acceptance.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked toward the door. As he passed Kita, he swayed slightly, just a little, and let his shoulder brush against Kita’s. Kita didn’t step away. Instead, he moved closer, letting Atsumu lean into his side as they walked out together.

The door swung shut behind them, leaving the team in the quiet hum of the locker room. The fluorescent lights still buzzed. The air still smelled of steam and soap. But something had changed.

They would talk later. They would learn. They would be better.

But for now, in the hallway outside, two boys walked side by side into the cool night air, one of them no longer pretending to be fine. And that, at least, was a start.