Chapter Text
Cracks in the Foundation
Atsumu lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling of his room in the unfamiliar dormitory. Despite the warmth of his blanket and the quiet hum of the heater, he couldn’t shake the chill creeping through his chest.
The match had gone well—perfect, even—but the sight of Osamu’s face after the game haunted him. His twin’s expression hadn’t been anger or disappointment. It was pain. And it was the same pain Atsumu had carried for months: the aching sense of being abandoned, forgotten.
For the first time in a long while, Atsumu let himself think about what he’d left behind. The late-night practice sessions with Osamu, the way they used to dream together about being the best, their whispered plans of dominating every court they played on. All of it felt so far away now, like a dream he’d woken up from too soon.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair, his breathing shaky. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the glow of the screen illuminating the room. A message from Kageyama:
“Good game today.”
Atsumu smiled weakly, typing a quick thanks before tossing the phone back down. Kageyama was one of the few who still reached out, but even those messages felt hollow now. Like they were just checking in out of obligation, not because they actually wanted to.
The silence in the room was suffocating. He thought about calling Sakusa—his calm, steady voice was always grounding—but something held him back. Sakusa didn’t need to see him like this. No one did.
He slipped out of bed and pulled on a hoodie, heading for the small balcony attached to his room. The night air was cold, biting against his skin as he leaned on the railing. His breath came out in visible puffs, and for a moment, he let himself feel the ache he’d been suppressing.
He thought of his parents. They hadn’t called once since he’d left. Not even to check if he’d arrived safely. He’d told himself it didn’t matter—that he didn’t need them—but the truth was, their absence was a wound he couldn’t heal.
His grandparents tried their best. His grandma doted on him, always making sure he was fed and cared for, but even she couldn’t fill the void left by his parents’ neglect. They hadn’t even tried to stop him from leaving. They’d barely acknowledged his decision, as if his absence made no difference to them.
A sudden flood of tears blurred his vision, and he clenched his fists, angry at himself for crying. He was supposed to be stronger than this. He’d rebuilt his life, surrounded himself with people who cared about him. So why did he still feel so broken?
He heard a knock at his door, faint but insistent. Quickly wiping his face, he stepped back inside and opened it to find Kuroo standing there, his usually cocky grin replaced with concern.
“You good, Tsumu?”
Atsumu tried to muster a smile, but it came out weak. “Yeah, just couldn’t sleep.”
Kuroo studied him for a moment before stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “You know you don’t have to deal with this alone, right?”
“What are ya talkin’ about?” Atsumu said, trying to brush it off.
“Don’t play dumb.” Kuroo’s voice softened. “You’ve been off since the match. And before you start with the whole ‘I’m fine’ routine, just… don’t. Not with me.”
Atsumu sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “It’s just… everything,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “My parents, ‘Samu, my old team… I feel like I’m runnin’ away, but no matter how far I go, it still hurts.”
Kuroo sat beside him, his presence steady and grounding. “You’re not running away,” he said firmly. “You’re choosing yourself. There’s a difference.”
Atsumu let out a shaky breath, his tears falling freely now. “Then why does it feel like I’ve lost everything?”
Kuroo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled Atsumu into a tight hug, holding him as he sobbed. “Because starting over is hard,” he said quietly. “But you’ve got us now, Tsumu. You’re not alone.”
They sat there for a long time, the room filled with the sound of Atsumu’s quiet cries. And for the first time, Atsumu let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could heal.