Day 17: "Buried Pain"
Whumptober 2024 Prompt: Self Harm
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Atsumu Miya was always smiling.
On the court, off the court, in front of cameras, even when fans screamed his name. That cocky grin never seemed to leave his face, a mask that shielded him from the world's expectations. He thrived under pressure—or at least, that's what everyone thought.
But Sakusa Kiyoomi could see through it.
He wasn't sure when he first noticed the cracks in Atsumu's cheerful facade. Maybe it was during a practice match when Atsumu's set was just a fraction too slow, or maybe it was on a quiet evening when his usually boisterous voice had softened, the light in his eyes dimming. Kiyoomi didn't ask, though. Atsumu was proud—too proud to admit when something was wrong.
But tonight, the mask finally slipped.
Atsumu sat on the edge of their bed, his head bowed, the playful energy that usually filled the air between them now replaced by a suffocating silence. Kiyoomi watched him from the doorway, his heart sinking as he took in the tension in Atsumu's body, the way his fingers twitched nervously in his lap.
Kiyoomi's eyes narrowed.
"Atsumu, what's going on?"
The words were quiet, but firm. He wasn't one for coddling, and Atsumu wasn't one for showing vulnerability. But the way Atsumu flinched at the question sent a surge of unease through Kiyoomi's chest.
"Nothin'," Atsumu muttered, not meeting his gaze. "Just tired."
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
Kiyoomi's patience was already thin from watching his boyfriend pretend everything was fine for weeks. He wasn't one for confrontation, but this… this was different.
"Atsumu," he repeated, stepping closer. His voice softened, but his eyes were sharp, searching. "Please."
That one word—please—seemed to crack something in Atsumu's defenses. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms as he looked away, refusing to let Kiyoomi see the truth in his eyes.
"I… I just—" His voice broke, a whisper of pain he couldn't hide anymore. "I don't know how ta deal with it sometimes."
Kiyoomi's heart dropped as the weight of Atsumu's words settled between them. Slowly, he moved to sit beside Atsumu on the bed, his presence solid and grounding. He didn't touch him yet—didn't push for more than Atsumu was ready to give—but the silence was unbearable.
"Deal with what?" Kiyoomi asked, though he feared the answer.
Atsumu's shoulders shook as he lifted one of his hands, his sleeve sliding up just enough for Kiyoomi to see the faint marks on his skin—red, raw, and far too fresh.
Kiyoomi's breath caught in his throat, and his chest tightened with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. He stared at the marks in silence for a moment, his mind racing. How had he not noticed? How long had Atsumu been hiding this?
"Atsumu…" he whispered, the words choking in his throat.
Atsumu let out a shaky laugh, one that lacked all the confidence he usually carried. It was broken, fragile. "Stupid, ain't it?" His voice cracked, the mask he wore for so long shattering into pieces. "I just… I didn't know how to stop, Kiyoomi. It's like… it's the only thing that makes the pressure go away, even for a little while."
Kiyoomi's hand moved on its own, gently taking Atsumu's wrist, his thumb brushing over the angry lines on his skin. His touch was soft, careful, as if he were afraid Atsumu might break under the weight of it.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Kiyoomi asked, his voice quiet but laced with concern. "I could have—"
"I didn't wanna bother ya," Atsumu interrupted, pulling his wrist back, his gaze still cast downward. "Ya already have enough on yer plate with volleyball, and I didn't wanna be… this."
Kiyoomi's brow furrowed, his heart aching at Atsumu's words. How could Atsumu ever think he was a burden? He had always been the one to carry others, to put on a show so no one would worry about him. But Kiyoomi saw it now—the toll it had taken.
"Atsumu," Kiyoomi said softly, his hand finding its way back to Atsumu's wrist, this time holding it more firmly. "You don't have to hide from me."
Atsumu's breath hitched, and for a moment, Kiyoomi thought he would pull away again. But instead, Atsumu leaned into his touch, his shoulders shaking as tears he had been holding back for so long finally fell.
"I just… didn't know how ta make it stop," Atsumu admitted, his voice small, broken.
Kiyoomi pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around Atsumu and holding him tightly, as if he could shield him from the weight of the world. Atsumu buried his face in Kiyoomi's shoulder, his sobs quiet but heart-wrenching, the pain he had hidden for so long finally spilling out.
Kiyoomi rested his chin on top of Atsumu's head, his hands moving to rub soothing circles on his back. He didn't have the words to fix this, but he knew that being here—holding Atsumu—was enough for now.
"You're not alone in this," Kiyoomi whispered against Atsumu's hair, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "We'll figure it out together."
Atsumu didn't respond right away, but the way he clung to Kiyoomi, as if he were afraid to let go, was answer enough. For once, Atsumu allowed himself to be vulnerable, to let someone else carry the weight of his pain.
And Kiyoomi would do everything in his power to make sure Atsumu never had to carry it alone again.
