Calluses on Knuckles

The library's fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped insect. Osamu had tuned it out hours ago. His laptop screen glowed, sharp shadows cutting across the stack of printouts. Simple assignment: ten minutes on a health topic. He picked eating disorders because the list was short. Easy, he thought.

It wasn't.

He scrolled past another clinical definition of bulimia nervosa. Petechiae—tiny red spots around the eyes from ruptured capillaries, the strain of vomiting. Dental erosion. Swollen salivary glands. Calluses on knuckles. He read each symptom like he was memorizing for a test. Then he closed the laptop and went home.

The Miya house was quiet. Parents working late, as usual. Kitchen light on, dim and yellow, leftover yakisoba hanging in the air. Atsumu sat hunched over a barely touched bowl of rice.

"You eat yet?" Osamu dropped his bag by the door.

"Mm." Atsumu didn't look up. He pushed a few grains around with his chopsticks. "Not hungry."

Osamu grabbed a bottle of tea from the fridge, sat across from him. Watched his twin. Atsumu's face was thinner than it used to be. Hollows under his cheeks had deepened over the past year, but Osamu wrote it off as training. Volleyball's intense. Everyone slims down.

"You gotta eat if you're playing tomorrow," Osamu said, flat.

"I said I'm not hungry." Atsumu's tone sharpened, a flicker of his usual fire. He shoved the bowl away and stood. "Gonna shower."

He left. Osamu stared at the abandoned bowl—more than half full—and something cold settled in his stomach.

---

Next week, Osamu finished the presentation but couldn't stop thinking about it. The symptoms he'd memorized played on a loop, superimposing over Atsumu's behavior. He started watching.

Atsumu excused himself to the bathroom after every meal. Every single one. Not just at home—school too. After lunch, he'd disappear for fifteen minutes and come back with damp hair around his temples, like he'd splashed water on his face. Osamu noticed the tiny red spots around his eyes. He'd always thought they were from rubbing his eyes after practice. Now he knew the word: petechiae.

He noticed Atsumu's toothbrush. Frayed bristles. Gums around his canines looked raw, almost receded. Atsumu brushed his teeth four times a day. Sometimes five. He carried travel-size toothpaste in his gym bag.

Osamu remembered things. Middle school. Atsumu always picky with food, pushing plates away after a few bites, claiming he was full. Their mother laughed it off, said Atsumu had a small stomach. He'd skip breakfast, say he'd eat later. Avoid family dinners by claiming extra practice. Sometimes retreat to his room right after eating, saying he felt sick.

Years. It had been going on for years. Osamu just never connected the dots.

One night, he sat on his bed with the printouts spread around him. Clinical words blurring together. Binge-purge cycle. Secretive eating. Feelings of shame and guilt. Physical complications: electrolyte imbalance, esophageal tears, cardiac arrest.

Cardiac arrest.

His hands went cold. He folded the papers, slid them into his desk drawer. Then walked to the door connecting his room to Atsumu's and knocked.

"What?" Atsumu's voice, muffled.

"Open up."

Pause. Door creaked open. Atsumu stood there in sleep shorts, phone in hand, face guarded. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

"About what?"

Osamu pushed past him. The room smelled like mint toothpaste and something stale. Trash can empty—too empty. Bedding rumpled. Window cracked open despite the cold.

"You've been skipping meals," Osamu said. "You barely ate at dinner. And you've been in the bathroom for twenty minutes after every meal for the past week."

Atsumu's expression flickered. Confusion, irritation, then something brittle. "You're keeping track of when I take a piss now? Creepy."

"It's not funny, Atsumu."

"Who said I was laughing?" Atsumu crossed his arms, fingers digging into his biceps. "I'm fine. Busy. Volleyball, training, homework. I forget to eat."

"You don't forget. You avoid it."

"Why are you even—" Atsumu stopped. Jaw tightened. "Drop it, Samu."

"No."

The word hung between them. Osamu had never been the one to push. He was the quiet one, the observer, the one who let Atsumu rage and shine and fall apart without interference. But the printouts were still in his drawer, and the memory of Atsumu coming out of the bathroom with red-rimmed eyes and a too-bright smile was stuck in his throat.

"I'm ordering takeout," Osamu said. "From that place we like. The one with the karaage and fried rice. We're gonna eat together, and you're gonna stay at the table."

Atsumu's face crumpled. "I already ate."

"You had three bites of rice."

"That's enough."

"It's not enough." Osamu's voice cracked, and he hated it. He turned away, pulled out his phone, ordered enough for three people. Atsumu didn't try to stop him.

---

Takeout arrived forty-five minutes later. Osamu spread containers across the kitchen table—steaming karaage, fried rice, miso soup, gyoza. Rich, heavy smell. The kind that used to make them fight over the last piece.

Atsumu sat across from him, hands in his lap. Face pale under the kitchen light.

"Eat," Osamu said.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care."

Atsumu stared at him. For a moment, Osamu saw something raw and scared in his brother's eyes. Then it was gone, masked by a smirk that didn't reach anywhere. "Fine. Bossy as always."

He picked up his chopsticks, took a piece of karaage. Chewed. Swallowed. His throat moved like it was working against something. Osamu watched him take a few more bites, then a spoonful of rice. Slow, painful to witness, but he was eating.

They ate in silence. Osamu forced himself to finish his own plate, though his appetite had vanished. Atsumu managed about half before setting his chopsticks down.

"Done," he said.

"Eat more."

"I can't."

"You can. Just a few more bites."

Atsumu's hands trembled. "Samu, please. I can't."

The please broke something in Osamu's chest. He nodded. "Okay. That's enough."

Atsumu exhaled, shaky. Then pushed his chair back and stood. "I'm gonna go brush my teeth."

He headed for the hallway bathroom. Osamu moved without thinking, crossing the kitchen in three long strides, planting himself in front of the door just as Atsumu reached for the handle.

"Get out of the way," Atsumu said, low.

"No."

"Samu, move."

"No."

Atsumu's composure cracked. His face twisted, voice rising. "Let me go! I need to—I have to—"

"You don't have to do anything." Osamu's back pressed against the door, arms crossed. "You're not going in there."

"You don't understand!" Atsumu's hands shook, whole body trembling. "I can feel it, it's sitting in my stomach like a rock, I can't—I need to get it out, I need to—"

"No, you don't. You need to sit down and breathe."

"Let me go!" Atsumu screamed it, voice breaking. He slammed his palm against the doorframe, right next to Osamu's head. "Samu, let me go, please, please, I can't keep it down, I'm gonna be sick—"

His eyes were wet. The red spots around them seemed brighter. Osamu grabbed his wrists, gentle but firm.

"Then be sick," he said, low. "Be sick right here. I don't care. But you're not going in that bathroom alone."

Atsumu let out a sound that wasn't quite a sob, wasn't quite a scream. He pulled against Osamu's grip, but Osamu held on. Struggle lasted maybe ten seconds before Atsumu's legs gave out. He sank to his knees, and Osamu went with him, still holding his wrists.

"It hurts," Atsumu whispered. "It always hurts."

"I know."

"You don't know anything."

"Then tell me."

Atsumu shook his head, shoulders heaving. A gagging sound tore out of his throat. He wrenched one hand free and clamped it over his mouth, face twisting in panic.

"It's okay," Osamu said, though nothing about this was. "It's okay, Tsumu."

But Atsumu was already scrambling to his feet, shoving past Osamu and stumbling into the kitchen. Osamu followed, heart pounding. Atsumu grabbed the kitchen bin from under the sink, dropped to his knees, and bent over it.

The sound was wet and violent. Osamu stood frozen, watching his brother's back arch as he forced himself to vomit. The karaage. The rice. Everything they'd just eaten came back up, mixed with bile, splattering against the plastic bag.

Osamu didn't look away. Couldn't.

After a long minute, Atsumu's gagging subsided into heaving breaths. His forehead rested against the rim of the bin, fingers white-knuckled on the edges. A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another.

"Don't look at me," he rasped.

Osamu knelt beside him. Didn't say anything. Just reached out and put a hand on Atsumu's back. Under the thin fabric of his shirt, his shoulder blades were sharp as knives.

"Don't," Atsumu said, but his voice had no strength. "Don't be nice to me. You don't get to be nice to me now."

"Why not?"

"Because you're supposed to be on my side."

"I am on your side."

Atsumu laughed, broken and wet. "This is me. This is what I do. I eat and I throw up and I hate it, and I can't stop. I've been doing it since middle school. So if you're on my side, you'll pretend you didn't see this."

"No."

Atsumu finally lifted his head. Eyes red, face blotchy, lips chapped. He looked smaller than Osamu had ever seen him.

"Why do you only eat apples?" Osamu asked.

Atsumu blinked. "What?"

"Apples. You always grab them from the fruit bowl. Eat them in your room. Eat them after you skip dinner. Why apples?"

Atsumu's throat worked. He looked down at his hands. "Because they're safe. They're soft. When they come back up, they don't hurt as much."

The words landed like a punch. Osamu's chest caved in.

"How long?" he asked.

"Since fourth year of middle school."

Three years. Three years of this, and Osamu had noticed nothing. He'd seen his brother win tournaments, talk trash, shine under the gym lights. He'd seen the performance, but not the cost.

"Does anyone else know?" Osamu asked.

"No." Atsumu's voice cracked. "I thought if I just kept it under control, it would go away. But it's not going away. It's getting worse. I can't stop, Samu. I try, and I can't."

He broke then. Tears came freely, ugly sobs shaking his whole frame. Osamu pulled him into his arms, ignoring the smell of bile, the dampness of Atsumu's shirt. Held his twin tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed flat against his back.

"I've got you," Osamu said, his own voice thick. "I've got you, Tsumu. You're not alone anymore."

Atsumu cried into his shoulder, fingers twisting in the fabric of Osamu's shirt. They stayed like that for a long time, kneeling on the kitchen floor, the bin beside them, the world reduced to the rhythm of Atsumu's sobs and the slow, steady beat of Osamu's heart.

---

When Atsumu finally quieted, Osamu helped him stand. He wet a cloth under the faucet and wiped the tears and sweat from Atsumu's face, then cleaned the mess around the bin. Tied up the bag and took it out to the garbage can. When he came back, Atsumu was sitting at the table, staring at his hands.

Osamu sat across from him. "We're going to the school counselor tomorrow."

Atsumu's head shot up. "No."

"Yes."

"I can't—they'll tell the team. They'll kick me off. I'll lose everything."

"You'll lose everything if you keep going like this." Osamu leaned forward. "You're gonna wreck your body, Atsumu. Your heart. Your teeth. Everything you've worked for. And I'm not gonna watch you destroy yourself."

Atsumu's lip trembled. "I don't know how to stop."

"Then we'll learn together."

---

They stayed up all night. Osamu made tea—plain chamomile, nothing heavy—and they sat in the living room with the lights dim. Atsumu talked. Talked about the first time he made himself throw up, after a tournament loss in middle school, when he'd eaten too many onigiri and felt fat and slow. How good it felt to be empty, how the control was addictive, how it spiraled until he couldn't eat a normal meal without panic clawing up his throat.

He talked about the apples. The only food that made him feel safe.

Osamu listened. He didn't interrupt, didn't offer solutions. Just let Atsumu speak until there was nothing left to say.

Around four in the morning, Atsumu fell asleep on the couch, head on a cushion. Osamu draped a blanket over him and sat on the floor, watching his brother's chest rise and fall.

Tomorrow, they'd go to the counselor. Tomorrow, the real work would begin. But tonight, in the dark quiet of the living room, Atsumu was safe. He was here. He was still breathing.

That was enough for now.

---

The school counselor was a woman named Hayashi-sensei, kind eyes, calm voice. Osamu made an appointment under the pretense of career counseling. When they showed up together, Atsumu pale and silent, she didn't bat an eye.

"Miya-kun," she said, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk. "Please, sit."

Atsumu sat. Osamu sat beside him.

"Would you like to tell me why you're here?" she asked.

Atsumu stared at his lap. Hands clasped tight, knuckles white. Osamu watched him struggle, and then, slowly, Atsumu took a breath.

"I need help," he said. "I have bulimia. And I can't stop."

Hayashi-sensei's expression didn't change, but her eyes softened. She leaned forward. "Thank you for trusting me with that. That takes a lot of courage."

Atsumu's shoulders shook. He nodded.

"We're going to get through this," she said. "Together."

Osamu reached over and took Atsumu's hand. Atsumu held on like he was drowning.

And maybe he was. But for the first time, he wasn't drowning alone.