Covered Mirrors

The apartment was too damn quiet.

Osamu noticed it the second he walked in. Long day at practice, bones heavy, usual weight of exhaustion settling in. The living room lights were off—not weird, Atsumu was probably holed up in his room scrolling through his phone or mentally practicing serves. But something else was off. A wrongness in the air, like a song playing one note flat.

He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, listened. Nothing from Atsumu's room. No music, no loud commentary about some pro player's technique, no low murmur of a phone call. Just silence. Thick. Pressing.

Osamu walked past the bathroom and stopped.

The mirror above the sink was covered.

A towel hung over it, thrown there in a hurry. Osamu stared at it for a long moment, turning it over in his head. Atsumu had always been vain—preening at any reflective surface, checking his hair from every angle, flexing just to hear himself laugh. He loved mirrors.

He loved looking at himself.

Osamu's jaw tightened. He moved to the kitchen, pulled out vegetables, started chopping. The rhythmic sound filled the silence but didn't chase away the unease coiling in his chest.

---

Three weeks since the breakup.

Atsumu hadn't told him much. Osamu pieced it together from late-night phone calls he wasn't supposed to overhear, from the way Atsumu's smile started looking like a wound. The guy—Osamu never bothered to learn his name—had been fine with Atsumu's personality, his fame, his money. But the rest? The crop tops and eyeliner, the skirts he wore when they stayed in, the stilettos he'd strut around the apartment in just to make Osamu groan?

That was too much.

"You're embarrassing," the guy had said, according to Atsumu's broken whisper through the wall one night. "Can't you just be normal for once?"

Osamu had wanted to find this guy and rearrange his face. But Atsumu had begged him with red-rimmed eyes to let it go, and Osamu swallowed his rage like poison and nodded.

So he let it go.

But he couldn't let go of watching his brother disappear piece by piece.

---

Atsumu came home at nine, later than usual. Osamu sat on the couch, a bowl of cold soba balanced on his knee, pretending to watch some variety show. The door clicked open, and Atsumu stepped inside—shoulders hunched, gym bag hanging limp from one hand.

He didn't look at the mirror in the hall. Didn't look at Osamu. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor as he shuffled past, and Osamu caught a glimpse of his outfit—a plain gray hoodie, oversized, swallowing his frame. No crop top. No jewelry. No flash of his usual confidence.

"Atsumu."

"Not hungry." Atsumu's voice was flat, and his door closed with a soft click.

Osamu stared at the closed door, the soba growing cold in his hands.

---

The next day, Osamu came home early.

He'd left practice with a vague headache excuse, something his teammates didn't question. The truth was simpler: he couldn't stop thinking about the towel over the mirror, the way Atsumu had flinched when Osamu said his name.

The apartment was silent when he entered. Living room, kitchen, bathroom—empty. But Atsumu's door was cracked open, and Osamu heard something that made his blood run cold.

A soft, choked sound. Like someone trying not to cry.

Osamu moved before he could think, pushing the door open.

Atsumu was on the floor, surrounded by a pile of fabric and broken heels. His favorite stilettos—the black ones with silver buckles, the ones he'd worn to that club last year and gotten so many compliments—lay in pieces, heels snapped off, leather scuffed. His skirts crumpled in a heap, some torn. Crop tops, jewelry, makeup—all of it strewn across the carpet like aftermath of a storm.

And Atsumu in the middle of it, shaking, tears streaming down his face, shoving everything into a black trash bag.

"Tsumu."

Atsumu froze. His head snapped up, eyes wide and wet, and Osamu saw panic flash across his face before it smoothed into something hollow.

"Samu. Didn't hear you come in." His voice cracked. He tried to laugh, but it came out like a sob. "Just cleaning. Got too much crap, y'know?"

Osamu stepped into the room, heart pounding. "That's your favorite skirt."

Atsumu's gaze flickered to the floral-patterned piece in his hands. For a moment, something raw and wounded flickered in his eyes. Then he crumpled it and shoved it into the bag.

"Not anymore."

"Atsumu—"

"I said I'm just cleaning!" The words came out sharp, jagged, and Atsumu's hands were trembling as he tied the bag shut. "Mind your own business, Samu."

Osamu stood there, watching his brother struggle to his feet, the trash bag dragging behind him. Atsumu wouldn't look at him. His face was a mask, pale and drawn, and Osamu could see how thin he'd gotten, how his collarbones jutted out above the collar of his baggy shirt.

"Atsumu." Osamu's voice came out softer than he intended. "Talk to me."

For a second, something broke in Atsumu's expression. His lips parted, and Osamu thought he might finally let it out, all the pain he'd been carrying alone.

Then Atsumu smiled. A terrible smile, all teeth and no warmth, the kind meant to push people away. "There's nothin' to talk about. I'm fine."

He walked past Osamu, dragging the trash bag to the door, and Osamu let him go.

But he didn't miss the way Atsumu's hands shook as he tied the bag shut. He didn't miss the way Atsumu still refused to look at any mirror in the apartment. And he definitely didn't miss the way Atsumu's smile collapsed the moment he turned his back.

---

Three days passed like that.

Atsumu went to practice. Came home. Ate just enough to keep Osamu from worrying—or so he thought. Stopped teasing Osamu about his cooking, stopped complaining about Osamu leaving his shoes by the door, stopped filling the apartment with his loud, brash presence.

He became a ghost wearing his brother's face.

Osamu watched him slip away, piece by piece, and felt helpless. He tried reaching out—left Atsumu's favorite snacks on the counter, made extra onigiri, turned on Atsumu's favorite shows in the living room. But Atsumu just walked past them all, eyes empty, shoulders hunched.

And every night, Osamu heard him crying.

---

It was a Thursday when Osamu came home to find Atsumu sitting in front of the bathroom vanity.

The towel was gone from the mirror, but Atsumu wasn't looking at his reflection. He was staring at the counter, fingers tracing the edge of a box of hair dye. Black. Permanent.

Osamu leaned against the doorframe, watching. "What're you doin'?"

Atsumu didn't startle. He must have heard Osamu come in. "I'm gonna dye my hair."

Osamu blinked. "Your hair's already dyed."

Atsumu had been bleaching his hair since high school. The platinum blonde had become his signature, as much a part of him as his jump serve or his obnoxious laugh. It was the color of his confidence, the flag he flew to tell the world I'm here, look at me, I'm Miya Atsumu and I'm the best.

But now he was holding a box of black dye like it was a lifeline.

"I want somethin' different," Atsumu said quietly. "Somethin' normal."

The word hit Osamu like a punch to the gut.

Normal.

"Can you help me?" Atsumu's voice was barely a whisper. "I don't... I don't wanna do it alone."

Osamu wanted to say no. Wanted to grab the box and throw it away, wanted to shake Atsumu until he snapped out of it, wanted to tell him he didn't need to change anything, that he was perfect the way he was.

But Atsumu was looking at him with those hollow eyes, and Osamu knew if he said no, Atsumu would just do it himself. Alone. In the dark. Without anyone to catch him when he fell apart.

"Yeah," Osamu said, voice rough. "I'll help."

---

They set up in the bathroom, Atsumu sitting on a stool in front of the vanity, an old towel draped over his shoulders. Osamu mixed the dye in a bowl, the sharp chemical smell filling the small space.

Neither of them spoke.

Osamu sectioned Atsumu's hair with practiced hands, working the dark color through the platinum strands. He watched the blonde disappear beneath the black, watched the color that had defined his brother for years fade into something else.

Atsumu's hands were clenched in his lap. His shoulders were tight, breathing shallow.

"It's just hair," Atsumu said, but his voice shook.

"Mm."

"It'll grow back."

"Mm."

"It doesn't mean anything."

Osamu's hands paused. He looked at the back of Atsumu's head, at the way his brother's ears were red, at the way his knuckles were white where he gripped his own knees.

"Then why're you cryin'?"

Atsumu's breath hitched. He raised a hand to his face, and his fingers came away wet. "I don't know."

Osamu kept working. The black dye spread like ink, covering inch after inch of blonde. He was gentle, more gentle than he'd ever been with anything, fingers careful as he worked the color through Atsumu's hair.

"Remember when we were kids," Atsumu said, voice thick, "and we used to argue about who was the pretty twin?"

Osamu's chest ached. "You always said it was you."

"Yeah. I was so sure." Atsumu let out a broken laugh. "I was so sure of everythin'. Who I was, what I wanted, how I wanted to look. I didn't care what anyone thought."

"What changed?"

Atsumu was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet Osamu almost didn't hear it.

"He made me feel like I was wrong. Like everythin' I liked about myself was somethin' to be ashamed of." Atsumu's shoulders shook. "And the worst part is, I believed him. I started lookin' in the mirror and seein' all the things he saw. The things he hated."

Osamu's hands stilled. His vision blurred, and he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

"I don't know who I am anymore, Samu." Atsumu's voice cracked. "I don't know what I'm supposed to look like. I don't know what's real and what's just me tryin' to be what everyone wants. I'm so tired. I'm so goddamn tired of pretendin' I'm fine when I feel like I'm dyin' inside."

Osamu set down the dye. He took a breath, then another, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

"You don't have to pretend with me."

Atsumu's head dropped, shoulders curling inward. "But what if you hate me too? What if you look at me and see all the same things he saw?"

"I could never hate you."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do." Osamu gripped Atsumu's shoulders, firm but gentle. "I've known you my whole life, Atsumu. I've seen you at your best and your worst. I've seen you throw tantrums over losin' a practice match, seen you cry over stupid commercials, seen you dance around the apartment in your underwear singin' into a hairbrush. None of that ever made me hate you."

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. "That's not the same."

"Isn't it?" Osamu picked up the dye again, resuming his work. "You think I care about what you wear or how you do your hair? You're my brother. You could shave your head and wear a potato sack and I'd still think you're a dumbass."

"That's not very reassurin'."

"It's the truth." Osamu's voice softened. "What I care about is you. Not the clothes, not the hair, not the makeup. Just you. And I'm not gonna let some asshole who doesn't know you make you forget that."

Atsumu was silent, but his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Osamu finished the dye in silence, working the last of the black through the ends of Atsumu's hair. He set the bowl aside and grabbed a towel, wrapping it gently around Atsumu's head.

"We gotta wait thirty minutes," he said. "You want tea?"

Atsumu shook his head. "Don't leave."

Osamu pulled up another stool and sat beside him. They stayed there, side by side, the only sound the soft drip of the faucet and Atsumu's ragged breathing.

---

Thirty minutes felt like forever.

Osamu rinsed the dye out in the sink, fingers carding through Atsumu's hair, watching the last traces of blonde disappear down the drain. He towel-dried it carefully, then led Atsumu back to the stool in front of the vanity.

"Okay," Osamu said, voice gentle. "Look."

Atsumu shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "I can't."

"Tsumu."

"I can't, Samu. I can't look at myself."

Osamu's heart broke. He grabbed a hand mirror from the counter and held it up, angling it so Atsumu couldn't avoid it.

"I'm not askin' you to look at yourself," Osamu said quietly. "I'm askin' you to look at your brother. The same face you've seen your whole life. It's still there, Tsumu. It's always been there."

Atsumu's eyes opened, slowly, hesitantly.

He stared at his reflection. The black hair was jarring, wrong, like seeing the world in grayscale after living in color. Atsumu's hand came up, trembling, touching the dark strands.

"I don't even recognize myself," he whispered.

Osamu set down the mirror and cupped Atsumu's face in his hands, turning him away from the vanity. He looked into his brother's eyes, red-rimmed and lost, and felt a surge of fierce, protective love.

"Then let me remind you."

Atsumu blinked, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"You're the same pretty idiot you've always been," Osamu said, voice rough but steady. "The same guy who cried for an hour when we lost to Karasuno. The same guy who practices his serves until his hands bleed. The same guy who wears crop tops 'cause he knows he looks good in 'em." He squeezed Atsumu's face gently. "And if anyone says otherwise, I'll knock their teeth out."

Atsumu let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "You'll knock their teeth out?"

"Damn right I will."

"With what? You've never been in a fight in your life."

"I'll figure it out." Osamu's thumbs brushed away Atsumu's tears. "I'm serious, Tsumu. You're beautiful. You've always been beautiful. And I'm sorry it took someone breakin' you for me to say it out loud."

Atsumu's composure shattered.

He fell forward, burying his face in Osamu's shoulder, and sobbed. Great, heaving cries that tore through his chest, all the pain and fear and self-loathing of the past few weeks pouring out in a flood. Osamu held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other wrapped around his back.

"I'm sorry," Atsumu choked out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be."

"I should've told you. I should've said somethin'—"

"It's okay. I've got you now."

They stayed like that, crumpled together on the bathroom floor, until Atsumu's sobs faded to shuddering breaths, until his grip on Osamu's shirt loosened, until the tension bled out of his body.

Osamu helped him to his feet, led him to the couch, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He made tea without being asked, pressed a warm mug into Atsumu's hands, and sat beside him.

Atsumu stared at the dark liquid, his reflection rippling on the surface. "I don't know how to go back to bein' me."

"You don't have to go back," Osamu said. "You just have to go forward. One day at a time."

"What if I don't know what forward looks like?"

"Then we'll figure it out together."

Atsumu looked at him, eyes still red, face still tear-streaked, hair still that unfamiliar black. But there was a flicker in his gaze, something small and fragile and hopeful.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

---

The next morning, Osamu woke to the smell of rice cooking.

He shuffled into the kitchen, still half-asleep, and found Atsumu standing at the counter. He was wearing a crop top—a simple black one, nothing flashy—and his black hair was sticking up in all directions.

He looked tired. He looked fragile. He looked like he was trying.

"Made breakfast," Atsumu said, not meeting his eyes. "Well, I started makin' breakfast. I don't actually know how to cook, so you're gonna have to take over."

Osamu snorted. "Some things never change."

He took over the kitchen, adding ingredients and shaping onigiri with practiced ease. Atsumu hovered nearby, watching, and for the first time in weeks, the silence between them didn't feel suffocating.

Osamu placed a plate of onigiri on the table and sat down. Atsumu joined him, picking up a piece and taking a bite.

"It's good," Atsumu said quietly.

"'Course it is. I made it."

Atsumu almost smiled. Almost.

They ate in silence for a while, and then Atsumu spoke again, voice tentative.

"Samu?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think... do you think I'll ever feel like myself again?"

Osamu looked at his brother—his twin, his other half, the person who'd been by his side since before they were born. He saw the uncertainty in Atsumu's eyes, the fear, the lingering pain. But he also saw the strength, the resilience, the stubborn refusal to give up that had always defined Miya Atsumu.

"Yeah," Osamu said, and he meant it. "I do."

Atsumu's eyes glistened. He ducked his head, focusing on his food, but Osamu caught the small, fragile smile that tugged at his lips.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn't look like a wound.

It looked like a beginning.

---

Atsumu's laugh was weak, barely more than a breath, but it was real.

"You know," he said, poking at his onigiri, "I think you put too much salt in this."

Osamu raised an eyebrow. "I've been makin' these since we were twelve. You've never complained before."

"'Cause I didn't wanna hurt your feelings."

"You've never had a problem hurtin' my feelings before."

Atsumu's smile widened, just a fraction. "Maybe I'm turnin' over a new leaf."

"Don't. I prefer you when you're annoyin'. At least then I know you're alive."

Atsumu let out a sound that was almost a laugh, and Osamu felt something tight in his chest loosen.

It wasn't fixed. It wasn't over. There were still long nights ahead, still days when Atsumu would look in the mirror and see a stranger, still moments when the weight of the world would press down on his shoulders until he forgot how to breathe.

But they would get through it.

Together.

Osamu reached across the table and stole one of Atsumu's onigiri, biting into it with exaggerated satisfaction.

"Hey! That's mine!"

"Not anymore."

"Samu, I swear to god—"

"Make me another one. You need the practice."

Atsumu's protests filled the apartment, loud and indignant and so painfully familiar that Osamu had to look away, blinking hard. When he looked back, Atsumu was glaring at him, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there in weeks.

It wasn't the same light as before. Not yet. But it was there, flickering like a candle in the dark, stubborn and unyielding.

And Osamu would protect it with everything he had.

For as long as it took.

For as long as Atsumu needed him.

For always.