Fragile Peace

The first time Atsumu came home with his shirt untucked and his collar undone, Osamu didn’t think twice. They were seventeen, almost eighteen, and their mom had been on Atsumu’s ass about his appearance since middle school. But when it became a thing—Atsumu leaving the house in clothes that looked like they’d shrunk overnight, his eyeliner heavier, his walk looser—Osamu started paying attention.

“Goin’ out again?” Osamu asked from the kitchen table, a bowl of rice sitting in front of him untouched.

Atsumu didn’t turn around. He was messing with his earring, using the microwave door as a mirror. “Obviously.”

“Where?”

“Out.” His voice had this edge now, brittle and sharp. He grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door and was gone before Osamu could say anything else.

The door clicked shut. The house went quiet. Osamu stared at the rice until it went cold.

---

For three weeks, that was the routine. Atsumu would come home from volleyball practice, shower, change into something that made Osamu’s stomach twist, and disappear into the night. He’d stumble back in the early hours, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, his makeup smudged, his eyes too bright. He’d crash into bed without a word, and by morning, he’d be Atsumu again—loud, brash, insufferable Atsumu—like nothing happened.

But Osamu noticed little things. The way Atsumu flinched when their mom touched his shoulder. How he wore hoodies in weather that begged for short sleeves. How he stopped arguing about who got the last onigiri.

“He’s actin’ weird,” Osamu said one afternoon, sprawled across Suna’s bedroom floor.

Suna didn’t look up from his phone. “You’re both always weird. That’s not news.”

“Weirder than usual.”

“Define ‘weird.’”

Osamu chewed the inside of his cheek. “He goes out every night now. Comes back lookin’ like he’s seen a ghost. Won’t tell me where he’s been.”

Suna finally put his phone down. He was quiet a second, his amber eyes unreadable. “Maybe you should ask him.”

“I did. He told me to mind my own damn business.”

“So mind it.”

“He’s my twin, Suna.”

“Exactly.” Suna’s voice was calm, steady—the anchor Osamu needed but didn’t want. “So if you’re really worried, don’t ask. Watch.”

Osamu hated how much sense that made.

---

That Friday, they watched a horror movie in Osamu’s room—something Suna picked about a house that ate people. Osamu couldn’t focus. His eyes kept drifting to the door, listening for Atsumu’s footsteps.

“You’re not even watchin’,” Suna said.

“I am.”

“You’ve been staring at the same wall for ten minutes.”

Osamu opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, the front door slammed open. Not the usual carefree bang of Atsumu coming home. It was violent. Desperate. Osamu was on his feet before he knew he was moving.

He found Atsumu in the genkan, doubled over, breathing in ragged gasps. His shirt was torn at the collar, and his hands were shaking as they gripped the edge of the shoe cabinet.

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, and there was something dark smeared on his jaw—makeup or blood, Osamu couldn’t tell.

“Nothin’,” Atsumu said, his voice cracking. “It’s nothin’. Go back to your movie.”

Osamu crouched in front of him. “Your hands are shakin’.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I said I’m fine.” Atsumu’s voice broke on the last word, and that’s when Osamu saw them—bruises blooming around Atsumu’s throat, dark and ugly against his pale skin. Fingerprints. Someone had grabbed him by the neck.

“Who did this?” Osamu’s voice was quiet. Dangerously quiet.

Atsumu’s hand flew to his throat, covering the marks. “No one. I fell.”

“Bullshit.”

“Just leave me alone, Osamu.”

“Who did this?”

Atsumu’s eyes glistened. For a second, Osamu thought he might break. But then the mask came back down, hard and fast, and Atsumu pushed past him, retreating to their room. The door slammed shut.

Osamu stood in the hallway, fists clenched, heart pounding. Suna appeared behind him, silent as always.

“That’s who he’s been seein’,” Osamu said, his voice hollow.

Suna didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

---

Monday came gray and heavy, the sky pressing down on Inarizaki like a held breath. Atsumu walked into school with his collar popped and a scarf wrapped around his neck, even though it was warm. He didn’t talk to anyone. He didn’t look at Osamu.

At lunch, Osamu found him in the gym, sitting on the bleachers instead of practicing. His knee bounced with restless energy, and his hands kept fiddling with the edge of his sleeve.

“You’re not playin’?” Osamu asked, sitting a few feet away.

“Don’t feel like it.”

“You never miss practice.”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. “Well, now I do.”

Osamu wanted to push. He wanted to grab Atsumu by the shoulders and shake the truth out of him. But the bruises on his brother’s neck were still vivid in his mind, and he was afraid that if he pushed too hard, Atsumu would shatter.

So he sat there in silence, watching the team run drills, feeling the distance between them grow with every breath.

It happened during third period the next day. Osamu was in chemistry, half-listening to the teacher drone on about molarity, when a commotion erupted in the hallway. He heard shouting, then the sound of a body hitting the floor. His blood went cold.

He ran.

The classroom door was open when he got there. A crowd had gathered, students whispering and craning their necks. Osamu pushed through, his heart hammering, and saw Atsumu on the ground, unconscious, his face pale and his lips tinged blue.

“Atsumu!”

Someone was calling for a teacher. Someone else was dialing the school nurse. Osamu dropped to his knees beside his brother, grabbing his wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there—weak, but there.

“What happened?” he demanded, looking up at the students circling them.

“He just collapsed,” a girl said, her voice shaking. “One second he was sittin’ there, and the next he was on the floor.”

Osamu’s eyes swept over Atsumu’s body. His sleeve had ridden up, revealing a row of tiny puncture marks along his inner arm. The world tilted.

The nurse arrived and pushed him aside. Osamu stood there, frozen, as they loaded Atsumu onto a stretcher and carried him out.

---

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and fear. Osamu sat in a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, while their mom talked to the doctor in hushed, urgent tones. Suna was beside him, a solid presence, but Osamu couldn’t feel anything.

The doctor’s words came in fragments. Drug use. Molly. Dehydration. Trauma to the neck.

Trauma to the neck.

Osamu’s hands started shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs, trying to stop, but they wouldn’t obey.

When the doctor left, Osamu’s mom turned to him, her face drawn and pale. “Osamu, did you know?”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I knew somethin’ was wrong.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t—I thought he’d talk to me. I thought I could handle it.”

His mom’s hand found his, squeezing hard. “This isn’t your fault.”

But it was. It felt like it was.

They let Osamu see Atsumu after dark. The room was dim, the only light coming from a monitor that beeped in steady rhythm. Atsumu was awake, staring at the ceiling, his face blank.

Osamu pulled up a chair and sat down. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

“The doctor found Molly in your system,” Osamu said finally. His voice was flat, tired.

Atsumu didn’t react.

“And the marks on your neck. He said they’re from strangulation.”

Still nothing.

“Who did this, Atsumu?”

Atsumu’s eyes drifted to the window. His voice, when he spoke, was barely a whisper. “Sakusa.”

The name hit Osamu like a punch to the gut. Sakusa Kiyoomi. The captain of Itachiyama. A player he’d seen at tournaments, known by reputation—meticulous, cold, untouchable. He’d never imagined those hands could leave bruises.

“Why?” Osamu asked, his voice cracking.

Atsumu’s lower lip trembled. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. He just—he gets angry sometimes. But he didn’t mean it. He said it was an accident.”

“An accident? He choked you, Atsumu. He put his hands around your throat and squeezed.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

Atsumu’s eyes filled with tears. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

But Atsumu just shook his head, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “I’m not gonna press charges. Don’t make me.”

Osamu stared at him, disbelief and anger warring in his chest. “He’s hurtin’ you.”

“He loves me.”

“That’s not love.”

Atsumu closed his eyes. “Go home, Osamu.”

Osamu didn’t move. He sat there, watching his brother’s face, searching for the person he’d grown up with. But the guy in that bed was a stranger, hollowed out and afraid, and Osamu didn’t know how to save him.

---

Their mom filed a report anyway. The police came, asked questions, took statements. But without Atsumu’s cooperation, there was nothing they could do. Sakusa was questioned and released. The case went nowhere.

Atsumu came home after three days. He went back to school. He went back to volleyball—sort of. His heart wasn’t in it anymore, and everyone noticed. The team walked on eggshells around him. The coaches gave him space. Osamu watched him slip further away, piece by piece.

And still, Atsumu kept going out.

But now, Osamu went with him.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe the night he found Atsumu sneaking out the window, wearing a crop top and leather pants that left nothing to the imagination. Maybe the night he realized that if he didn’t follow, Atsumu would go alone, and Osamu might never see him again.

So he went. He got a fake ID from a guy at school, bought a black shirt that was too tight, and learned to stand in the corners of clubs, watching Atsumu dance like he was trying to disappear into the music.

The parties were loud and crowded, full of people who smelled like sweat and desperation. Osamu hated every second of them. But he stayed, because Atsumu needed someone to stay.

“You don’t have to come,” Atsumu said one night, drunk and swaying, his pupils blown wide.

“I know.”

“Then why do you?”

Osamu didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he did, but it was too big to say out loud. Because you’re my brother. Because I’m scared. Because I can’t lose you.

Instead, he said, “Someone’s gotta make sure you get home.”

Atsumu laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “You can’t save me, Samu.”

“Watch me.”

---

The party where it ended was in a warehouse on the edge of town. The air was thick with smoke and bass, and the lights were the color of blood. Osamu had lost sight of Atsumu twenty minutes ago, and the anxiety was building in his chest like a storm.

He pushed through the crowd, eyes scanning for familiar blond hair. He checked the dance floor. The bar. The dark corners where people disappeared for hours.

And then he saw him.

Atsumu was pressed against a wall, and Sakusa Kiyoomi was in front of him, one hand gripping his jaw, the other fisted in his shirt. Even from across the room, Osamu could see the fury in Sakusa’s posture, the way Atsumu’s body had gone small and still.

Something inside Osamu snapped.

He crossed the room in seconds, grabbed Sakusa by the shoulder, and yanked. Sakusa stumbled back, his eyes flashing with surprise and then cold, hard anger.

“Get your hands off him,” Osamu said, his voice low and shaking.

Sakusa straightened, adjusting his sleeve with deliberate precision. “This is between me and Atsumu.”

“Not anymore.”

He threw the first punch. It connected with Sakusa’s jaw, and the satisfaction that shot through his arm was electric. Sakusa recovered quickly, his fist slamming into Osamu’s ribs, and then they were fighting—ugly and brutal, a tangle of limbs and rage.

“Stop!” Atsumu’s voice cut through the chaos. “Osamu, stop!”

But Osamu couldn’t stop. He saw red, saw the bruises on his brother’s neck, saw the hollow look in Atsumu’s eyes that had been there for months. He wanted to hurt Sakusa. He wanted to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he’d caused.

“Osamu!”

Atsumu grabbed his arm, pulling him back. Osamu turned, panting, and saw his brother’s face—tear-streaked, desperate, broken.

“Please,” Atsumu whispered. “Please stop.”

Sakusa was on the ground, wiping blood from his split lip. His gaze was cold, calculating, but he didn’t get up. The crowd had formed a ring around them, phones out, recording everything.

Osamu grabbed Atsumu’s wrist and dragged him out of the warehouse, through the back exit, into the cold night air. They stumbled into an alley, the sounds of the party muffled behind them.

“Why?” Osamu shouted, his voice cracking. “Why do you keep goin’ back to him?”

Atsumu’s shoulders shook. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand!”

“Because I love him!” Atsumu’s voice broke, raw and jagged. “I know it’s stupid. I know it’s wrong. But when he’s good, he’s so good, Osamu. He makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world.”

“And when he’s bad, he puts you in the hospital.”

Atsumu flinched. Osamu stepped closer, his hands reaching out to cup his brother’s face, tilting it up so the streetlight fell on his neck. The bruises were fresh—purple and black against pale skin.

“Look at yourself,” Osamu said, his voice breaking. “Look at what he’s done to you.”

Atsumu’s eyes traced down, following his brother’s gaze to his own reflection in a grimy window. He saw the bruises. The hollow cheeks. The shadow of the person he used to be.

He broke.

The sob that tore out of him was ugly and raw, the sound of a dam finally collapsing. Osamu caught him as his knees buckled, pulling him into his arms, holding him tight as Atsumu shook and cried and clawed at his back.

“I’m scared,” Atsumu whispered into his shoulder. “I’m so scared, Samu.”

“I know,” Osamu said, his own tears falling now. “I know.”

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“We’ll figure it out. Together.”

They stayed in that alley for a long time, wrapped in each other, the world spinning on around them. The party bled on, oblivious. The stars overhead were cold and distant. But for the first time in months, Osamu felt like he could breathe.

---

Atsumu pressed charges. It took three days of Osamu sitting with him, holding his hand, and repeating the same words over and over. You’re worth more than this. You deserve better. I’ll be here the whole time.

The trial was quiet, resolved without a media circus. Sakusa’s lawyers argued for leniency, pointing to his age, his athletic career, his clean record. But the evidence was damning—the hospital reports, the witness statements, the photographs of Atsumu’s injuries. Sakusa was sentenced to eighteen months in a juvenile detention facility, with mandatory therapy. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But it was something.

Atsumu started therapy too. He went twice a week, sitting in a small room with soft lighting, learning to untangle the knots that had been wound so tight inside him. Some days he came home quiet, retreating to his room without a word. Other days he came home angry, slamming doors and yelling at nothing. And some days—the good days—he sat on the couch next to Osamu, and they watched terrible horror movies, and Atsumu’s laugh sounded almost like it used to.

---

Six months after the trial, Osamu came home to find Atsumu in the kitchen, attempting to make onigiri. Rice was scattered across the counter, and the filling was spilling out of the misshapen balls.

“You’re a disaster,” Osamu said, but he was smiling.

“Shut up,” Atsumu muttered, his ears red. “I’m tryin’.”

Osamu rolled up his sleeves and walked over, gently nudging his brother aside. “Here. Let me show you.”

He guided Atsumu’s hands, shaping the rice into neat triangles, pressing the filling in just right. It was the most peaceful they’d been in years.

“Hey, Samu?” Atsumu said, his voice soft.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For not givin’ up on me.”

Osamu looked at his brother—the scars on his neck fading, the light starting to return to his eyes—and felt something loosen in his chest.

“I’ll never give up on you,” he said. “You’re stuck with me forever.”

Atsumu’s smile was fragile, but it was real.

They took their onigiri to the living room, put on a movie neither of them cared about, and sat together in the warm, quiet dark. The movie played on, cheap scares and loud music, but neither of them paid attention. Atsumu fell asleep halfway through, his head dropping onto Osamu’s shoulder.

Osamu didn’t move. He listened to his brother’s breathing, steady and even, and let himself believe that they were going to be okay.

Outside, the world kept turning. But in that small living room, with rice crumbs on the couch and a bad movie flickering on the screen, there was peace. Fragile. Hard-won. Real.

And for now, that was enough.