Slow Cooker Summer

The afternoon sun was basically roasting the apartment alive. The thin curtains did nothing—just let the light through so the whole place turned into a fucking slow cooker. Air conditioner died around noon, wheezed out its last breath, and now it was just the traffic drone and the old pipes clanking like the building had a death rattle.

Atsumu was sprawled on the couch in nothing but gym shorts. Sweat slicked his skin, hair plastered to his forehead. Six days at Osamu’s place, and every single one felt the same: too hot, too quiet, too much time inside his own head. The plan was simple—crash at his twin’s for a few weeks, clear his head, figure out what the hell to do with his life after the MSBY thing went sideways. Not that it fell apart, exactly. More like he let it slip because he couldn’t stop running his mouth. Couldn’t stop pushing. Couldn’t stop being himself in a way that made everyone want to strangle him.

The heat made everything worse. His binder felt like a straightjacket, squeezing his ribs and lungs until breathing took actual effort. He’d ignored it for the first hour after Osamu left for work—told himself he could tough it out. But sweat pooled in the creases of his skin, the fabric chafed under his arms, and that low-grade ache in his chest turned sharp and insistent.

He needed air. Needed to breathe.

With a grunt, he sat up and yanked the binder over his head in one motion, tossed it onto the coffee table like it had personally offended him. Cool air hit his skin—barely a relief, the room was still a furnace—and the thin cotton of his bra did nothing. Red, lacy, ridiculously feminine. Only thing he’d had on hand when he packed in a hurry. He hated it. Hated that he even owned it, hated that his body required it, hated that every time he looked in the mirror he saw curves and softness that betrayed the man he knew he was.

But it was also the only thing that didn’t make him feel like he was suffocating. So he let it stay.

He flopped back onto the couch, arm over his eyes, and tried not to think about how he was alone in his brother’s apartment, wearing lingerie, sweating like a pig. Not his finest moment. Not his worst, either—but definitely somewhere on the list.

The door rattled. Keys jingled.

Atsumu’s heart dropped. Osamu wasn’t supposed to be home for hours.

Before he could move—grab his binder, a blanket, anything—the door swung open and a woman walked in. Tall, dark hair in a neat ponytail, carrying a plastic bag from the convenience store. She froze in the doorway, eyes locking on him like a laser.

He froze too. His hand was still halfway to his chest, like he could cover himself, but useless. The red lace screamed.

“Who the hell are you?” Her voice sharp, accusatory. She stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind her—too loud in the silent apartment.

Atsumu scrambled upright, heart hammering. “I’m—I’m Osamu’s—”

“His what?” She dropped the bag on the floor, crossed her arms, her gaze raking over him with open disdain. “His little side piece? His secret fling? God, I knew it. I knew something was off. He’s been weird all week, coming home late, not answering my texts.”

“No, wait, that’s not—I’m his—”

“Don’t bother.” She took a step closer. Atsumu backed up until his knees hit the couch cushion. “I’ve seen this before. You think you’re special? Some cheap lingerie and a pretty face are enough to steal someone?” Her voice cracked on the last word, and he realized with a jolt—she was hurt. Genuinely hurt. But that didn’t make the accusation less horrifying.

“I’m not trying to steal anyone,” Atsumu said, his voice higher than he wanted, thinner. “I’m staying here because I’m—”

“Because you’re what? Homeless? Desperate? Doesn’t matter. You need to leave. Now.” She pointed at the door, hand trembling.

Atsumu’s cheeks burned—but not from the heat. Shame, hot and suffocating. He wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to hide the swell of his breasts behind the lace, but it only made him look more vulnerable. More exposed.

“Please, just listen,” he tried again, barely a whisper. “I’m his twin. I’m Atsumu. I’m Osamu’s twin brother.”

She laughed, bitter and broken. “Right. And I’m the queen of England. Do I look stupid to you? I’ve met his twin. I’ve seen pictures. Atsumu Miya is a volleyball player, a famous one. He’s tall and fit and he doesn’t—” She gestured at him, the bra, the softness of his chest, the way his shoulders hunched inward. “—he doesn’t look like this.”

The words hit like a punch. Atsumu felt his eyes sting, blinked furiously to keep the tears back. “I am Atsumu. I’m a trans man. That’s why I wear binders. That’s why I—this isn’t how I usually look, okay? It’s just hot, and I needed to breathe.”

She stared, mouth slightly open. For a second he thought she might believe him. Then her expression hardened. “That’s a nice story. But I’m not buying it. Get out, or I’m calling the police.”

He was about to break. Hands shaking, chest tight, all he wanted was to disappear into the floor. He opened his mouth to try again—something, anything—but before he could, the door swung open.

Osamu walked in, a bag of groceries in one hand, phone in the other. He was saying something into it—probably to Suna—but the words died the second he saw them: his girlfriend, white-faced and furious, and his twin brother, shirtless and red-eyed, hunched into himself like a cornered animal.

“What the hell is going on?” Osamu’s voice was flat, but Atsumu knew him well enough to hear the edge underneath. Controlled calm—one wrong word from losing it.

“Samu, I—” Atsumu started, but his girlfriend cut him off.

“I came over to surprise you, and I found her sitting here in your apartment in her underwear. A red lacy bra, Osamu. Red. Lacy. And she’s trying to tell me she’s your twin. Your twin.” She laughed again, that same bitter sound. “Is this a joke to you? Are you cheating on me with some random girl and trying to pass her off as family?”

Osamu set the groceries down slowly, deliberately. His eyes moved from his girlfriend to Atsumu—taking in the way his brother trembled, the way his arms wrapped around himself, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth to keep it from quivering. Something in Osamu’s face shifted—a crack in the mask—and then it was gone.

“She’s not a random girl,” he said, voice low. “That’s Atsumu. My twin.”

“Don’t lie to me, Osamu.” Her voice rose. “I’ve seen your brother. I’ve met him. He doesn’t look like that.”

“He’s trans, okay?” Osamu snapped, the words coming out harsher than he probably meant. “He’s my twin brother, and he’s trans. He wears binders. He doesn’t usually take them off in front of people. But it’s a hundred degrees in here and the AC is broken, so maybe cut him some goddamn slack.”

The silence was thick enough to choke on. His girlfriend stared at him, face cycling through shock, disbelief, and something that looked almost like guilt. Atsumu watched her, heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. He wanted to say something. Wanted to scream. But all he could do was stand there, half-naked and exposed, while his twin defended him.

“I didn’t know.” Her voice was small now. “How was I supposed to know? He didn’t—he was wearing that bra, and he’s got—I mean, look at him. How was I supposed to know?”

“You could have asked,” Osamu said, his tone colder than Atsumu had ever heard directed at someone he loved. “You could have listened. Instead, you walked in and started accusing him of being my whore.”

She flinched. “I didn’t say that.”

“You might as well have.” Osamu stepped forward, positioning himself between them. A subtle move, but Atsumu noticed. He always noticed the way Osamu put himself in the line of fire. “He’s my brother. He’s staying here because his life fell apart, and he needed a place to crash. And you just made it a hell of a lot worse.”

Atsumu wanted to tell Osamu to stop, that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t need to fight his battles. But the words wouldn’t come. Stuck behind the lump in his throat, buried under the weight of everything he’d been carrying for years.

His girlfriend looked at Atsumu—really looked at him—for the first time. Her eyes traced the lines of his face: sharp jaw, narrow nose, slight cleft in his chin. Same features Osamu had, softened by hormones and genetics. She saw it now. She had to.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t realize. I just—I got scared.”

Atsumu shook his head, jerky. “It’s fine.” The words came out cracked, barely audible. “Just leave me alone.”

“That’s not an apology,” Osamu said, gaze still fixed on his girlfriend. “You owe him more than that.”

“I’m trying, Osamu. But what do you want me to say? I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I’m sorry.” Her voice wavered, tears spilled down her cheeks. “I just—I love you. I thought you were cheating on me.”

“So your first instinct is to attack someone who hasn’t done anything wrong?” Osamu’s voice was tired now, heavy with disappointment. “That’s not love. That’s jealousy. And it’s not okay.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but Atsumu couldn’t take it anymore. The room was spinning, heat suffocating, all he wanted was to curl up in a ball and disappear. He pushed past Osamu, grabbed his binder off the table, and stumbled toward the bedroom.

“Tsumu—” Osamu reached for him, but Atsumu jerked away.

“Don’t.” His voice broke on the word. “Just—don’t.”

He made it to the bedroom, shut the door behind him, leaned against it as his legs gave out. Slid to the floor, clutching the binder to his chest like a lifeline, and finally let the tears come. Hot and silent, streaming down his cheeks, dripping onto the fabric in his hands.

From the living room, muffled voices. Osamu’s girlfriend pleading. Osamu’s voice, low and firm. Then the front door opened and closed. Quiet.

A few minutes later, a soft knock on the bedroom door.

“Tsumu?” Osamu’s voice was gentle, the way it used to be when they were kids and Atsumu had scraped his knee. “Can I come in?”

Atsumu didn’t answer. But he didn’t say no, either.

The door creaked open, and Osamu slipped inside, closing it behind him. He sat down on the floor next to Atsumu—not quite touching, but close enough that Atsumu could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu said. “I should have warned her. I should have told her you were staying here. I just—I didn’t think she’d come over, and I didn’t want to out you without your permission.”

“It’s not your fault.” Atsumu’s voice was raw, scraped clean of its usual bravado. “I shouldn’t have taken my binder off. I knew someone might show up.”

“You were hot. The AC is broken. You’re allowed to be comfortable in your own home.” Osamu’s hand hovered over Atsumu’s shoulder, then dropped. “She was out of line. I told her to leave.”

“I heard.” Atsumu wiped his face with the back of his hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did. She hurt you. That’s not something I can just ignore.”

They sat in silence. The only sounds: the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the distant buzz of traffic. Atsumu’s tears had stopped, but the ache in his chest hadn’t. It never really did.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate that I can’t just be a normal guy. I hate that every time someone looks at me, they see a girl. I hate that I have to explain myself over and over again, and even then, people don’t believe me.”

Osamu didn’t say anything. Just shifted closer, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He put his arm around Atsumu’s shoulders and pulled him in, letting his twin lean against him.

“You are a normal guy,” Osamu said quietly. “You’re my brother. That’s all that matters.”

Atsumu closed his eyes and let himself sink into the embrace. It wasn’t a fix. Wasn’t a solution. But for now, it was enough.

---

Later that night, after Osamu ordered takeout and they ate in front of a fan that did absolutely nothing to cool the room, Atsumu’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Almost ignored it, but curiosity got the better of him.

“Hi, this is Yuki. Osamu’s girlfriend. I’m so sorry about earlier. I was completely out of line. I hope you can forgive me. I’d like to meet you properly, when you’re ready. No pressure.”

Atsumu stared at the screen for a long time. The words were nice. Sincere, even. But they couldn’t undo the way she’d looked at him—like he was something dirty, something to be thrown away.

He put the phone down and didn’t reply.

Osamu glanced over from the kitchen, washing dishes. “Who was that?”

“No one,” Atsumu said. And he meant it.