Sunflowers in the Dark

The Miya household smelled like soy sauce and simmering dashi. Cluttered, warm—the kind of lived-in chaos that only comes from decades in the same house. A dented TV stand, a stack of newspapers by the couch, a framed photo of the twins from middle school, both grinning with missing teeth.

Osamu stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his mom bustle around the stove while Yuki—his girlfriend, though he still tripped over that word—set the table like she’d done it a hundred times. She’d brought gifts, of course she had. Expensive pastries from that shop in Kobe, a bottle of sake for his dad, and a small bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in brown paper.

“For Atsumu,” she’d said, cheeks pink. “I know you said he likes bright things.”

Osamu stared at the sunflowers for a long time. Atsumu did like bright things. Flashy sets, loud colors, attention. But he also liked secrecy, and shadows, and climbing through windows at nine at night.

“He’ll be down soon,” Osamu said, flat. A lie. He didn’t know why he told it. Maybe because the alternative—I don’t know where my twin brother is, and I’m starting to worry—would shatter the soft, normal evening his mom had built around Yuki’s visit.

“Is he in his room?” Yuki asked, placing the sunflowers in a vase on the counter. She adjusted a stray petal, gentle. “I can go say hi.”

“No.” Too quick. He cleared his throat. “He’s—uh—messy. You know how he gets before meals. Likes to make an entrance.”

His mom laughed, stirring the pot. “That boy’s always been theatrical. Remember when he insisted on wearing a cape to his first day of elementary school?”

Osamu remembered. Also remembered that Atsumu tripped on it, scraped both knees, cried for an hour before their dad had to pin it up with safety pins. He didn’t say that. Just nodded, eyes drifting to the microwave clock.

8:47 PM.

Dinner was supposed to be at seven.

Yuki had arrived at six-thirty, wearing a simple red dress that made her look like she’d stepped out of a magazine. His mom cooed, his dad offered her a beer, and the whole thing felt so painfully normal Osamu almost believed it could last. Atsumu had promised to be home by six. Texted at 6:10: Stuck at practice. Late.

Then at 7:15: Don’t wait up for me.

Then nothing.

His dad grumbled about “that boy’s sense of responsibility,” but his mom waved it off. “He’s probably helping a teammate. You know how he is.”

Osamu knew how he was. That was the problem.

At 8:55, while Yuki and his mom were laughing over a spilled salt shaker, Osamu excused himself. “I’ll go check on Atsumu. Maybe he’s back and just hiding.”

He took the stairs two at a time, wood creaking under his weight. The hallway was dim, only a sliver of light under their bedroom door. Closed. Normal for Atsumu—always closed doors when he wanted to be left alone. But the silence behind it was louder than usual.

Osamu turned the knob slowly. Dark except for the streetlamp glow through the curtains. Bed unmade, clothes everywhere, a half-empty water bottle on the desk. Window slightly ajar, curtain fluttering.

Then he heard it.

A muffled thump. Followed by a sharp hiss of air.

From outside the window, just beyond the sill. His heart dropped. He crossed the room in three strides and yanked the curtain aside.

Atsumu was halfway through the window.

He was wearing a dress. Short, black, glittering, thin straps slipped off one shoulder. Makeup smeared—dark eyeliner bleeding down his cheeks, lipstick faded and uneven. Hair a tangled mess. Marks on his neck. Dark ones. Obvious ones.

Also limping. One heel—a strappy stiletto—still on his foot, the other dangling from his hand. Scrape on his knee, hands dirty from gripping the windowsill.

For a second, neither moved. The streetlamp cast Atsumu’s face in pale yellow light, and Osamu saw the terror flash through his eyes before it was replaced by something harder. Defiance, maybe. Or shame.

“ ‘Samu,” Atsumu whispered, breathless. “I can explain.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow. Same look he’d perfected over eighteen years of dealing with his twin’s bullshit—stern, disappointed, but not surprised. “You’re late.”

“I know—I just—there was a thing—”

“You promised you’d be home at six.”

“I know!” Atsumu’s voice cracked. He swung his other leg over the sill and landed with a grunt. The heel snapped. He swore and kicked off the broken shoe. “I’m sorry, okay? I lost track of time, and—and I didn’t mean for this to happen, but it did, and—please don’t tell Mom.”

Osamu crossed his arms. Took in the whole scene—the hickeys, the torn stockings, the shimmering dress that belonged in a club or a bedroom, definitely not a volleyball court. He didn’t ask where Atsumu had been. Didn’t ask who with. Because he knew whatever answer he got would be one he couldn’t unhear.

“Yuki’s downstairs,” Osamu said, calm. “She brought you flowers.”

Atsumu blinked. “Flowers?”

“Sunflowers. She said you like bright things.”

Something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe guilt. He looked down at himself, at the mess, and let out a shaky breath. “I need to change.”

“Yeah.” Osamu turned toward the door. “You’ve got five minutes. I’ll cover for you.”

He left without waiting for a response.

Hallway quiet again. Osamu leaned against the wall, palms flat against the faded floral wallpaper. He could hear his twin moving inside—rustling clothes, a drawer clicking open, a muttered curse. He didn’t go back in. Didn’t ask questions. Just waited, counting seconds in his head, until Atsumu emerged.

Four minutes and twenty-three seconds.

Atsumu had changed into a plain gray hoodie and black jeans. Wiped off the makeup as best he could, though a faint smudge of eyeliner still clung to the corner of his eye. Threw on a black scarf—in spring, in a warm house, which was ridiculous—to cover the marks on his neck. Hair still damp from a quick splash of water.

He looked like a kid trying to hide a broken lamp.

“Good enough?” Atsumu asked, barely above a whisper.

Osamu studied him. The scarf was a dead giveaway, but his parents were oblivious. They’d probably assume Atsumu was being fashionable. And Yuki—well, Yuki was nice. She wouldn’t ask.

“It’ll do,” Osamu said. “You’re limping.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. “I said I’m fine.”

Osamu didn’t argue. Just nodded and gestured toward the stairs. “Dinner’s been waiting. Try to act normal.”

They descended together, Atsumu’s steps heavier than usual. When they reached the living room, his mom looked up with a bright smile. “There you are! We thought you’d gotten lost.”

“Sorry,” Atsumu said, voice almost steady. “Lost track of time at practice.”

“You missed Yuki,” his dad said, not unkindly. “She’s been helping your mother all evening.”

Yuki turned from the table, a plate of grilled fish in her hands. She smiled at Atsumu—warm, genuine, no trace of suspicion. “Hey, Atsumu. It’s nice to finally meet you. Osamu talks about you all the time.”

It was a lie. Osamu never talked about Atsumu. Not the real him, anyway.

But Atsumu smiled back, and it looked almost real. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly.” Yuki set the plate down and picked up the bouquet. “These are for you. I wasn’t sure what you liked, but Osamu said you liked yellow.”

Atsumu stared at the flowers. Bright and cheerful, thick green stems, petals that seemed to glow under the kitchen light. He took them carefully, fingers brushing against the paper wrapping.

“Thanks,” he said, and his voice cracked. Cleared his throat. “They’re really nice.”

The moment stretched. Yuki tilted her head, eyes flickering to the scarf around Atsumu’s neck, then away. She didn’t ask. Just turned back to the table and said, “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Dinner was ordinary. Rice and grilled fish, miso soup with tofu, pickled vegetables, a plate of tempura his mom had made special. Conversation light—his dad talking about work, his mom asking Yuki about her studies, Yuki laughing at Atsumu’s jokes. Atsumu played his role well. Loud and brash, teasing Osamu about his cooking, boasting about his sets.

But Osamu watched him. Saw the way Atsumu winced when he shifted in his seat. The way his hand kept drifting to his neck, adjusting the scarf. The way he didn’t eat much, pushing rice around his bowl.

When his dad asked why Atsumu was so late, Osamu spoke before Atsumu could. “He was helping a friend with some stuff. Volleyball-related.”

Atsumu shot him a look—grateful, surprised, wary. Osamu didn’t meet his eyes.

“That’s nice of you,” his mom said, beaming at Atsumu. “Always so helpful.”

Atsumu made a noncommittal sound and took a sip of water.

After dinner, Yuki insisted on helping with the dishes. She stood beside Osamu at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water, scrubbing a pot while he rinsed. His parents had retired to the living room to watch the evening news. Atsumu lingered by the doorway, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve.

“The flowers really are beautiful,” Atsumu said, low. “Thanks, Yuki.”

Yuki glanced over her shoulder. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like them.”

“I do.” Atsumu hesitated. “I’m sorry I was late. I didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Yuki said gently. “It was nice. I’m glad I got to meet everyone.”

Atsumu nodded, then turned and walked out of the kitchen. Osamu heard his footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate.

Yuki watched him go. “Is he okay?” she asked, soft.

Osamu dunked a plate in the rinse water. “He’s fine. Just tired.”

Yuki didn’t push. Handed him another pot, and they worked in comfortable silence until the last dish was dried and put away. Then she dried her hands on a towel and said, “I should head home. It’s getting late.”

Osamu walked her to the door. His parents called out their goodbyes from the living room—warm, grateful, already planning the next visit. Yuki slipped on her shoes and turned to face him.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said. “I had a really good time.”

“Me too.” Osamu meant it. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Osamu.”

He watched her walk down the driveway, her red dress glowing under the streetlights. When she turned the corner, he closed the door and stood in the entryway, listening to the quiet hum of the house.

Then he went upstairs.

Their bedroom door was open. Atsumu was sitting on his bed, still wearing the hoodie and scarf, the sunflowers resting on his pillow. He was staring at them, hands clasped in his lap.

Osamu stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The room was dark, lit only by the lamp on the desk. The window was still open, night air drifting in, carrying the distant sound of traffic.

“You’re worried,” Atsumu said, not looking at him.

“I’m always worried,” Osamu said. He sat on his own bed, facing his twin. “That’s not new.”

Atsumu let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. I guess not.”

Osamu waited. Didn’t ask. Just sat there, hands on his knees, eyes on Atsumu’s profile.

After a long silence, Atsumu spoke. “I was with someone.”

Osamu didn’t react. “I figured.”

“It’s not—it’s not like you think.” Atsumu’s voice was tight. “I mean, it is, but it’s not—I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Then don’t.” Osamu leaned back, shoulders relaxing. “I don’t need to know.”

Atsumu finally looked at him. Eyes red-rimmed, raw. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m not happy.” Quiet, steady. “But I’m not mad. I’m just…” He paused, searching. “Worried.”

Atsumu’s chin trembled. He pressed his lips together, hard, and looked away. “I don’t know what I’m doing, ‘Samu.”

“You don’t have to know.” Osamu stood and walked to the window, pulling it shut. The latch clicked into place. “But you don’t have to do it alone, either.”

Atsumu didn’t respond. Just sat there, hugging his knees, face buried in his arms.

Osamu turned back, hand on the light switch. “I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready.”

He flicked the switch. The room went dark. He heard Atsumu’s breath hitch, then steady. Didn’t say anything else. Just climbed into his own bed and lay there, listening to his twin breathe in the dark.

Outside, the neighborhood was quiet. Spring air cool and clean, carrying the faint scent of flowers from the garden. Somewhere in the house, his parents were laughing at something on TV.

Ordinary. Normal.

For now, that was enough.