The Binder and the Rain

The last set point was still burning in Atsumu’s head when he ended up in a cramped hotel room north of Tokyo, nose-to-nose with Sakusa Kiyoomi. Itachiyama had wrecked Inarizaki in straight sets, and the quiet way they took everything apart—all that work from the season, just gone—left Atsumu raw and stupid. He said something dumb in the hallway after, about needing to hit something, and Sakusa just looked at him with those dark, unreadable eyes and said, “Vending machine near the east exit. Ten minutes.”

It wasn’t a date. Wasn’t even a consolation. Two people using each other to forget, and Atsumu was fine with that.

Sakusa’s hands were steady working the buttons on Atsumu’s jacket, and Atsumu’s own fingers found the hem of Sakusa’s compression shirt. They didn’t kiss much—Sakusa wasn’t into it, and Atsumu wasn’t about to push for something that wasn’t offered. But when Atsumu’s binder came off and Sakusa’s breath caught for half a second before he kept going, Atsumu felt that familiar pang of exposure. He tensed. Waited.

“Don’t,” Sakusa said quietly. “I don’t care. Keep moving.”

So Atsumu did.

Later, lying in the dark with the city humming through the window, Atsumu said, “Don’t tell anyone. About the binder. About this.”

Sakusa was already sitting up, reaching for his shirt. “Wasn’t planning to. One-time thing.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu agreed. “Obviously.”

They both knew that was a lie.

---

Three months later, at the All-Japan Youth Camp, Atsumu found Sakusa in the same gym bathroom between sessions. The thing had become a rhythm: find each other at tournaments, trade a few clipped words, then retreat to wherever was private and close the door. No feelings. No volleyball talk. Just existing in each other’s space for an hour or two, then parting like strangers.

“You’re getting better at keeping your mouth shut,” Atsumu said one afternoon, zipping his duffel.

Sakusa was meticulously wiping his forearms with a sanitizing wipe. “You’re getting worse at hiding your tells.”

“Tells?”

“When you’re about to serve. You lick your lips twice. Disgusting. Fix it.”

Atsumu laughed, surprised. “You watch my serves?”

“I watch everyone’s serves. I’m not blind.”

It was the closest they’d come to talking about volleyball, and something in Atsumu’s chest loosened. He packed his binder away and pulled his hoodie on, feeling the familiar comfort of compression hiding his chest again. “Same time next camp?”

“Probably,” Sakusa said, not looking up.

---

Osamu never asked about it.

The Miya twins had an unspoken rule: no talking about sex. No crushes, no relationships, no weird hot-and-cold thing Atsumu had with the Itachiyama captain. They talked about volleyball, food, whose turn it was for laundry. Everything else was a void they carefully avoided.

Atsumu assumed Osamu was either inexperienced or just private. He didn’t press. He had his own secrets.

So when Osamu shuffled into their shared bedroom one rainy Tuesday evening looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, Atsumu knew something was off.

“Oi, you look like you swallowed a lemon. What’s wrong?”

Osamu sat on the edge of his futon, staring at his hands. “Nothin’.”

“Liar.”

Silence.

Then Osamu said, voice strained, “Have you ever… done it? With someone?”

Atsumu’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Okay. Straight to the point. Yeah. Why?”

Osamu’s ears turned red. “Just curious.”

“You’re a terrible liar. Spill.”

Osamu took a long breath, eyes fixed on the floor. “There’s this girl. From the cooking course. She’s… we’ve been talking. It’s gettin’ serious, and I think she wants to—you know. Move things along. I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Atsumu leaned back against his headboard. “So you’re askin’ for sex tips. From me.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not makin’ fun. I’m just—” Atsumu paused. “Why me? You could ask anyone.”

Osamu finally looked up. His face was a battlefield of embarrassment and determination. “Because you’re the only person I trust not to laugh. And because you know what it’s like.”

“What what’s like?”

“Being with someone. But also… you know. Having a female body.”

The air in the room changed.

Atsumu’s first instinct was to deflect, crack a joke about Osamu being clueless. But the look on his twin’s face—raw, earnest, terrified—stopped him. Osamu rarely asked for anything. Never asked for help. This was a gift wrapped in barbed wire, and if Atsumu handled it wrong, the wire would cut them both.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Alright. I’m not gonna promise I know everything, but I can tell you what I like. Or what I’ve been told works.”

Osamu nodded, still red.

“First thing,” Atsumu said, his voice dropping serious, “you gotta listen. Not with your ears—with your hands. Girls, or anyone with boobs—we spend our whole lives gettin’ poked and prodded. Doctors, bras, random dudes in hallways. So when you touch her, do it like she’s the first person you’ve ever touched. Slow. Careful. Pay attention to how she breathes.”

Osamu was taking mental notes, brow furrowed. “Slow. Got it.”

“Also, hold her boobs. Like, don’t just grab ’em. Cup ’em. Support ’em. They’re heavy, even the small ones. If you just squeeze, it feels like you’re trying to pop a balloon. Gotta be gentle.”

Osamu’s face was now a ripe tomato. “This is the weirdest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“You started it. Wanna keep goin’ or not?”

Osamu nodded.

Atsumu stood up. “Alright. I’ll show you what I mean, but you gotta promise you won’t be weird about it after.”

“After what?”

Atsumu pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Then he reached behind his back and unclasped his bra—a simple black sports bra, worn from use. He let it fall to the floor.

Osamu’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“What the hell, Atsumu?!”

“You wanted advice from someone with a female body,” Atsumu said flatly. “I’m showing you what to do with a chest. This is mine. Not a big deal. Calm down.”

But Osamu couldn’t calm down. He was staring at his twin’s torso—the soft curves that didn’t match the sharp, competitive face he knew. The binder marks still faintly visible against pale skin. The way Atsumu stood there, arms crossed, patient, like he’d done this a hundred times.

“I didn’t mean you had to—“

“You said you wanted to know how to make her feel good. I’m givin’ you a hands-on demonstration. So pay attention.”

Osamu swallowed hard. He forced his gaze to stay steady, to look at his brother—his twin, his other half—and see him without the filter of shock.

Atsumu stepped closer. “Okay. First, place your hands like this.” He took Osamu’s hands—warm, calloused from years of onigiri prep—and guided them up to his own chest. Osamu’s fingers were stiff, trembling.

“Relax,” Atsumu murmured. “You’re not gonna break me.”

Osamu’s hands settled over Atsumu’s pectorals, cupping the soft tissue. Atsumu’s breath hitched, just slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

“Now,” Atsumu said, voice steady, “don’t squeeze. Just hold. Let her feel the weight of your hands. Then you can move ’em—slow, like you’re palming a volleyball. Circles. Gentle pressure. See how the skin moves with your fingers?”

Osamu nodded, face burning. He moved his hands in slow circles, the way Atsumu directed. Awkward, clinical, but also strangely intimate. This was his brother. Trusting him with something fragile.

“You can also—if she’s into it—use your thumbs. Right here.” Atsumu guided Osamu’s thumbs to trace around the areolae. “Light. Like drawing lines. Some people like that. Others like more pressure. Gotta ask.”

Osamu’s throat was dry. “Ask?”

“Yeah. ‘Is this okay?’ ‘Do you like this?’ Communication, dumbass. Not a guessing game.”

He pulled back, and Osamu’s hands fell to his sides like they’d been burned. Atsumu picked up his bra and pulled it back on, then his shirt. The room felt different now—warmer, softer, like they’d crossed a bridge neither of them knew existed.

“Thanks,” Osamu said, voice rough. “I mean it. I didn’t know—I didn’t think you’d actually show me.”

Atsumu shrugged, but his ears were a little pink. “What are twins for? Besides annoyin’ each other.”

Osamu laughed, short and surprised. “You’re not that annoying.”

“I’m the most annoyin’ person you know.”

“That’s true.”

They sat in silence for a moment, rain tapping against the window. Then Osamu said, “Does anyone else know? About you? The binder stuff?”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. “Sakusa knows. Because he saw. Made him promise not to tell. That’s it. Not even the team.”

“I won’t tell either.”

“I know.”

Osamu reached out and punched Atsumu lightly on the shoulder. “You coulda told me, though. I’m your twin. Wouldn’t care if you were a giraffe.”

Atsumu snorted. “Giraffe?”

“Yeah. Long neck. Strange spots. Still my brother.”

Atsumu’s eyes felt hot, but he blinked it away. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

They fell back into bickering, the tension dissolving into easy laughter. Later, when Osamu made them both instant ramen and they ate cross-legged on the floor, the unspoken weight that had hung between them for years finally lifted.

“Oi,” Atsumu said, slurping his noodles. “If you ever need more advice, don’t go askin’ some stranger. Just come to me. That’s what I’m here for.”

Osamu looked up, a rare, genuine smile on his face. “Same goes for you. If you ever need to talk about… anything. I’m here.”

Atsumu nodded, his chest warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the ramen.

“We’re a weird pair,” Osamu said.

“Best weird pair in the country.”

“Second best. Hinata and Kageyama are weirder.”

“Fair point.”

And the rain kept falling, and the ramen grew cold, and the Miya twins sat together in the quiet, knowing some secrets were safe to share after all.