The Skirt and the Rice Ball

The morning light slipped through the slats of the Miya brothers’ room, painting pale stripes across the floor. Osamu was already awake, propped on one elbow, half-scrolling through his phone with that particular brand of tired acceptance you develop when you’ve learned that sleeping in just isn’t an option when you share a room with Miya Atsumu.

The bathroom door slammed open.

Osamu didn’t look up. “Breakfast’s on the counter. Rice and miso. Don’t—” He stopped. Thumb froze mid-scroll.

A pair of strappy black heels clicked against the wood. Above them, legs. A lot of leg. The skirt was plaid—crimson and black—and it ended roughly where Osamu’s grip on reality started to fray. Short. Aggressively short. The kind of short that makes you wonder if it’s even a skirt or just a very ambitious belt.

His eyes traveled up. Cropped black top, a strip of pale stomach exposed. Choker. Eyes lined with thick black liner, lashes caked in mascara, lips painted a glossy, venomous red. Blond hair—usually messy bedhead—was curled and sprayed into something that looked like it had been styled by a vengeful goddess.

Osamu’s phone slipped from his hand and hit the futon.

“What.”

Atsumu clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes with such theatrical disdain that Osamu half-expected a spotlight to follow the motion. “What? Never seen someone look good before? Get with the times, Samu.”

The voice was the same—that drawl, the lazy Osaka inflection—but the tone had an extra edge. Brittle and sharp, like glass ground into powder.

Osamu sat up fully. Brain still buffering. “You’re… wearing a skirt.”

“Wow. Real observant. You should be a detective.” Atsumu twirled. Skirt flared. He had the heels down pat—model’s walk, hips swayed, chin lifted. “I’m going to school.”

“School. In that.”

“In this. Yes. That’s what I said.” Atsumu grabbed his bag—a tiny crossbody that looked like it could hold maybe a lip gloss and a single granola bar, but definitely not textbooks—and headed for the door.

“Atsumu. Breakfast.”

“Not hungry.” The words got tossed over his shoulder like confetti. “Had an apple. And a salad. Gotta watch the figure.”

Osamu stared at the empty doorway. The faint trail of perfume—something floral and cloying—hung in the air. He looked at the kitchen, where two bowls of rice sat steaming, the miso soup cooling. The onigiri he’d made last night, still wrapped in plastic, sat untouched in the fridge.

He looked back at the door.

What the fuck.

---

School was a circus, and Atsumu was the ringmaster.

Osamu watched from his desk in the back of the classroom as his twin strutted down the hall like he owned every tile. Underclassmen flattened themselves against the lockers to get out of his way. Atsumu didn’t even acknowledge them—just flicked his wrist and snapped, “Move. You’re blocking the light.”

A group of first-years gaped. One of them mumbled an apology. Atsumu didn’t look back.

At lunch, Osamu found him in the courtyard, surrounded by a cluster of upperclassmen. Atsumu perched on a bench, legs crossed, skirt riding dangerously high, laughing at something one of the third-years said. The laugh was too loud, too sharp. Didn’t sound like him.

Osamu’s stomach turned.

He tried to catch Atsumu’s eye, but his twin deliberately looked away, tilting his head to let a senpai light his cigarette. Atsumu didn’t smoke. He’d always said it tasted like ass and ruined your lungs for running.

He took a long drag anyway, blowing smoke toward the sky like he’d been doing it his whole life.

“Oi, Miya.” A voice cut through the noise at Osamu’s elbow. A guy from the baseball team—Tanaka—nodded toward the courtyard. “Your twin’s gone full slut, huh?”

Osamu’s fist clenched in his pocket. “Watch your mouth.”

Tanaka held up his hands, laughing. “Just saying. He’s been putting out pretty regular, from what I hear. Janitor’s office after school. You know the deal.”

The words hit like a gut punch. Osamu’s vision tunneled. He didn’t remember walking away. Just found himself in the stairwell, leaning against the cold concrete wall, breathing hard.

Janitor’s office.

He’d heard the rumors. Everyone had. They followed Atsumu like a shadow now—whispered in the halls, snickered in the bathrooms. Miya Atsumu, the school bicycle. Miya Atsumu, desperate for attention. Miya Atsumu, doing it with anyone who looks at him.

Osamu wanted to vomit.

---

He cornered Atsumu after class. Found him near the clubroom, touching up his lip gloss in a compact mirror.

“We need to talk.”

Atsumu didn’t look up. “Busy.”

“You’re not busy. You’re just avoiding me.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna talk to you.” Atsumu snapped the mirror shut and finally met his eyes. The makeup made him look older. Harder. But Osamu knew the face underneath. He knew the slight quiver at the corner of Atsumu’s mouth that meant he was lying.

“You skipped practice again.”

“So?”

“So you love volleyball. You’ve never missed practice unless you’re dying.”

Atsumu laughed, but it was hollow. “Maybe I found something better to do. Something more fun.”

“The janitor’s office? That’s what you call fun?”

The smile flickered. For one raw second, Atsumu’s composure cracked. Osamu saw something behind the mask—fear, maybe. Shame. A desperate, flailing thing.

Then the mask slammed back down. “Jealous, Samu? You want a turn? I could fit you in. I’m taking bookings.”

Osamu’s hand shot out and grabbed Atsumu’s wrist. Hard. “Stop it.”

“Let go of me.”

“Stop acting like this. You’re not—this isn’t you.”

Atsumu wrenched his arm free. His eyes were bright—too bright—and his voice shook when he said, “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I want. So leave me alone.”

He walked away. The heels clicked down the hallway, sharp and final.

Osamu stood there, feeling the echo of his brother’s pulse against his palm.

---

That night, Atsumu didn’t come home until after midnight.

Osamu was waiting on the couch, arms crossed, when the front door creaked open. Atsumu slipped in, smelling like cheap perfume and alcohol. His makeup was smudged. Skirt wrinkled. There was a red mark on his neck that made Osamu’s blood run cold.

“Out late,” Osamu said flatly.

Atsumu froze. “You’re awake.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Worried about my idiot brother who thinks he’s a party girl.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” Atsumu kicked off his heels and stumbled toward the bedroom. “I’m tired. Night.”

“Atsumu.”

“What?”

Osamu’s voice dropped. “Are you okay?”

The silence stretched. Atsumu stood with his back to him, shoulders rigid. For a moment, Osamu thought he might actually answer. Then Atsumu laughed—that same brittle, false laugh—and said, “I’m having the time of my life.”

He disappeared into the bedroom. The door clicked shut.

Osamu sat in the dark, staring at nothing.

---

The next morning, Osamu found Atsumu’s old volleyball gear in the corner of their closet. The knee pads were scuffed, the jersey faded, still smelling like sweat and gym floor. He held it for a long time, fingers tracing the number on the back.

In the kitchen, the onigiri he’d made three days ago was still in the fridge. Wrapped in plastic. Untouched.

Osamu pressed his fist to his mouth and breathed.

---

The party was at a senior’s house—loud music, packed rooms, the sour stench of cheap beer and desperation. Osamu didn’t want to be there. He’d followed Atsumu from a distance, watched him slip into the crowd like a fish into murky water.

Lost sight of him for an hour. Pushed through bodies, ignored the catcalls and the sticky hands grabbing at his sleeves. Finally found him in the backyard, near the shed.

A group of boys had cornered him.

Four of them. Senpais. The kind of guys who thought confidence was cruelty and cruelty was charm. They had Atsumu backed against the shed wall, and one of them—a tall guy with a sneer—had his hand on Atsumu’s hip.

“Come on, Miya,” he was saying, voice oily. “You’ve been putting out for everyone else. Don’t tell me you’re getting shy now.”

Atsumu laughed. That laugh. Loud and tinny, like a bell with a crack in it. “I’m not shy. Just picky. And you don’t make the cut.”

The guy’s face twisted. “Bitch. Think you’re too good for us? I’ve heard what you do in the janitor’s office. You’ll take anyone. Probably beg for it.”

Another guy—stocky, buzz cut—chimed in. “I heard he cries after. Real pretty, like a little doll.”

Osamu’s hands shook. He stepped forward.

“I’d spit on him while he sucked my dick,” the first guy said, grinning. “Make him work for it. That’s what sluts like him want, right? To be put in their place—”

Osamu moved.

Didn’t remember crossing the distance. Just slammed into the guy, shoved him hard enough to send him stumbling into the others. The sneer vanished, replaced by shock.

“Back off.” Osamu’s voice was ice. “Now.”

The guy recovered, puffing up his chest. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Miya Osamu. His brother. And I swear to God, if any of you come near him again, I will break your jaw. Not threaten. Not warn. I’ll do it.”

Something in his eyes must have convinced them. The guys exchanged glances, muttered curses, and slunk away into the crowd. The last one spat on the ground near Osamu’s feet, but he didn’t care.

He turned to Atsumu.

His twin was still leaning against the shed, arms wrapped around himself. The bravado was gone. Makeup smeared, tears cutting tracks through the foundation. He was shaking.

“Samu,” he whispered. Voice broke. “Samu, I don’t—I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

Osamu didn’t say anything. Just grabbed Atsumu’s wrist—gentler this time—and pulled him away from the party, through the side gate, toward the car.

Atsumu went without resistance.

---

In the car, the silence was thick and wet. Atsumu stared out the window, shoulders hunched, tears streaming silently. Osamu drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw tight.

They pulled into the driveway. Osamu killed the engine.

“Come inside.”

Atsumu followed him like a ghost.

The house was dark. Osamu flipped on the kitchen light and opened the fridge. Pulled out the rice, the nori, the fillings he’d kept stocked for weeks, hoping. Started to cook.

Atsumu sat at the kitchen table, head bowed. Hands in his lap, twisting together.

“I hate myself,” he said suddenly. The words fell into the silence like stones. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I just—I wanted someone to look at me. I wanted to feel… wanted. But it doesn’t feel good. It feels like nothing.”

Osamu’s hands paused over the rice. He didn’t turn around.

“At first it was fun,” Atsumu continued, voice cracking. “The attention. The way they stared. But then it got worse. They started saying things. Touching me. And I kept smiling because I thought if I stopped, I’d have to admit I hated it. I’d have to admit I hated myself.”

Osamu closed his eyes. Breathed.

He finished shaping the onigiri. Placed them on a plate, added a side of pickled plum. Set it in front of Atsumu.

“Eat.”

Atsumu looked up. His eyes were red, swollen, lost.

“I don’t deserve—”

“Eat,” Osamu said again. Softer. “Please.”

Atsumu picked up the onigiri. Took a bite. Shoulders sagged. He took another bite, then another, eating like he hadn’t had real food in weeks. Maybe he hadn’t.

Osamu sat down across from him with his own onigiri. They ate in silence.

After a while, Atsumu set down the last bite. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I missed you.”

Osamu looked at him—really looked. Beneath the smeared makeup and the tangled hair and the hollowness, his brother was still there. Tired. Broken. But there.

“I missed you too, you idiot.”

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. Small and fragile, but real.

---

The next morning, Osamu woke to the sound of the shower running. When Atsumu came out, his hair was damp and unstyled. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. No makeup. No choker. Just his face, pale and bare and younger than it had been in weeks.

He looked at Osamu. Something uncertain flickered in his eyes.

“Does this mean I have to go to practice?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Osamu tossed him a rice ball. Atsumu caught it, surprised.

“Eat,” Osamu said. “You’re gonna need the energy. Coach runs drills on Thursdays.”

Atsumu stared at the rice ball. Then, slowly, he smiled. Small. Tentative. But it reached his eyes.

“Thanks, Samu.”

“Don’t thank me. Just show up.”

Atsumu took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“I’m still gonna be sassy, you know. I haven’t lost my touch.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just keep the skirt for weekends.”

Atsumu snorted. “You’re one to talk. Your fashion sense is a crime.”

“At least I don’t look like a rejected pop star.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of what? Your commitment to chafing?”

They bickered all the way to school. Loud, ridiculous, genuinely awful. But it was them. And for the first time in weeks, Osamu felt like he could breathe.

Atsumu went to practice. Dove for balls with a ferocity that made the first-years stare. Yelled at the setters, bickered with the spikers, and at the end, when Coach Kurosu told them to pack up, he stayed behind to pick up the nets.

Osamu watched from the doorway. Atsumu caught his eye and flipped him off.

Osamu flipped him back.

They walked home together, shoulders bumping, arguing about dinner.

And somewhere in between the insults and the laughter, the Miya twins started to find their way back to each other.