The Weight of a False Tear

The afternoon sun slanted through the sheer curtains, dumping gold rectangles across the worn floorboards. A fan hummed in the corner, doing nothing about the heat. Osamu lay sprawled on the couch, one arm over his eyes, the other dangling off the edge, fingertips grazing the tatami. Boredom had settled deep, the kind that made time feel thick and sticky, like breathing was too much effort.

He’d already scrolled his phone twice. Eaten half a bag of chips. Reorganized the fridge by color. Nothing. Atsumu was at practice, wouldn’t be back for two hours, and the apartment was too quiet, too empty. Osamu rolled onto his side, stared at the blank TV. An idea flickered—small, mean, perfect.

He sat up, mouth twitching. A prank. Something to make Atsumu’s face twist into a dozen expressions. Hide his volleyball? Too obvious. Pretend to be sick? Atsumu would drag him to a clinic. No—it had to hit Atsumu’s biggest weakness: that suffocating, almost maternal need to take care of everyone.

What if I pretend to be sad? he thought. Get him worried, then laugh in his face. Classic.

He padded to the bathroom, dug through the cabinet. Found an old tube of red lipstick—probably left by a friend, or maybe Atsumu’s from some party. Osamu twisted it open, dabbed a finger on the waxy nub, rubbed it under his eyes. Smudged it around, blended till it looked like he’d been crying for hours—swollen, red-rimmed, pathetic. Added a smear near his nose for realism.

He checked the mirror. His reflection stared back: tired, puffy, heartbreaking. He almost laughed. Perfect.

He slumped onto the couch, shoulders drooping, head low. Practiced a sigh—heavy, broken. The boredom had turned into a game, and he was gonna win.

About an hour later, the front door clicked open. Atsumu’s voice came first—bright, loud. “’Samu! I’m home! You won’t believe what Suna did at practice—spiked the ball so hard he hit Kita-san right in the—”

He stopped. His gym bag slipped off his shoulder, hit the floor with a thud. His twin sat curled on the couch, face buried in his arms. The posture was wrong. Osamu never curled up like that. He sprawled. He took up space. This was fragile. Wrong.

“’Samu?” Atsumu’s voice dropped. No bravado. “You okay?”

Osamu didn’t look up. Let out a slow, shaky breath. “Yeah. Fine.”

Liar. His voice cracked on the last word. Atsumu crossed the room in three long strides, crouched in front of him, hands hovering near his knees. “Hey. Look at me.”

Osamu shook his head. “It’s nothin’. Don’t worry about it.”

“Too late.” Atsumu’s hand landed on his knee, squeezed. “You’re freakin’ me out. What happened?”

Slowly, deliberately, Osamu lifted his head. Let his eyes go glassy, let the makeup do its work. Atsumu’s face went pale. His mouth opened, closed.

“’Samu… were you cryin’?” Barely a whisper.

Osamu shrugged, looked away. “Dunno. Maybe.”

Atsumu’s hand tightened on his knee, then released. He stood, ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I’m gonna make dinner. You’re gonna eat. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Tsumu, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Already in the kitchen, yanking the fridge open. “I just felt like cookin’, okay? Don’t read into it.”

Osamu watched from the couch, caught off guard. Atsumu moved frantic—grabbed onions, garlic, chicken thighs, rice, soy sauce, mirin. Making oyakodon. Osamu’s favorite. The one with silky eggs and sweet-salty broth he’d eat by the bowl after practice.

Something tightened in Osamu’s chest. This is a prank, he reminded himself. He’s supposed to get annoyed, not… this.

But Atsumu was already chopping onions, shoulders hunched, sniffling from the sting, muttering. “Stupid. Should’ve noticed earlier. Should’ve called. Should’ve—“ He stopped, slammed the knife down.

Osamu slipped off the couch and retreated to his bedroom, closed the door. He flopped onto the bed, pulled out his phone. Scrolled through Twitter, watched cat videos. But his mind wasn’t on the screen. He could hear Atsumu in the kitchen—sizzle of oil, clatter of utensils. Sounds of care.

A knock, soft. “’Samu? Dinner’s ready.”

Osamu locked his phone, stuffed it under the pillow. Curled onto his side, facing the wall. Put on his most defeated voice. “Not hungry.”

The door creaked open. Light spilled in. Atsumu’s shadow stretched long across the floor. He didn’t say anything—just stood there, breathing. Then the bed dipped.

Osamu felt a hand on his, fingers gentle, tracing his knuckles. Atsumu’s calloused thumb rubbed small circles over the bones. Soothing. Unexpected. Osamu’s breath hitched—not from acting, but from the tenderness.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Atsumu said quiet, stripped of his sharp edge. “But you don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to talk. I just wanna be here.”

A scent drifted—warm, calming, like rain on summer earth, clean cotton and honey. An omega’s scent, deliberately released. Atsumu was an omega, but he rarely used it like this. Osamu felt his muscles unclench, jaw loosen. He almost forgot to pretend.

“You’re my twin,” Atsumu continued, still stroking his hand. “You’re the other half of me. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. We always do.”

Osamu’s throat tightened. This is too much. He’s being real and I’m being an idiot.

But he couldn’t stop. Had to see it through. He rolled over slowly, met Atsumu’s worried eyes. “It’s dumb,” he said, voice small. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t. I swear on volleyball.”

Osamu hesitated. His mind went blank. He had to say something, some fake insecurity—but all he could think of was the most absurd, shallow thing.

“I feel super fat.”

The words hung in the air. Atsumu’s face crumpled. His hand froze.

“What?”

“I’m serious.” Digging deeper. “Look at me. I’m a blob. Been eatin’ too much. Gonna get fat and no one’s gonna wanna be around me and—“ He stopped, because Atsumu’s eyes were shimmering.

“Don’t.” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “’Samu, don’t say that.”

Osamu opened his mouth to say gotcha, but before he could, Atsumu lunged forward and wrapped him in a crushing hug. His face buried in Osamu’s shoulder, body trembling.

“Don’t you ever say that.” Muffled, wet. “You’re perfect. So perfect it makes me sick. You’re strong, talented, cook better than anyone, you’re my brother, I love you—and if you ever say you’re fat again, I’ll—I’ll—“ He couldn’t finish. A sob escaped—raw, ugly.

Osamu’s heart stopped.

This wasn’t a performance. This was genuine, visceral pain. Tears soaked through his shirt. Atsumu’s arms were wrapped so tight it was hard to breathe, and he was crying—not pretty, but full-body, hiccuping, desperate.

“I’m sorry.” Atsumu choked out. “Sorry you feel that way. I didn’t know. I should’ve noticed. I’m a terrible brother. Please don’t hate yourself. I can’t—can’t stand it when you hurt.”

Osamu’s own eyes burned. The prank shattered inside him. He felt sick.

“Tsumu.” His voice rough. “Tsumu, stop. Look at me.”

But Atsumu just shook his head, clinging tighter. “No. Not gonna let you see me cry. Just—just let me hold you. Tell me you’re okay. Please.”

Osamu’s arms, limp at his sides, slowly rose. Wrapped around Atsumu’s shaking back. Felt the dampness of his face against his collarbone, the frantic beat of his heart.

“It was a joke,” Osamu whispered.

Atsumu went still.

“It was a prank. Put makeup on. Pretended to be sad. I don’t—I don’t actually feel that way. I was bored and stupid and wanted to mess with you.”

A long, terrible silence.

Then Atsumu pulled back. His face was a mess of tears and snot and red-rimmed eyes. He stared, blinking.

“A… prank?”

Osamu nodded, guilt crushing his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d—I didn’t mean to make you cry. Thought you’d get annoyed and yell, then I’d laugh and we’d move on. Didn’t know you’d… this.”

Atsumu’s lower lip trembled. For a terrifying second, Osamu thought he’d start crying again. But instead, a sound escaped—half laugh, half sob. Then another. Soon he was laughing and crying at the same time, burying his face in his hands.

“You’re such an idiot.” Voice wobbly. “Biggest idiot in the whole world.”

“I know.” Osamu reached out, gently pulled Atsumu’s hands away from his face. Used his thumbs to wipe the tears, smudging the makeup residue that had transferred. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Atsumu sniffled, still laughing weakly. “You scared me to death. Thought you were actually depressed. Was plannin’ how to get you therapy.”

Osamu laughed too, short and relieved. “You’re a worrywart.”

“And you’re a menace.” Atsumu swatted his shoulder, no force behind it. “Can’t believe you put makeup on. You looked awful. Like a zombie.”

“It was convincing, though.”

“Too convincing.” Atsumu wiped his nose on his sleeve. “God, I’m a mess.”

Osamu looked at him—swollen eyes, blotchy skin, messy hair. His twin, who drove him crazy, stole his food, bragged about his serves, never let him have the last word. But also the one who dropped everything to cook him dinner, held his hand, cried because the thought of Osamu hating himself was unbearable.

Something cracked open in Osamu’s chest.

“I love you,” he said.

Atsumu stopped mid-sniffle.

“I mean it.” Voice steady. “You’re annoyin’ and loud and never shut up about volleyball. But you’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I know. You care so much it hurts you. I love that about you. I love you, Tsumu.”

Atsumu’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “Stop. Gonna make me cry again.”

“Then cry. I’ll wipe your tears again.”

Atsumu laughed, watery, and pulled him into another hug—softer, gentler. “I love you too, dummy. Don’t ever pretend to be sad again, okay? My heart can’t take it.”

Osamu hugged back, pressed his face into Atsumu’s shoulder. “I promise.”

They stayed like that, the room quiet except for the hum of the fan and distant traffic. Eventually, Atsumu pulled back and sniffled.

“Now come eat. Made oyakodon. If you don’t eat it, I’ll actually be sad.”

Osamu grinned. “Fine. But you’re tellin’ me what Suna did to Kita-san.”

“So you were listenin’!”

“Always.”

They walked to the kitchen together, shoulders brushing. The food was warm and perfect, and Atsumu kept glancing at him through the meal, like checking he was still real. Osamu met his gaze and offered a small smile. Atsumu blushed and looked away.

Later, after dishes were washed and the sun had set, they lay side by side on the couch, watching some mindless variety show. Atsumu’s head rested on Osamu’s shoulder. His breathing evened out, soft and steady.

“Hey, ’Samu?” half asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for not actually bein’ sad.”

Osamu’s hand found Atsumu’s hair, carding through gently. “Thanks for bein’ you.”

Atsumu made a content noise, and within minutes, he was asleep. Osamu stared at the ceiling, replaying the day. Started with boredom, ended with something he hadn’t expected: a deeper understanding of just how much his brother loved him.

He’d never prank Atsumu again. Not like that.

But maybe—he smiled—he’d cook him breakfast tomorrow. Just because he felt like it. Just to show he cared.