Five Kilos of Love

The summer heat in Hyogo was brutal. Sticky, wet, the kind that makes you want to peel your own skin off. For Atsumu Miya, it was also the summer he fell in love with onigiri.

It started small. Osamu got obsessed with cooking, took over the family kitchen, and started experimenting with fillings—ume, salted salmon, tuna mayo, kombu. Atsumu, being the human garbage disposal he was, became the official taste-tester.

“Try this one,” Osamu said, shoving a perfectly shaped triangle at his face. “Secret ingredient.”

Atsumu, dripping sweat from a morning of solo serves, grabbed it without a word. They were good. Really good. Then there was another. And another.

By the end of August, the gym scale told a story he didn’t want to hear. Five kilos heavier. The weight settled in his cheeks, softened his jaw, filled out his thighs. His practice shorts hugged his ass like they were afraid to let go.

“From behind, you look like a completely different person,” Suna said, phone already out. “Stockier. Slower.”

“Screw you, Suna.” The heat in Atsumu’s voice was more embarrassment than anger. He yanked his shirt down, trying to hide the way it pulled across his stomach.

Osamu snorted from the lockers. “He’s not wrong, ’Tsumu. Ma said your cheeks could store nuts for winter.”

Atsumu threw a sweaty towel at him. Osamu caught it, grinning.

Their mother was more direct. At breakfast, when he reached for a third bowl of rice, she clicked her tongue. “Atsumu, are you sure? Your uniform’s going to split if you keep eating like a starving bear.”

He laughed it off, took the rice anyway. But her words stuck.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday in early September, first week back at school.

Practice in thirty minutes. Atsumu stood in the changing room, his Inarizaki jersey bunched in his hands. He tried to put it on. The fabric met in the middle, but it was a white-knuckled grip, not a comfortable drape. The seams screamed. The buttons pulled.

His practice shorts were worse. They wouldn’t go past his hips. He yanked, grunted, twisted. Nothing.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, no.”

He tried again. His thighs—thickened by a summer of sitting and eating—were too wide. The shorts, once a comfortable medium, were now a suffocating small. The waistband wouldn’t clear mid-thigh.

Panic started as a small tremor in his chest. It grew, fed by shame and frustration, until his hands were shaking and his eyes burned. He yanked with a desperate, angry pull. The fabric ripped—a small tear along the inner seam, but still a tear.

A sob escaped him. Ugly. Raw. Loud.

The door swung open. Osamu stood there, gym bag slung over one shoulder. “Oi, ’Tsumu, you ready—”

He stopped. Took in the scene: Atsumu half-naked, face flushed, tears streaming, holding ripped shorts in trembling hands.

“What happened?” Osamu’s voice dropped. No teasing. Genuine alarm.

“I can’t fit.” The words came out broken. “Nothin’ fits. Jersey, shorts—nothin’. I’m too fat. I’m too—” His voice broke, dissolving into sobs.

Osamu dropped his bag, crossed the room in three strides, and pulled Atsumu into a hug. No words. Just an arm around his shoulders, another around his back. Atsumu collapsed into it, buried his face in Osamu’s shoulder, let the tears soak into his shirt.

“It’s okay,” Osamu murmured, voice thick. “Gonna be okay. I’m sorry. The teasing—I didn’t mean—”

“Just shut up. Just hold me.”

Osamu held him. Five minutes. The only sound was Atsumu’s ragged breathing and the occasional sniffle. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed, but his expression hardened.

“I’m fixin’ this.” Voice hoarse but firm. “Gonna lose the weight.”

“’Tsumu—”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me it’s fine. It’s not. I can’t play like this. I can’t be like this.”

Osamu wanted to argue. Wanted to say Atsumu looked fine, was still the best setter in the prefecture. But the look in his brother’s eyes—desperate, burning need for control—silenced him.

He just nodded, handed Atsumu an older, looser pair of shorts from his bag, and walked with him to the gym.

---

The diet started the next day.

Atsumu declared it at breakfast: “No more onigiri. No rice. No carbs. Nothin’.”

His mother frowned. “That’s not healthy.”

“I don’t care.”

He replaced food with gum. Twelve pieces of sugar-free spearmint per day. That was his meals. Between practices, he chewed until his jaw ached. When dizzy spells hit—and they hit often—he allowed himself a single apple or a cucumber, sliced thin, eaten slowly like a sacrament.

He drank only cold water. Lots of it, to fill the hollow ache in his stomach.

Practice became an obsession. First to arrive, last to leave. Extra laps, extra sets, extra serves. Pushed until his vision blurred and his legs screamed. The weight fell off fast—three kilos in the first week, another two in the second.

Osamu noticed. The dark circles under his eyes. The sharp cheekbones, almost gaunt. The tremor in his hands when he thought no one was watching.

“’Tsumu, you gotta eat.” Osamu stood in the kitchen doorway as Atsumu chewed his fifth piece of gum.

“I am eatin’.” No eye contact.

“That’s not food. That’s rubber.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Osamu stepped closer, voice low. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

Atsumu finally looked up. Eyes tired, hollow, but with a stubborn fire. “I can’t be heavy, ’Samu. Can’t be slow. Can’t be—” He stopped, swallowed. “I can’t be ugly.”

Osamu’s heart cracked. “Who said you were ugly?”

Atsumu didn’t answer. Just turned back to the window, popped another piece of gum, let the silence speak.

---

The first fainting spell came during a scrimmage.

Atsumu had been pushing harder than usual—serves landing with brutal precision, sets that made hitters gasp. But halfway through the second set, his legs gave out. He went down face-first onto the hardwood.

The gym went silent.

“ATSUMU!” Osamu was at his side instantly, rolling him over. Atsumu’s face was pale, sweat-sheened, breath shallow.

“Get him water.” Kita’s voice cut through the chaos. He’d been filming from the sidelines, phone still in hand, but his full attention was on the fallen setter.

Suna brought water. Osamu helped Atsumu sit up, pressed the bottle to his lips. Atsumu drank weakly, eyes unfocused.

“You’re done for today.” Kita wasn’t asking.

“I’m fine.” Atsumu tried to stand. His legs wobbled.

Kita’s hand on his shoulder was gentle but firm. “You’re not. You’re overtired and underfed. Sit. Rest. Drink.”

Atsumu opened his mouth to argue, but Kita’s gaze—calm, knowing, unwavering—stopped him. He slumped against Osamu’s side and closed his eyes.

Kita watched him for a long moment, something unreadable crossing his face. Then he turned to the team. “Take five. Then drills without setters.”

But his eyes kept drifting back to Atsumu.

---

The toxic relationship was a secret Atsumu guarded fiercely.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was beautiful in a cold, untouchable way. Crisp lines, elegant fingers, a face carved from marble. Also distant, critical, and when he was in a bad mood, cruel.

Their relationship—if you could call it that—started in the summer. A chance meeting at volleyball camp, a few texts, a reluctant agreement to “try something.” Atsumu had been thrilled. Sakusa was a star, a prodigy.

The thrill faded fast.

“You’re getting porky.” Sakusa said it during a video call, voice flat. “Your face is all soft. Not a good look.”

Atsumu laughed nervously, promised to fix it. Skipped dinner that night.

When Sakusa visited Hyogo, he never stayed over. “Your apartment smells. You snore. You take up too much room.” When Atsumu tried to kiss him, Sakusa turned his head, offered his cheek. “Later.” Distracted. Already scrolling his phone.

The hitting had started small. An open-handed slap across the arm when Atsumu said something stupid. A shove when he got too clingy. Once, a fist to the stomach when Atsumu showed up late to a meeting.

“Don’t be dramatic.” Sakusa didn’t even look at him. “It barely hurt. You’re so sensitive.”

Atsumu believed him. Believed it was his fault. If he were thinner, more attractive, less needy, less him, Sakusa would want him properly. He just had to try harder.

So he pushed himself further into starvation. If he was skeletal enough, maybe Sakusa would finally see him as beautiful.

---

By October, Atsumu had returned to his original weight. Maybe a little under. His jersey fit again. Shorts hung loose on his hips. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.

He still felt ugly.

Standing in front of the mirror in his apartment, he ran his hands over his ribs. They protruded visibly. Collarbones were dark hollows. He looked, he thought, like a skeleton wearing skin.

And Sakusa still hadn’t called in two weeks.

Phone buzzed. Text from Osamu: Kita-san’s worried about you. Asked if you’re eatin’.

Atsumu typed back: Tell him I’m fine.

Reply came instantly: You’re lyin’.

He threw the phone onto the bed. Didn’t answer.

---

Kita Shinsuke was a man of few words and even fewer confessions. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve; he kept it tucked in a neat, organized drawer deep inside his chest, rarely opened, never examined.

But he’d been watching Atsumu for months.

He watched the weight gain and the crash diet. The trembling hands and hollow eyes. Watched Atsumu excuse himself from team dinners, eat only an apple while everyone had ramen, laugh weakly when Suna made a comment about his “new discipline.”

He watched, and noted, and worried.

The confession came not as a grand declaration, but as a quiet, private moment after practice. The gym was empty. Atsumu was still on the court, doing extra sets of serves, form sloppy from exhaustion.

“Atsumu.”

Arm froze mid-swing. He turned. Kita stood at the edge of the court, towel in one hand, water in the other.

“Time’s up. You need to rest.”

“Just a few more—”

“No.”

Kita walked onto the court. Up close, Atsumu looked worse than he had from a distance. Shirt hung off his frame. Eyes ringed with purple shadows. Lips dry and cracked.

Kita handed him the water. “Drink.”

Atsumu took it, drank obediently. Didn’t meet his eyes.

“You’re beautiful, Atsumu.”

The words hung in the air. Unexpected. Raw. Atsumu’s head snapped up. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.” Kita’s voice was steady. “You were beautiful in August when your cheeks were full. You’re beautiful now. You’re beautiful when you smile, and when you’re on the court, and when you’re just sitting in the corner readin’ a magazine. You are beautiful. And you deserve better than whatever you’re doin’ to yourself.”

Atsumu’s face crumpled. He wanted to believe it. Needed to. But Sakusa’s voice was louder, harsher, more familiar.

“You don’t mean that. You’re just—you’re bein’ nice.”

“I’m not nice.” Kita said it simply. “I’m honest. And I’m tellin’ you the truth.”

Atsumu shook his head, a single tear sliding down his cheek. “I can’t. I can’t believe it.”

Kita didn’t push. Just stood there, steady and patient, waiting.

---

The second fainting spell came during a warm-up at regional qualifiers. Atsumu hit the floor, convulsing slightly. The entire team rushed around him.

“Call an ambulance,” the coach shouted.

“I’m fine.” Atsumu slurred, trying to push up. “Don’t—I’m fine—”

Osamu lifted him bodily, carried him off the court. “You’re gonna kill yourself, ’Tsumu.”

“Let me play—”

“No.”

Kita appeared, face pale. “Bring him to the nurse’s office. I’ll stay with him.”

Osamu hesitated, then nodded. Deposited Atsumu on the cot. His twin’s weight felt featherlight. Kita followed, closed the door.

The room was quiet, sterile, smelled of antiseptic and old paper.

Kita sat beside the cot. Atsumu stared at the ceiling, tears leaking silently from the corners of his eyes.

“Tell me,” Kita said softly.

Atsumu’s voice came as a broken whisper. “I don’t know why I’m still here. Don’t know what the point is. I feel like—” He choked. “I’m just takin’ up space. Everyone would be better off if I just didn’t exist anymore.”

Kita’s heart stopped. He reached out, slowly, and took Atsumu’s hand. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Voice cracked. “Sakusa said I’m a burden. Too much. If I were thinner, prettier, easier to love, he’d—he’d actually want me. But I can’t. No matter how little I eat, I’m still me.”

He was sobbing now, ugly and raw. “He hits me, Kita. Tells me I’m worthless. And I believe him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I deserve it.”

Kita’s grip tightened. His usually impassive face twisted with anguish. “You don’t. None of it. Atsumu, listen.”

He turned Atsumu’s face toward his. “You are not a burden. Not too much. You are brilliant, passionate, beautiful. Whoever made you feel otherwise has done you a terrible wrong. You deserve to be cherished. Loved. Happy.”

Atsumu stared, tears streaming. “Why do you care so much?”

Kita took a breath. This was the moment. The drawer opening, the secret heart laid bare.

“Because I’m in love with you, Atsumu.” His voice was steady, but his eyes were vulnerable. “I’ve been in love with you longer than I care to admit. It hurts me to see you like this. That you can’t see what I see.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. “You—”

“I’m not sayin’ this to pressure you. I’m sayin’ it because you need to know. You need to know that you are worthy of real love. The kind that doesn’t hurt.”

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Then Atsumu broke.

He collapsed forward, buried his face in Kita’s chest, sobbed so hard his whole body shook. Kita wrapped his arms around him, held him close, murmured soft, steady reassurances.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re gonna be okay.”

---

The text to Sakusa was short.

We’re done. Don’t contact me again.

Sakusa’s reply came three hours later: Okay.

No anger. No sadness. No fight. Just a cold, dismissive word that proved everything Atsumu had feared about the relationship.

He stared at the message for a long time. Then he deleted the thread, blocked the number, and cried.

---

The recovery was slow.

Kita was patient. He brought Atsumu food in small portions—rice porridge, soft vegetables, clear broth. Stayed by his side while he ate, not pushing, just present. Osamu came every day, apologizing over and over for his teasing, for not seeing the signs sooner.

“I’m supposed to be your twin.” Osamu’s voice was thick. “Supposed to know when you’re hurting. I didn’t. I’m sorry, ’Tsumu.”

Atsumu forgave him. Forgave Suna too, when the blocker awkwardly apologized for the Instagram comments. Forgave his mother, who meant well but hadn’t known the damage.

He started seeing a counselor, recommended by Kita. The sessions were hard. They forced him to confront the black spiral of self-hatred that had consumed him for months—the voice that told him he was worthless, deserved the abuse, would never be enough.

Slowly, painfully, he started to believe that voice was wrong.

---

Two months later, Atsumu stood in front of the mirror in his apartment. Winter light was cold and sharp, illuminating the room in a pale blue glow.

He was healthy now. Not skinny. Not heavy. Just healthy. He ate balanced meals, trained smartly, slept properly. His face had filled out again—not round like summer, but soft, alive. Eyes had regained their spark.

Behind him, Kita came up and wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Atsumu’s shoulder.

“You’re staring,” Kita murmured.

“I’m thinkin’.” Atsumu leaned back into the embrace. “About how I used to look in this mirror and hate everythin’ I saw. And now…”

He turned, facing Kita fully. His boyfriend—his boyfriend, the thought still made him smile—looked at him with those steady eyes.

“Now I see someone worth lovin’.” Atsumu finished. “And I have you to thank for that.”

Kita shook his head. “I just helped you see what was already there.”

Atsumu kissed him. Soft. Warm. Not the desperate, hungry kisses he used to chase with Sakusa. Just… peaceful. Content.

“I love you, Shinsuke.”

Kita’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. “I love you too, Atsumu.”

---

The practice match was against Itachiyama. Atsumu was on fire.

Sets flawless, serves brutal, movement light and precise. He danced across the court like the volleyball god he was always meant to be.

After the match—a narrow win for Inarizaki—the team gathered in the locker room, cheering, laughing, slapping backs.

Suna caught his eye. “You look happy, Miya.”

Atsumu grinned. Real grin. Full and unguarded. “I am.”

Osamu threw an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Good. ’Cause I’m makin’ onigiri tonight, and you’re gonna eat at least three.”

“It’s a deal.”

Atsumu looked across the room. Kita was standing by the door, half-smiling, his camera phone raised. He’d been taking photos all day, capturing moments, preserving memories.

Atsumu caught his eye and smiled wider.

He was loved. He was enough. He was alive.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.