In Small Cuts

The night Atsumu came home with a broken heart, Osamu had no clue. He was in the kitchen stirring miso soup when the front door slammed so hard the windows rattled. Their mom called from the living room—“Tsumu, that you?”—but got nothing back. Just footsteps pounding up the stairs, then a bedroom door slamming shut.

Osamu turned the stove down and listened. No music. No loud phone calls. Just silence, thick and heavy like the steam off the pot.

He waited a beat. Then went back to stirring. If Atsumu wanted to talk, he would. That was how it worked. Osamu didn’t push. He just made sure there was extra food and left the door cracked.

He didn’t hear about Hikaru until the next morning. Atsumu came down in his usual hoodie and sweatpants, but his eyes were red and his jaw tight. He didn’t go for the rice or the grilled fish. Just poured a glass of water, drank half, and said, “I’m not hungry.”

Their mom frowned. “You have practice. You need to eat.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” His voice cracked on the last word. He turned away, shoulders hunched.

Osamu watched him grab his bag and leave without a goodbye. The door clicked shut, and their mom sighed.

“He and Hikaru broke up last night,” she said quietly. “I heard him crying.”

Osamu’s chopsticks froze over his bowl. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded and ate slow, thinking about how Atsumu wouldn’t meet his eyes.

---

The change didn’t happen overnight. It came in small cuts, each one carving a new shape.

First the skirts. Atsumu had always been picky about clothes, but now he wore things shorter, tighter, brighter. He came home with shopping bags from boutiques Osamu had never heard of, locked himself in the bathroom for hours. When he came out, his eyelashes were longer, his lips glossier, his cheeks dusted with something pink and shimmery.

Osamu blinked at him in the hallway. “You look like a clown.”

“You’re just jealous.” But his voice wavered. He pushed past, leaving a trail of perfume that smelled fake, like artificial flowers.

Then the heels. He started wearing them to school, clacking down the hall like a ticking clock. The sound announced him before anyone saw him. He walked with his chin up, eyes half-lidded, looking at everyone like they were beneath him. People stared. Some whispered. Atsumu ignored them all—except Osamu.

He still saved him a seat at lunch, still leaned over to complain about teammates, still called him Samu when he thought no one was listening. But now it felt brittle, like glass that’d shatter if Osamu pressed too hard.

“You’re eating weird,” Osamu said one afternoon, pointing his chopsticks at the plastic container Atsumu unpacked. A handful of salad greens. A single apple. A can of Coke Zero.

“It’s called a diet,” Atsumu said, not looking up. “You should try it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You could be better.” He stabbed a piece of lettuce with unnecessary force.

Osamu watched him chew—slow, mechanical, like food was a chore. He noticed Atsumu didn’t touch the rice Osamu packed. He noticed how his collarbones jutted out like sharp edges. He noticed how, when Atsumu laughed at something their teammate said, it didn’t reach his eyes.

But he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

---

The parties started on weekends, then bled into weeknights.

Osamu would wake up at midnight to the soft click of the front door. He’d lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, listen to Atsumu shuffle up the stairs, the bathroom sink running, the smell of smoke and cheap perfume seeping under the door. Atsumu never stumbled. Always careful. Always controlled.

But control’s a mask, and masks slip.

Osamu saw the cracks when Atsumu came home one Thursday with his lipstick smudged and skirt twisted. Saw them when he snapped at a teammate for accidentally brushing against him. Saw them when his phone buzzed during dinner and Atsumu smiled at the screen—sharp, empty—and typed back with his thumbs.

“Who’s that?” their mom asked.

“No one.” He turned the phone face-down.

Osamu knew better. He’d heard the rumors. The whispers in the hallway. The jokes that weren’t jokes. The Queen Bee. Miya-sama. Doesn’t she know she’s not actually a girl? Heard she goes to the janitor’s office during lunch. With who? Anyone. Anyone who asks.

Osamu wanted to punch every single one. But he held back. Because Atsumu was already drowning, and Osamu was afraid if he made a scene, the water would close over them both.

---

The volleyball team noticed too.

Kita spoke first, because he always does. He cornered Osamu after practice, his calm eyes steady.

“Atsumu’s skipping training. His reflexes are slower. He doesn’t focus during drills. And his serve—it’s not the same.”

Osamu wiped sweat off his brow. “I know.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“He won’t talk to me.”

Kita was quiet for a moment. Then, “Keep trying. That’s your job, isn’t it? As his twin.”

Osamu didn’t answer. Just nodded, went to shower. But on the way he passed the janitor’s office. Door slightly ajar. He heard a familiar laugh—high, brittle, bright. Then a lower voice, male, murmuring something Osamu didn’t catch. Then silence.

He walked faster.

---

The comment came on a Tuesday.

Osamu was heading to the gym when a group of second-years clustered near the lockers. He didn’t catch the start, but he caught the end.

“…wouldn’t kick her out of bed, if you know what I mean. Heard she puts out behind the gym.”

Laughter. Ugly, mean laughter.

“She?” someone said. “You mean he, right? Miya’s a dude, no matter how much makeup he slaps on.”

“He’s a chick with a dick. Does it really matter?”

More laughter. Osamu’s hands curled into fists. He turned, ready to walk over and say something—anything—when a hand caught his wrist.

Atsumu. Standing just behind him, dressed in a pleated skirt and cropped sweater, lips glossy red. His face was perfectly composed, but his fingers were cold against Osamu’s skin.

“Don’t,” Atsumu said softly.

“They’re talking about you.”

“I know. Let them.”

“Tsumu—”

“I said let them.” His smile was sharp enough to cut. “It doesn’t matter. They’re just jealous.”

He let go of Osamu’s wrist and walked away, heels clicking against the linoleum like a countdown.

Osamu watched him go. Watched the second-years fall silent when Atsumu passed, watched them stare at his back with a mix of contempt and hunger. Watched Atsumu not look back once.

That night, Osamu made extra onigiri. Tucked them into a bento box and left it on Atsumu’s desk.

Atsumu didn’t touch them. Still there the next morning, cold and abandoned.

---

Osamu confronted him after practice the following week.

The team had just wrapped up drills, and Atsumu was already changed—crop top, floral skirt barely covering his thighs. He was putting on lipstick in front of the mirror, movements practiced, precise.

“You’re going out again,” Osamu said. Not a question.

“Party at Haruka’s.” He capped the lipstick, dropped it in his bag. “Don’t wait up.”

“You didn’t eat dinner.”

“Had an apple.”

“That’s not food.”

Atsumu turned around, and for a second Osamu saw a flash of irritation in his eyes. Then it was gone, smoothed over by that plastic smile.

“I’m fine, Samu. I’m happier than I’ve ever been.” He stepped closer, patted Osamu’s cheek. Painted nails catching the fluorescent light. “You should try it. Being pretty. Being wanted. Feels amazing.”

“Does it?”

Atsumu’s smile flickered. “Yes.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to cry?”

For a long moment, Atsumu just stared. His hand dropped. His lips parted, then closed. The smile wavered, cracked, and then he laughed—hollow, bouncing off the lockers.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then he was gone, door swinging shut, leaving Osamu alone with the echo of that fake laugh.

---

It broke three days later.

Osamu stayed late to help Kita organize equipment. By the time he left the gym, the school was quiet, hallways dark except for emergency lights. He was heading for the exit when he heard it—a sound so small and broken it almost got lost in the silence.

He stopped. Listened.

It came again. A muffled sob. A sniffle.

He followed it to the boys’ locker room. Door ajar, a sliver of light spilling out. He pushed it open slowly.

Atsumu was sitting on the floor between the lockers, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. Makeup ruined—black streaks of mascara down his cheeks, red lipstick smeared across his mouth like a wound. He was crying. Really crying. Harsh, ugly sobs that shook his whole body.

Osamu’s heart clenched. He’d never seen Atsumu cry like this. Not when they were kids and he fell off his bike. Not when their grandmother died. Not even the night Hikaru broke up with him.

“Tsumu,” he said softly.

Atsumu jerked his head up. His eyes were red and swollen, and for a moment he looked terrified—like a cornered animal. Then recognition flooded his face, and the terror turned into something else. Shame. Desperation.

“Go away,” he rasped. “Don’t—don’t look at me. Please.”

Osamu ignored him. He crossed the room and slid down the wall beside his brother, close enough that their shoulders touched. Atsumu flinched but didn’t pull away.

“What happened?” Osamu asked.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I said I’m fine!” Atsumu’s voice cracked. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Osamu didn’t say anything. Just reached out and placed a hand on Atsumu’s back, rubbing slow circles over the thin fabric of his top.

They sat like that for a long time. Minutes ticked by, marked only by the hum of the vending machine in the hallway and Atsumu’s uneven breathing.

Finally, when the sobs had quieted to hiccups, Atsumu spoke. His voice was raw, barely a whisper.

“I heard them. Today. In the hallway. They said—they said I was easy. That I was pathetic. That I’m trying too hard. That I’ll never be pretty enough.” He laughed, bitter and broken. “They’re right. I’m not. I changed everything. Clothes, talk, act. I let people touch me who don’t know my name. I starved myself. Stopped playing volleyball. Stopped being me. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Osamu’s hand stilled.

“I thought if I was prettier,” Atsumu continued, voice trembling, “if I was wanted, then maybe I’d be worth something. Maybe Hikaru would regret leaving me. Maybe everyone would see me and think, Look at her. She’s perfect. But I’m not perfect. I’m not even real. I’m just a costume. And no one loves a costume.”

The last words came out in a rush, followed by a fresh wave of tears. Atsumu crumpled forward, his forehead pressing against Osamu’s shoulder.

Osamu wrapped his arms around him and held on tight.

“You were always enough, Tsumu.”

Atsumu stiffened.

“You were always enough,” Osamu repeated, voice low and fierce. “Before Hikaru. Before the skirts. Before any of this. You were enough. You are enough. You don’t have to change yourself to be loved. You don’t have to be pretty for anyone. You just have to be you.”

Atsumu made a sound—half laugh, half sob. “That’s a shitty thing to say. I’m a mess.”

“Yeah, you are.” Osamu tightened his arms. “But you’re my mess. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Atsumu cried harder. Cried until his voice gave out and his body went limp, until the only thing left was the slow, steady rhythm of Osamu’s heartbeat against his ear.

They stayed like that until the janitor came to lock up. Then Osamu helped Atsumu to his feet, wiped the ruined makeup off his face with a damp towel, and walked him home.

---

The Miya house was quiet when they got back. Their parents had already gone to bed. Osamu led Atsumu to the kitchen, sat him down at the table, and opened the fridge.

“Onigiri. Tuna mayo. Your favorite.”

Atsumu stared at the rice and seaweed like it was a foreign object. “I’m not hungry.”

“Tough. Eat.”

Osamu set the plate in front of him and sat down across. Atsumu hesitated, then picked up a piece and took a small bite.

He chewed slowly. Swallowed.

Then another bite, and another, until the plate was empty and his hands were trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“What for?”

“For—for everything. For being stupid. For worrying you. For—” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the skirt and the ruined makeup. “This.”

Osamu shrugged. “You’ll figure it out. You’re a genius at volleyball. You can figure out how to be yourself again.”

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” Osamu reached across the table and took Atsumu’s hand. “And Tsumu?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be here. Even when you’re annoying. Even when you wear those stupid heels. Even when you put lipstick on my toothbrush again.”

“I only did that once.”

“It was disgusting.”

Atsumu laughed—a real laugh this time, small and surprised. It was the most beautiful sound Osamu had heard in weeks.

---

The next morning, Atsumu came downstairs in sweatpants and an old hoodie. His face was bare, hair uncombed. He looked exhausted and fragile and human.

He also looked like himself.

He sat down and ate a full breakfast—rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables, a fried egg. Osamu watched him out of the corner of his eye and didn’t say a word.

When they walked to school together, Atsumu’s shoes were flat. No heels. No clacking. Just the soft scuff of sneakers on pavement.

“I’m not going to the party tonight,” Atsumu said quietly.

“Good.”

“I thought maybe… maybe we could practice. Setting and spiking. In the backyard.”

Osamu glanced at him. Atsumu was staring straight ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tense.

“Yeah,” Osamu said. “Sounds good.”

Atsumu’s shoulders relaxed. And as they turned the corner toward the school, Osamu caught the ghost of a smile on his brother’s face—small, tentative, but real.

It was going to be okay.

Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.

And Osamu would be there for all of it.