Pretty Like a Specter

The bedroom smelled like fabric softener, and somewhere downstairs the TV was still humming. Osamu sat on his futon, legs crossed, textbook open—hadn't turned a page in fifteen minutes. He was too busy watching his brother from the corner of his eye.

Atsumu stood in front of the mirror—their mom's old one, cracked in the top right corner, warping reflections into jagged shapes. He'd changed clothes three times in ten minutes. First ripped jeans and a band tee, then shorts so short they'd be scandalous in summer, and now...

Osamu's pen stopped.

His twin wore a black pleated mini skirt with a silver zipper, and a pale lavender tube top that looked soft enough to be a cloud. Barely covered his chest. Shoulders bare, collarbones sharp.

Atsumu turned slow, staring at himself the way he'd stare at a ball before a set.

"Hey, 'Samu."

Osamu grunted.

His voice was lighter than usual, almost fragile—like he was testing the air. "Do you think I'm pretty?"

The question hung there. Osamu frowned. They didn't talk like this. They talked about volleyball, food, their parents, which convenience store had the best onigiri. They didn't ask each other stuff like that. Not with that look in their eyes—desperate, searching.

So Osamu did what he always did when he got uncomfortable: deflected with sarcasm.

"Ugly as hell," he said, turning back to his textbook with a smirk. "What kinda question is that? You look like a scarecrow in a dress."

He expected Atsumu to snap back, throw a pillow, call him an idiot. Their usual rhythm—effortless back-and-forth that meant nothing.

Instead, a sound like a small animal caught in a trap.

A sob.

Osamu's head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. Atsumu was still facing the mirror, shoulders shaking, hands over his face. Tears dripped through his fingers, catching the light.

"Atsumu?" Osamu's voice cracked. He scrambled off his futon, textbook forgotten. "Oi. What—what's wrong?"

He grabbed Atsumu's arm, turned him around. Face was a mess—red, blotchy, mascara streaking black down his cheeks. Makeup. Osamu hadn't noticed.

"I'm sorry," Atsumu choked out, pulling away. He stumbled back and sat on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—I don't know why I'm crying—"

"Don't apologize." Osamu knelt in front of him, heart hammering. He'd seen Atsumu cry before—lost matches, injuries, stupid fights. Never like this. Raw. Ragged. "Hey. Look at me."

Atsumu shook his head.

"I was joking," Osamu said, rough. He grabbed his twin's wrists, gently pulled his hands away. "I didn't mean it. You're not—you're not ugly. I was bein' an ass. You know I'm always an ass."

Atsumu let out a shaky breath, still not meeting his eyes. Staring at the floor. At the pale pink nail polish on his fingers. When had he done that? Osamu had been too wrapped up to notice.

"You're pretty," Osamu said, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "Okay? You're pretty. Now stop cryin'."

Atsumu sniffled. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing more mascara. "You don't mean that."

"I do."

"You just said I was ugly."

"Because I'm a jackass. You know that." Osamu squeezed his wrists. "Atsumu. Look at me."

Slowly, reluctantly, Atsumu looked up. Eyes bloodshot, cheeks stained. But underneath—something raw that made Osamu's chest ache.

"You're pretty," Osamu said again, slower. "I promise."

Atsumu let out a shuddering breath and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Osamu's shoulder. Osamu's arms came up automatically, wrapping around him. They stayed like that for a long time, breathing together, until Atsumu's sobs faded into quiet hiccups.

Osamu didn't ask why he was wearing the skirt. Didn't ask about the nails or makeup. He just held him, and pretended not to feel the way his fingers tingled where they touched the bare skin of Atsumu's shoulders.

---

Next morning, Osamu woke to the sound of the hair dryer.

He blinked groggily, sat up. Through the bathroom door, Atsumu was leaning over the sink, curling his hair. Already dressed—or half-dressed. A black lacy top, deep V-neck, sheer in places, pale skin beneath. A micro skirt, even shorter than last night's, silky stuff clinging to his hips.

Osamu's mouth went dry.

He looked away, heat crawling up his neck. What the hell was wrong with him? That was his twin. His twin, who was apparently going through some crisis he didn't understand.

Atsumu caught his eye in the mirror and offered a smile—bright, practiced, perfect. "Mornin', 'Samu."

"Mornin'." Osamu's voice came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "You wearin' that to school?"

Atsumu's smile flickered. "Yeah. Why?"

"No reason." Osamu pulled on his uniform shirt, not looking at him. "Just askin'."

They went downstairs. Their mom was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a travel mug. She looked up, saw Atsumu, and her face went hard.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

Atsumu's step faltered. "Clothes."

"Those aren't clothes." She set the mug down with a sharp click. "That's a whore's outfit. You look like a slut."

Osamu flinched. Atsumu's face went pale, but he didn't say anything. He just grabbed a piece of toast from the counter and shoved it into his mouth.

"I didn't raise you to walk around like that," their mother continued, low and venomous. "What would the neighbors think? What would your teammates think? You're a disgrace."

"Ma," Osamu started, but she shot him a look that silenced him.

Atsumu swallowed the toast and smiled. That same bright, practiced smile. "I'll be home late. Practice." He grabbed his bag and slipped out the door before anyone could say another word.

Osamu followed, breakfast untouched. Silent walk to school. Atsumu walked ahead, heels clicking—heels? When did he get heels?—skirt swishing. People stared. Middle school girls whispered. An old man on a bike looked twice.

Osamu wanted to scream at all of them. To wrap his jacket around Atsumu and hide him from the world.

But he didn't. He just walked behind him, watching the sway of his hips, the delicate curve of his spine visible through the lace of his top. And he hated himself for noticing.

---

School was worse.

Atsumu walked through the halls like he owned them, chin high, smile on. Laughed with teammates, joked with classmates. But Osamu saw his hands tremble when he thought no one was looking. Eyes darting, waiting for the next insult.

It came faster than expected.

"Nice skirt, Miya." A boy from the baseball team—Tanaka, maybe, or something—called out across the hall. "You forget your uniform pants?"

Atsumu's smile didn't waver. "They're in the wash. Jealous?"

The boy laughed, but it was ugly. "Not my style."

Osamu's fists clenched in his pockets. He forced himself to keep walking.

At lunch, Osamu found Atsumu on the rooftop—their usual spot, but he was alone, sitting on the low wall, legs dangling. Skirt rode up. Osamu focused hard on the clouds.

"You okay?" Osamu asked, sitting down next to him.

"Peachy." Atsumu's voice was flat.

"Don't listen to them."

"I'm not." Atsumu pulled a compact mirror out of his bag and checked his makeup. Hand steady. "They're just jealous."

Osamu didn't ask jealous of what. He didn't think Atsumu knew, either.

---

After school, Osamu was heading to the gym when he saw it.

A tall dark-haired guy from the basketball team had cornered Atsumu near the stairwell. Leaning in, hand on the wall above Atsumu's head. Osamu couldn't hear what he was saying, but he saw Atsumu tense, his smile slip into something strained.

The guy's hand dropped to Atsumu's waist.

Something snapped inside Osamu.

He crossed the hall in three strides, grabbed the guy by the jersey collar, slammed him against the wall. Head thudded. Grunt of surprise.

"What the hell—?"

"You touchin' him?" Osamu's voice was low, dangerous. Hands shaking. "Keep your damn hands off my brother."

He didn't let go. Instead, he pressed closer, let his hands slide down to the guy's hips, gripped him in a way that wasn't friendly. Possessive. Territorial. This one's mine.

The guy's eyes went wide. "I wasn't—we were just talkin'—"

"I don't care." Osamu's thumb dug into the guy's hip bone. "If I see you near him again, I'll break your arm."

He held the stare for a long, heavy moment, then released him. The guy stumbled back, rubbing his neck, and scurried away without another word.

Atsumu was staring at him, mouth slightly open.

"What?" Osamu said, heart still pounding.

"You—" Atsumu's voice cracked. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, I did."

They stood in the empty stairwell, fluorescent lights buzzing. Osamu's hands tingled from touching that guy. But more than that, he could still feel the warmth of Atsumu's waist from the night before—phantom under his fingers.

Atsumu looked down at his own hands, still clutching his bag strap. "Why do you care so much?"

"Because you're my twin, idiot."

"That's not—" Atsumu shook his head. "That's not a reason."

Osamu stepped closer. "It's the only reason I need."

Atsumu's eyes welled up again, but this time he didn't cry. Just stared at Osamu with something like gratitude and fear. Like he was afraid Osamu would disappear if he blinked.

---

They didn't go to the gym that day.

Instead,