The Easiest Thing

The apartment was too small for a fight like this.

Atsumu knew it the second the words left his mouth. Saw it in the way Kiyoomi's jaw tightened, how his fingers curled around the remote like he was gripping something that kept him from exploding. But Atsumu couldn't stop. Never could. The words kept coming, sharp and careless, and he watched Kiyoomi's composure crack like ice under a boot.

"It's just a movie, Atsumu."

"It ain't just the movie! It's that you never—you never wanna do what I wanna do. It's always your way, your schedule, your—"

"My schedule?" Kiyoomi's voice was quiet, but there was a warning in it, cold and sharp enough to cut through the noise. "You're the one who left your bag in the hallway again. You're the one who tracked mud into the genkan. You're the one who—"

"Don't you dare start listing my faults like I'm some kinda project you gotta fix!"

Kiyoomi stood up. He was taller, broader in the shoulders, and he used every inch of it now, stepping into Atsumu's space with a controlled stillness that made Atsumu's heart stutter. "I'm not listing faults. I'm pointing out patterns. There's a difference."

"Same shit."

"It is not the same shit." Kiyoomi's voice rose for the first time, cracking like a whip. Then he stopped. Drew a breath. Raked a hand through his dark curls. And when he spoke again, his voice was tired, worn thin. "It is so hard sometimes to love you."

The words hung in the air.

Atsumu felt them land like a punch to the chest, settle somewhere cold. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes burned.

"Hard?" His voice came out small, stripped of the bravado he'd been hiding behind. "You mean you don't... you don't wanna—"

"I didn't say that." Kiyoomi's face flickered—something like regret—but he didn't take it back. He just stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

Atsumu couldn't breathe. The room felt like it was folding in on him, walls pressing closer, air too thick. He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door, not even looking to see if it was his. He just needed out.

"Atsumu." Kiyoomi's voice was sharper now. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"It's almost midnight."

"Then I'll be out at midnight."

He yanked the door open and didn't look back. The stairwell was dim and smelled like old cooking oil. He took the steps two at a time, sneakers slapping concrete, and burst out onto the street like a drowning man breaking the surface.

The cold hit him first. Late autumn in Osaka, the night air had teeth. He hadn't grabbed a proper jacket—just a thin hoodie he'd left in the hallway, not even his. It smelled like Kiyoomi. He wanted to rip it off. He pulled it tighter instead.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

The streets were quiet for a Saturday. Most people were tucked into bars or izakayas, huddled over warm sake and louder voices. Atsumu walked without direction, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. The city lights blurred around him—neon signs reflecting off wet pavement, the distant hum of a train, the occasional car splashing through puddles.

He didn't know where he was going. Didn't care.

It is so hard sometimes to love you.

The words played on a loop in his head, each repetition a new bruise. He was used to criticism. Grew up on it, from coaches, teammates, his own damn brother. Learned to laugh it off, throw it back, wear it like armor. But Kiyoomi's words were different. They came from a place Atsumu had let him into, soft and unprotected, where even a whisper could cut deep.

He found himself on a quieter street, lined with shuttered shops and tall apartment buildings. The streetlights flickered, casting pools of orange light that didn't reach the shadows between them. He stopped at a vending machine, pressed the button for a hot coffee without looking, and let the can warm his hands. He didn't drink it. Just stood there, staring at the condensation, watching it bead and drip.

He thought about calling Osamu. His twin would answer, probably with a grunt and a question about why the hell he was calling so late. He'd listen, maybe, without judgment, and then he'd say something blunt and grounding like, "You fight. You make up. That's how it works." Osamu always made things sound simple.

But Atsumu didn't want simple. He wanted Kiyoomi to take it back. Wanted to hear him say it was a mistake, that he didn't mean it, that loving Atsumu wasn't a burden.

His phone buzzed again. Still ignored.

He turned down a narrower alley, thinking it might be a shortcut back toward the main road. It wasn't. The alley dead-ended at a locked gate, the only light from a flickering bulb above a door marked with peeling paint. He was alone.

Or so he thought.

"Hey."

The voice came from behind him, low and casual. Atsumu turned, instinct tightening his shoulders. A man stood at the entrance of the alley, silhouetted against the streetlight. Young—early twenties, maybe—dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans. His face was partially hidden, but his smile was visible, bright and wrong.

"You lost?" the man asked, stepping closer.

"Nah. I'm fine." Atsumu's voice came out flat. He started walking back toward the main street, but the man didn't move out of the way. He shifted, blocking the path.

"Cold night to be wandering around alone."

"I said I'm fine." Atsumu tried to step around him. The man moved with him.

"Just trying to be friendly. You look upset." The smile widened. "Girl trouble? Boy trouble?"

Atsumu's heart started to beat faster. He was tall, athletic—he could take this guy if he had to. But something about the man's stillness, the way his eyes stayed fixed on Atsumu's face, made him feel smaller, younger.

"Not your business." Atsumu squared his shoulders, dropped his voice. "Move."

"Make me."

It happened fast. Too fast. Atsumu lunged for the alley's exit, but the man grabbed his arm, yanked him back. Atsumu's elbow came up, caught the man's jaw, but he barely flinched. The coffee can flew from Atsumu's hand, clattering across the pavement. Then there was a hand over his mouth, an arm around his waist, dragging him deeper into the darkness.

He tried to scream, but the sound was muffled. He thrashed, kicked, fought—but the man was stronger than he looked, and the alley was empty, and no one was coming.

No one is coming.

The thought was a cold, dark wave that crashed over him.

The assault wasn't long, but it was thorough. It left marks—physical and otherwise. When it was over, Atsumu lay on the ground, staring up at the sky, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The man was gone. The street was quiet again, as if nothing had happened.

Atsumu pushed himself up on shaking arms. His body felt foreign, wrong. A sharp pain in his ribs, a deeper ache lower down. His lip was split, bleeding. His jaw throbbed where a hand had clamped down too hard.

He stood. He didn't remember standing. Just found himself on his feet, stumbling toward the main road, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other dragging along the wall for balance.

The walk home took forever. Every step was a negotiation with his own body, a bargain to keep moving, to not collapse. The streets blurred. The neon lights smeared. He passed a convenience store, saw his reflection in the glass—pale, hollow-eyed, lips swollen—and looked away.

When he reached the apartment building, the door to the stairwell was still unlocked. He climbed the stairs one at a time, gripping the railing, breathing through the pain. The hallway light flickered. He stopped outside the door, number 403, and stared at it.

Didn't want to go in.

Didn't want Kiyoomi to see him like this.

But he had nowhere else to go.

He opened the door.

Kiyoomi was on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. He looked up when the door opened, and his expression shifted from relief to confusion to something darker in the span of a heartbeat.

"Where have you been?" His voice was cold, controlled—but there was an edge to it. A worry he was trying to hide. "I called you twelve times. Twelve, Atsumu. I was about to—" He stopped. His eyes narrowed. "What happened to your face?"

Atsumu didn't answer. Couldn't. The words were stuck somewhere behind the lump in his throat. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and stood there, dripping onto the mat. His hands were trembling. He couldn't make them stop.

Kiyoomi stood up slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal. "Your lip is bleeding. And you're limping. What happened?"

"I..." Atsumu's voice cracked. "I went for a walk."

"Bullshit." Kiyoomi stepped closer, and Atsumu flinched. He saw Kiyoomi's eyes widen, saw him stop in his tracks. "Did someone—Did someone hurt you?"

The question was a door cracking open. Atsumu wanted to walk through it, wanted to collapse into Kiyoomi's arms and let him hold the pieces together. But he remembered the words from earlier—it is so hard sometimes to love you—and he couldn't. Didn't deserve comfort. Deserved the cold.

"I'm fine," he whispered. "Just let me clean up."

"Atsumu." Kiyoomi's voice was strained. "Your clothes are torn. There's blood on your neck. You are not fine."

"Please." The word came out broken, desperate. "Just—let me—" He couldn't finish the sentence. He pushed past Kiyoomi, heading for the bathroom, and shut the door behind him.

The lock clicked.

He stood in the small, tiled room, staring at himself in the mirror. The person staring back was a stranger. His hair was a mess, tangled and matted. His lip was split, the blood already drying into a dark crust. A bruise forming on his jaw, purple and red, and another on his collarbone, peeking out from under his collar.

He undressed slowly, methodically, like peeling off a skin that didn't belong to him anymore. The hoodie came off first. Then his shirt. His jeans. His underwear.

The bruises bloomed across his torso like a dark flower. His ribs were a constellation of marks. Scratches on his shoulders, a deeper bruise on his hip, and marks on his inner thighs that made his stomach lurch.

He turned away from the mirror and sat on the edge of the tub, his head in his hands. The tears came then—not the quiet, controlled kind, but the ugly, heaving kind that tore through his chest and left him gasping. He pressed his palm against his mouth to muffle the sound, but it didn't work. The sobs leaked through, raw and animal.

It is so hard sometimes to love you.

The words echoed in the empty bathroom, in the hollow space where his heart used to be. He'd been stupid to leave. Stupid to think he could handle himself. Stupid to expect Kiyoomi to love him without effort, without cost.

He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked, the cold tile biting into his bare skin. He didn't know how long he sat there. Minutes. Hours. Time didn't exist in that small, white room.

A soft knock on the door brought him back.

"Atsumu." Kiyoomi's voice was low, careful. "Talk to me. Please."

Atsumu opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He tried again. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry." The words were thick, cracked. "I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't have—I'm sorry I'm so hard to love."

Silence. Then, softer: "Open the door."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Atsumu looked at the door. At the locked handle. At the pale light slipping through the crack underneath. He reached out, his hand shaking, and turned the lock.

The door swung open.

Kiyoomi stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light of the living room. He took in the scene—Atsumu sitting on the edge of the tub, naked, bruised, tears streaming down his face—and something in his expression crumbled. The cold mask he wore so well fell away, replaced by raw, unfiltered pain.

"Oh, Atsumu."

He stepped forward, slow, giving Atsumu time to pull back. Atsumu didn't move. Couldn't. Just sat there, shivering, exposed, waiting for judgment to fall.

Kiyoomi knelt in front of him. He didn't touch him. Just looked, his dark eyes traveling over the bruises, the scratches, the marks that shouldn't be there. His hand came up, hovering near Atsumu's cheek, waiting for permission.

Atsumu leaned into it.

The touch was light, barely there, but it broke something in him. He sobbed again, ugly and loud, and Kiyoomi pulled him forward, wrapping him in his arms, careful not to press where it hurt.

"I'm sorry," Atsumu choked out against Kiyoomi's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shh. Stop."

"I ruined everything. I made you say that—I made you—"

"I shouldn't have said it." Kiyoomi's voice was thick, rough. "I was angry. I didn't mean it. It's not hard to love you. I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry."

Atsumu shook his head, pressing his face into the warmth of Kiyoomi's neck. "But it's true. I am hard. I'm loud, and messy, and I leave my bags everywhere, and I—"

"Stop." Kiyoomi pulled back, just enough to look him in the eyes. His own eyes were wet, red-rimmed. "You are not hard to love. You are the easiest thing in my life. You're the only thing that makes sense. And I'm sorry I made you forget that."

Atsumu stared at him, searching for a lie. Found none.

"Come on." Kiyoomi stood, offering a hand. "Let's get you cleaned up. We'll figure out the rest in the morning."

Atsumu took his hand. His fingers were cold, but Kiyoomi's grip was warm and steady.

They stayed in the bathroom for a long time, the water running, the lights low, and neither of them spoke about what happened in the alley. Not tonight. There would be time for that later—for police, for hospitals, for all the difficult, necessary conversations. But for now, there was only the warmth of Kiyoomi's hands, the soap against his skin, the quiet murmur of, "It's okay. I've got you."

Atsumu closed his eyes and let himself be held.

It was hard sometimes. But maybe that was okay. Maybe love wasn't supposed to be easy. Maybe it was supposed to be this—messy and painful and full of apologies and forgiveness and the slow, patient work of putting each other back together.

Maybe that was enough.