The Taste of Home

The apartment smelled like stale soy sauce and regret. Empty takeout containers—yakiniku, karaage—scattered across the coffee table like a battlefield. Somewhere under the pile of jackets and volleyball kneepads on the floor, Atsumu’s keys had vanished for the third time this week. Late-morning sun bled through the thin curtains, painting pale stripes across the cluttered living room.

In the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of cheap shochu sat next to a mug with week-old tea residue. Osamu hadn’t bothered to clean it. Hadn’t bothered to do much of anything except sit on the cracked leather couch and scroll through his phone with that dull, familiar ache of a morning off.

He heard the key turn in the lock—finally—and the door swung open with a creak.

Atsumu stepped inside. First thing Osamu noticed: the red skirt. Short. Ridiculously so. The kind of thing that made you wonder how anyone could walk without flashing the whole world. A black leather top hugging his brother’s torso. Hair a disaster—tousled, tangled, still holding the ghost of product from the night before. Makeup smeared, mascara bleeding into the hollows under his eyes. He looked like he’d been through a war.

Osamu didn’t look up from his phone. “How’d it go?”

Atsumu kicked off his heels—strappy, ridiculously high things Osamu would never understand—and dropped his small clutch bag on the floor by the door. “Fine.”

One word. Flat. Dead.

Osamu’s thumb paused over the screen. He kept his eyes down. “Yeah?”

“Mmm.” Atsumu shuffled past the couch, heading for the hallway that led to the bedroom. Steps slow, weighted. He didn’t meet Osamu’s gaze.

Osamu watched him go out of the corner of his eye. The skirt swayed around Atsumu’s thighs. A faint redness on the back of his neck—hickey or rash, hard to tell. He disappeared into the bedroom. The door clicked shut.

For a long moment, the apartment was silent except for the hum of the fridge.

Osamu put his phone down.

Something wasn’t right. Not just the usual after-date disappointment. Atsumu was loud about everything—his wins, his losses, his anger, his joy. Silence from him was a red flag the size of a volleyball court.

He waited. Two minutes. Five. The bedroom door didn’t open.

Osamu got up.

Walked down the narrow hallway, past the framed photo of their high school team—Bokuto’s arm slung over Atsumu’s shoulder, Osamu scowling in the back—and stopped outside the bedroom door.

Knocked. Softly.

“Tsumu.”

No answer.

Knocked again, a little louder. “Oi. You okay?”

A muffled sound through the door. Could’ve been a sniffle.

Osamu’s chest tightened. He turned the handle.

The bedroom was dim, curtains drawn. Atsumu sat on the edge of his bed, still in the skirt and top, face buried in his hands. Shoulders shaking.

Osamu didn’t say anything. Just stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Atsumu heard him. Didn’t look up. “Go away.”

“No.”

“I said go away, ‘Samu.”

Osamu walked over and sat down on the bed beside him. The mattress dipped. He didn’t touch him—not yet. Just sat there, quiet and solid, like he always was when the world got too loud for his twin.

Atsumu’s breathing ragged. His hands pressed harder against his face, like he could push the tears back in.

Osamu waited.

Eventually, Atsumu dropped his hands. His face was blotchy, eyes swollen, lips swollen too—bruised-looking. Mascara had made dark rivers down his cheeks. He looked wrecked.

“It was a disaster,” he said, voice cracking.

“Tell me.”

Atsumu let out a bitter, broken laugh. “What’s there to tell? I went on a date. Wore that outfit ‘cause he said he liked it. I let him—I let him do whatever he wanted. And then he just… left. Rolled over, checked his phone, said he had work early, and left. Didn’t even offer to call me a cab.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened.

“I was lyin’ there in his bed, still half-naked, and he just—” Atsumu’s voice broke again. Wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “He didn’t even say goodbye. Just ‘I’ll text you’ and the door closed.”

“Did he text?”

Atsumu laughed again, but it sounded like a sob. “No. He won’t. They never do.”

Osamu’s hands curled into fists on his knees. “How many is this?”

“What does it matter?” Atsumu’s voice rose, sharp and defensive. “It’s always the same. I go out, I look good, I let ‘em have what they want, and then they’re done. That’s it. That’s all I’m good for.”

“That’s not true.”

“Stop.” Atsumu turned to look at him, eyes wild and red-rimmed. “Stop sayin’ that. You don’t know. You don’t know what it’s like to be—to be just a body. A pretty thing they can use and throw away. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up alone in some stranger’s apartment, wonderin’ if you even said your own name right.”

Osamu’s throat went tight.

Atsumu’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I just wanted him to hold me. For like, five minutes. Is that so much to ask?”

The silence stretched, thin and fragile as glass.

Osamu shifted closer. Very slowly, he reached out and put his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. The leather top was cold and smooth under his fingers. Atsumu flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know what it’s like,” Osamu said, low. “Can’t pretend to. But I know what it’s like to see you come home like this. And it makes me want to find that guy and break his face.”

Atsumu let out a wet, shaky laugh. “Violent side comin’ out, ‘Samu?”

“Always been there.” Osamu squeezed his shoulder. “Just gotta know when to use it.”

Atsumu looked down at his own hands. Nail polish chipped, skin around his cuticles raw and bitten. “I don’t even know why I keep doin’ this. I tell myself it’s gonna be different. That this time he’ll actually like me. But they never do. They just like the way I look in a skirt.”

“You’re more than that.”

“Am I?” Atsumu’s voice broke again. “Because I’m startin’ to think that’s the only thing worth lovin’ about me. The sex. The body. The—the stupid twin thing, maybe, for the novelty. But not me. Not Atsumu. Just… the setter. The hot twin. The one who’s easy.”

Osamu’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Don’t.”

“Why not? It’s true.” Atsumu’s tears spilled over again, hot and silent. “I’m twenty-four and I’ve never been on a real date. Like, flowers and coffee and a walk in the park. I just wanna—I just wanna feel pretty for someone who doesn’t wanna take my clothes off five minutes later. Is that too much? Am I too selfish for wantin’ that?”

His voice broke into a sob, and he crumpled forward, forehead hitting Osamu’s shoulder. The skirt rode up as he curled into himself. Osamu felt the wet heat of his tears seeping through his hoodie.

Osamu wrapped his arms around him.

It was rare—these hugs. They’d never been a touchy family. Growing up, they fought more than they hugged. Even now, physical affection was reserved for extremes: victory on the court, injury, or nights like this.

Atsumu shook in his arms. His hands clutched at the back of Osamu’s hoodie, grabbing fistfuls of the soft cotton like he was afraid of falling.

“You’re beautiful,” Osamu said quietly. “And I don’t mean like—like that. I mean you’re beautiful when you laugh at stupid things. When you yell at the TV during matches. When you wake up with bedhead and drool on your face and you still look like you could take on the world.” He paused. “You’re beautiful when you set. When you get that look in your eyes, like you know exactly where the ball’s gonna go before anyone else does. That’s the beautiful part. Not your legs or your face or whatever else they’re after.”

Atsumu’s sobs quieted, but the trembling didn’t stop.

“You’re worth more than a hookup,” Osamu continued. “Always have been. And if these guys can’t see that, they don’t deserve to even look at you.”

Atsumu pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Face a mess—streaked, blotchy, utterly vulnerable. “But what if that’s all anyone sees? What if I’m just—what if I’m not good enough for anything else?”

“Then you find new people.” Osamu’s voice firm. “Cut out the ones who only want one thing. Be alone for a while if you have to. But don’t settle for someone who treats you like a takeout meal.”

Atsumu let out a weak laugh. “That’s rich, comin’ from you. Mr. Relationship Goals. You and that girl—you’ve been together for two years and you still open doors for her.”

“Three years,” Osamu corrected. “And yeah, I do. Because she deserves to feel respected. And so do you.”

Atsumu looked away, gaze fixed on the rumpled sheets of his bed. “I envy you, you know.”

Osamu blinked. “What?”

“You got the slow lane. The—the patience. The person who actually waits for you to be ready. I just… I dive headfirst and hope someone catches me, and they never do.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I’m tired, ‘Samu. I’m so damn tired.”

Osamu didn’t have words big enough for that. So he just pulled his brother closer, resting his chin on top of Atsumu’s head.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Eventually, Atsumu’s breathing evened out. The shaking stopped. He pulled away, sniffling, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“I’m a mess,” he muttered.

“Yeah, you look like a raccoon that got hit by a truck.”

“Rude.”

“Honest.”

Atsumu tried to smile, and it almost worked. “Thanks. For… listenin’.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Osamu stood up, stretching his back. “I’m making breakfast. Onigiri. You want some?”

Atsumu hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Go change first. You look like you’re about to go clubbin’ at noon.”

Atsumu looked down at the skirt and leather top, as if seeing them for the first time. Expression shifted—something between shame and exhaustion. “I don’t even know why I wore this.”

“Because he asked you to,” Osamu said, softer now. “But you don’t have to be what they want, Tsumu. Just be you. The right person will want that.”

Atsumu didn’t answer. But he got up, finally, and shuffled to the dresser to pull out a pair of sweatpants and an old MSBY hoodie.

Osamu left him to it and headed to the kitchen.

The kitchen was a disaster. Dishes piled in the sink, crumbs on the counter, a sticky ring on the table from where Osamu had left a bottle of sauce open. He rolled up his sleeves, wiped down the counter, and started pulling out ingredients.

Rice in the cooker. Fillings: salted salmon, pickled plum, a little mentaiko. He worked with the practiced efficiency of someone who did this every day—because he did. Cooking was his thing. His calm. While Atsumu ran himself ragged chasing approval, Osamu found peace in the simple act of making food.

Atsumu shuffled in a few minutes later, hair still a wreck but now wearing the hoodie and sweatpants. He looked smaller. Younger. Like the kid who used to cry when he lost a video game.

He sat down at the kitchen table without a word.

Osamu kept working. The rhythmic thump of the knife against the cutting board filled the silence. He shaped the rice balls with his hands, pressing just firm enough to hold them together without crushing the grains.

When he was done, he placed two onigiri on a plate, along with a small bowl of miso soup made from instant paste and hot water—nothing fancy, but warm and familiar.

He set the plate in front of Atsumu, along with a pair of chopsticks.

Atsumu stared at the food. Eyes still red, nose still runny, but he picked up the chopsticks and took a bite.

The rice was perfect. Slightly warm, slightly sweet, the salmon salty and rich.

He ate in silence. Osamu sat across from him, sipping a glass of water, watching.

When Atsumu finished, he set the chopsticks down and said, without looking up, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For—this. For comin’ home like this. For makin’ you deal with my drama.”

Osamu set his glass down. “You don’t apologize for needing help, Tsumu. That’s what I’m here for.”

Atsumu’s lip wobbled, but he held it together. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yeah, you do. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re my pain in the ass.”

That pulled a genuine smile out of Atsumu—small and fragile, but real.

Osamu stood up and started rinsing the dishes. “I have practice at two. You wanna come watch?”

“Maybe.” Atsumu wrapped his hands around the empty miso bowl, warming his fingers. “I should probably wash my face first. Look like a zombie.”

“You always look like a zombie. It’s the eyeliner.”

“Rude.”

“Honest.”

The banter felt normal. Safe.

Osamu dried his hands and walked back over to the table. He paused beside Atsumu’s chair, looking down at him.

“Hey.”

Atsumu looked up.

Osamu’s gaze steady. “You’re not just good for sex. Never were. And if I ever hear you say that again, I’ll make you run suicides until you puke.”

Atsumu snorted. “That’s your threat?”

“It worked in high school.”

“We’re not in high school anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t still boss you around.” Osamu’s expression softened. “Seriously, though. You’re my twin. My brother. And you’re one of the best setters in the world. But more than that, you’re a good person, Atsumu. Even when you’re being an arrogant little shit. And I won’t let you forget it.”

Atsumu’s eyes welled up again, but he blinked the tears away. “Stop. I’m gonna start cryin’ again.”

“Then I’ll make you more onigiri.”

“Blackmail with carbs. Low blow.”

Osamu grinned—rare, genuine. “I learned from the best.”

He turned to leave, but Atsumu’s voice stopped him.

“Samu?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” The word came out small, almost swallowed. “For not makin’ me feel like a freak.”

Osamu looked back over his shoulder. “You’re not a freak. You’re just looking for love in all the wrong places. You’ll find it. But until then… you’ve got me.”

Atsumu nodded, and for the first time that morning, the tension in his shoulders eased.

He stayed at the table while Osamu finished cleaning up. The apartment slowly started to smell like soap instead of takeout. The sunlight shifted, climbing higher into the sky.

Eventually, Atsumu got up and went to the bathroom. Washed his face, scrubbed off the remnants of last night’s makeup, and stared at himself in the mirror.

His reflection looked tired. Hollow in some places. But the eyes—those were still there. The same ones that had stared down the best servers in Japan, that had called out plays before they happened, that had refused to give up on impossible balls.

Maybe he could refuse to give up on himself too.

He dried his face and walked back into the living room. Osamu was pulling on his jacket, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Leavin’?”

“Yeah. Got a few hours before practice, but I wanna stop by the store.” He paused, then added, “You stayed over at my place that one time and I bought the wrong brand of shampoo. Still mad about it.”

Atsumu huffed a laugh. “How can you mess up shampoo? It’s literally in the name.”

“You’d be surprised.”

They stood in the small entryway, a strange tension now that the crisis had passed. Atsumu shifted his weight, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants.

Osamu reached out and ruffled his hair—the kind of rough, brotherly gesture they’d shared since childhood. “You look better.”

“I look like a wet cat.”

“A cute wet cat.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched up.

Osamu opened the door, then paused. Turned back, expression serious.

“Hey. One more thing.”

“What?”

“You wore that skirt and top because he asked, right? But honestly? You looked good in it. Not like—not like that. I mean, the color suits you. Red’s your color. Makes your eyes stand out.”

Atsumu blinked, caught off guard.

Osamu shrugged, a little awkward. “Just sayin’. You don’t need to dress up for anyone to look good. Your regular face is fine too.”

He stepped out before Atsumu could reply, the door clicking shut behind him.

Atsumu stood there in the empty apartment, the compliment hanging in the air like a warm breeze.

Not sexual. Not about his body. Just… nice.

He pressed his hand to his chest, where something tight and painful had loosened just a little.

And for the first time in weeks, he thought maybe—just maybe—he could believe it.

He shuffled over to the couch, grabbed the throw blanket that was perpetually draped over the armrest, and curled up in the corner. The fabric smelled like Osamu’s detergent. Clean. Safe.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. But the exhaustion of the night, the tears, the release—it all pulled him under like a tide.

When Osamu came back an hour later, bags in hand, he found his brother asleep on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, mouth slightly open.

He set the groceries down and quietly pulled the blanket up over Atsumu’s shoulders, tucking it in at the edges.

Atsumu stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible.

“Shh. Go back to sleep.”

He did.

Osamu stood there for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his brother’s chest. The red was gone from his eyes. The tension had faded from his face. He looked young. Peaceful.

Osamu made a mental note to check in more often. To ask about the dates before they happened. To offer to go with him, even if it was just to sit in a café nearby and pretend to read a book.

He couldn’t fix all of it. But he could be there.

And for now, that was enough.

He took out his phone and sent a quick text to his girlfriend: “Gonna be home late tonight. Brother stuff.”

Her reply came a minute later: “He okay?”

“Getting there.”

“Good. Send him my love.”

Osamu smiled and pocketed the phone.

In the living room, the sunlight painted golden stripes across the floor, and Atsumu slept on, breathing easy.

And in the quiet of the afternoon, surrounded by the clutter of two lives woven together, Osamu sat down at the kitchen table and started planning what to cook for dinner.

Something easy. Something warm.

Something that tasted like home.