Catch Every Tear

The gymnasium smelled like sweat and squeaky rubber. Volleyballs smacked the floor, shoes screeched, and the air was thick enough to chew on. Inarizaki's afternoon practice was in full swing—Suna moving with that lazy grace of his, setting up for a block, Ginjima shouting formations from the back row.

Miya Atsumu was everywhere at once. Blonde hair pulled back by a thin black headband, winged eyeliner sharp as a knife. He wore a white tube top under his practice jersey, the fabric cut just so to show off his collarbones and the soft line of his shoulders. A short black skirt swished around his thighs, compression shorts underneath. To anyone watching, he was pure swagger—the cocky setter who could thread a needle with his tosses and talk trash like it was poetry.

But Osamu knew better.

He watched from across the net as Atsumu caught his own reflection in the equipment room door. His brother paused mid-step, turned his head left, then right. Fingertips brushed his jaw, tracing some invisible line. He was checking again. He'd checked before practice started, during water breaks, twice when he thought no one was looking.

"Samu." Atsumu appeared at his elbow, voice low. "Does this look okay? The eyeliner—is it even? I think I messed up the right eye."

Osamu didn't look up from tightening his ankle brace. "It's fine."

"You're not even looking."

"I've seen it three times already today. Looked fine then, looks fine now."

Atsumu's hand came up to his face again, fingers hovering over his cheekbone. "But the shade—do you think it makes my eyes look small? Kita-san said my eyes are small. He didn't mean it bad, he just said they are. But they're small, Samu. Is that a bad thing?"

Osamu finally looked. Really looked. His twin brother's face was painted with precision—foundation that matched, subtle highlight on the cheekbones, eyes lined with careful strokes. The tube top sat straight. The skirt fell at the right length. He looked exactly the same as he had the last ten times he asked. He looked like he always did: beautiful, if you were into that sort of thing.

"It's fine, Atsumu. You look like you always do."

Atsumu's brow furrowed. "But is that good? Is looking like I always do good? Yer not answering my question."

"Yer askin' too many questions." Osamu stood up, grabbed his water bottle. "We got practice to finish."

He walked away, but he felt Atsumu's gaze on his back, hungry for something Osamu didn't know how to give.

---

Practice resumed with the usual intensity. First-years ran drills while regulars worked on combination plays. Osamu watched his brother move—the way his tosses were crisp and perfect, how his fingers seemed to caress the ball before sending it toward Ginjima's waiting hand.

Between plays, Atsumu tugged at the hem of his tube top. Adjusted his skirt. Touched his face.

The motions were so frequent they'd become background noise. Suna caught Osamu's eye during a water break, raised an eyebrow in a silent question. Osamu shrugged. He didn't know what Atsumu's deal was. He never knew.

The twins had always been like that—two halves of a whole that didn't quite fit together. Atsumu was the loud one, the bright one, the one who demanded attention like a flower demanding sunlight. Osamu was the quiet one, the steady one, the one who watched from the sidelines and saw things others missed.

He saw the way Atsumu's hands trembled when he thought no one was looking. He saw how his brother's smile didn't quite reach his eyes when a first-year complimented his look. He saw the way Atsumu hovered near mirrors and windows and any reflective surface, searching for validation in his own reflection.

Exhausting to watch. Even more exhausting to be the one Atsumu turned to, again and again, asking for reassurance Osamu didn't know how to give because he didn't understand why it was needed in the first place.

The next play ended with a clean spike from Suna, and the team scattered to reset. Atsumu jogged past Osamu, and for a moment, their shoulders brushed.

"Samu." His voice was small, stripped of the bravado he wore like armor. "Am I pretty?"

The question hung in the air between them, fragile as glass. Osamu stopped walking. He turned to face his brother, and what he saw made something twist in his chest. Atsumu's eyes were wide, earnest, vulnerable. He wasn't joking. He wasn't fishing for compliments with that playful smirk. He was asking, genuinely asking, as if the answer mattered more than their next match.

Osamu could have said yes. Could have said something kind, something that would have eased the tension in Atsumu's shoulders and put that real smile back on his face.

Instead, the words came out like they always did—sharp, sarcastic, born from years of twinly teasing and the comfortable cruelty that comes from growing up with someone who knows every one of your weaknesses.

"Why? Yer thinkin' of enterin' a beauty pageant? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, with that face, yer not gonna win."

Ginjima laughed from somewhere behind them. Suna snorted into his water bottle.

Atsumu's face went blank.

For a moment, nothing happened. The gym continued its usual rhythm—balls bouncing, shoes squeaking, teammates calling out. The world didn't stop for Miya Atsumu's silent devastation.

But Osamu saw it. He saw the way his brother's eyes went glassy, the way his bottom lip trembled almost imperceptibly before he pressed his lips together into a thin line. Atsumu turned away, and Osamu thought that was it, thought his brother would make some biting comment and the moment would pass like all their other moments.

Then Atsumu's shoulders started shaking.

Subtle at first, a slight tremor that could have been mistaken for a shiver. But Atsumu's hands came up to cover his face, and the shaking intensified, and Osamu realized with rising horror that his brother was crying.

Atsumu never cried. Not when they were five and he fell out of a tree and broke his arm. Not when they were ten and their grandmother died. Not when they were fourteen and lost their first tournament in the qualifying rounds. Atsumu cried at movies sometimes, but only when he thought no one was watching, and he always wiped his eyes before anyone could see.

He didn't cry in the middle of practice. He didn't cry in front of the team.

But here he was, standing in the center of the Inarizaki gymnasium, shoulders shaking violently, silent sobs wracking his body as tears streamed down his face and ruined the careful makeup he had spent so long perfecting.

"Tsumu?" Osamu's voice came out wrong, too high, too scared.

The gym had gone quiet. The balls stopped bouncing. The shoes stopped squeaking. Everyone was staring at the setter who had fallen apart in the middle of afternoon practice.

Suna was the first to move, taking a step forward before stopping himself. His sharp eyes darted between the twins, assessing, calculating. Ginjima's mouth hung open, a volleyball dangling from his fingertips. The first-years looked like deer caught in headlights, unsure whether to run or pretend they hadn't seen anything.

And Kita Shinsuke, their captain, stood motionless at the edge of the court, his expression unreadable.

"Tsumu," Osamu said again, reaching out to touch his brother's shoulder. "I was jokin'. It was a joke. Y'know I was jokin'."

Atsumu flinched away from his touch, and the movement was like a punch to Osamu's gut. He had never—not once in their seventeen years—had Atsumu flinch away from him. They had fought, sure. Screamed at each other, thrown things, tackled each other to the ground. But they had never, ever flinched away.

"D-don't." Atsumu's voice cracked, broken and raw. "Just—don't."

The tears were flowing freely now, black mascara and eyeliner running down his cheeks in dark rivers. His carefully applied foundation was streaking, revealing the redness underneath. He looked nothing like the confident, flashy setter who commanded the court with aggressive demands and perfect tosses.

He looked like a scared kid.

"Everyone," Kita's voice cut through the tension, calm and steady as always. "Give them space. Water break. Five minutes."

The team dispersed like leaves scattered by wind, but no one went far. They clustered near the water station, pretending to drink, pretending to talk, but their eyes kept drifting back to the twins standing alone in the middle of the court.

Kita lingered for a moment longer, meeting Osamu's gaze. His expression was careful, but there was something in his eyes—not quite disappointment, but close. A reminder that words had weight, and that some weights were heavier than others.

Then he turned and walked away, leaving Osamu alone with his crying brother.

"Tsumu." Osamu's voice was barely a whisper. "Tsumu, I didn't mean it. Y'know I didn't mean it. I was just—I was bein' stupid. I'm always stupid. Please, just look at me."

Atsumu shook his head, hands still pressed against his face. His shoulders heaved with the effort of trying to stifle his sobs, but they escaped anyway, muffled and broken.

"I'm ugly," Atsumu choked out. "I know I'm ugly. Every day I wake up and I look in the mirror and I think maybe today will be different, but it's not. It's never different. I'm always the same plain face, the same boring eyes, the same—" His voice broke entirely, dissolving into a sob.

Osamu felt like he was drowning. "That's not true."

"It is true!" Atsumu's hands dropped from his face, revealing the full extent of his devastation. His eyes were red and swollen, his face blotchy, mascara creating dark circles that made him look like a ghost. "Yer the only one who tells me the truth, Samu. Everyone else lies 'cause they feel sorry for me. But you—you always tell me the truth. You said I'm not pretty. You said I can't win. You were right."

"No." Osamu's voice cracked. "No, I was wrong. I was so wrong. I was bein' an asshole, Tsumu. I'm always an asshole. I say stupid things 'cause I don't know how to say nice things. But you—you're beautiful. You've always been beautiful. I was just too stupid to see that you needed to hear it."

"Why don't I believe you?" Atsumu whispered, and the question was so honest, so raw, that Osamu felt his own eyes start to burn.

"'Cause I've been tellin' you the wrong thing for too long." Osamu reached out again, slowly this time, giving Atsumu time to pull away. When he didn't, Osamu's hand settled on his brother's shoulder, gentle and grounding. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Tsumu. I didn't know—I didn't realize—"

"Nobody realizes," Atsumu said, and his voice was hollow in a way that scared Osamu more than the crying had. "Nobody sees it. They see the makeup and the clothes and the confidence, and they think that's all there is. But underneath it all, I'm just—I'm just plain Atsumu. The boring twin. The one who talks too much and tries too hard and still isn't good enough."

"Who told you that?" Osamu's voice was a growl. "Who told you that you're the boring twin? 'Cause I'll kill 'em."

"You did." Atsumu's eyes met his, and the pain in them made Osamu want to shatter. "Every time I asked if I was pretty and you made a joke. Every time I asked if I looked okay and you shrugged. Every time I needed you to tell me I was enough, and you told me I was too much."

The words hit Osamu like a spike to the chest. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could he say? His brother was right. He had done exactly what Atsumu was accusing him of, day after day, year after year, never once thinking about the impact of his careless words.

He had thought their dynamic was normal. Twins teased each other. Twins were brutal to each other. It was part of the package, part of the closeness, part of the unique bond that only twins could understand.

But he had missed the line between teasing and cruelty. He had crossed it so long ago that he couldn't even remember what the other side looked like.

"I thought—" Osamu's voice broke. "I thought you knew. I thought you knew I was jokin'. I thought you knew that I think you're—that you're the best thing about bein' me. Without you, I'm just some guy. With you, I'm a twin. I'm half of somethin' bigger. And I never—I never told you that, did I?"

Atsumu's lip wobbled. "No. You never did."

"I'm an idiot." Osamu wrapped his arms around his brother, pulling him close. Atsumu stiffened for a moment, then crumpled, burying his face in Osamu's shoulder. "I'm the biggest idiot in the whole prefecture. Maybe in the whole country. Maybe in the whole world. I've been so busy bein' a twin that I forgot to be a brother."

"You're always a brother," Atsumu mumbled against his shoulder. "Even when you're bein' an asshole."

"Not a good one, though." Osamu tightened his hold. "But I want to be. I want to be better. I'll do better, Tsumu. I promise."

They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, while the team pretended not to watch. Kita stood near the water station, arms crossed, expression soft. Suna had his phone out, but he wasn't looking at it—he was watching the twins with an intensity that belied his usual disinterest. Ginjima had tears in his eyes, which he was trying very hard to hide.

Slowly, Atsumu's sobs subsided into hiccups, then silence. He pulled back, wiping at his face with the back of his hand and smearing the ruined makeup even further.

"I look terrible," he said, and there was a ghost of his usual humor in his voice.

"Yeah," Osamu agreed, then quickly added, "but only 'cause yer cryin'. Without the cryin', you look real nice. The skirt's a good look on you."

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. "Yer just sayin' that 'cause I cried."

"No, I mean it." Osamu grabbed his brother's shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. "I mean it, Tsumu. You asked me if you were pretty, and I made a joke 'cause I didn't know how to say yes without soundin' weird. But the answer is yes. You're pretty. You're the prettiest person I know, and I'm not just sayin' that 'cause you're my twin. I'm sayin' it 'cause it's true."

"Stop." Atsumu's eyes were welling up again. "Yer gonna make me cry again."

"Then cry. I'll catch every tear if I have to." Osamu pulled him back into a hug. "Whatever you need, Tsumu. Just tell me, and I'll do it. I'll be better. I'll tell you you're pretty every day if that's what it takes."

"Every day?"

"Every single day. Multiple times a day. I'll yell it from the rooftop if you want."

Atsumu laughed, and the sound was watery and broken, but it was real. It was the most beautiful thing Osamu had heard in weeks.

"Can we—" Atsumu hesitated. "Can we talk? After practice? Alone?"

"Yeah." Osamu pulled back, keeping one hand on his brother's shoulder. "Yeah, of course. We can talk as long as you want."

Atsumu nodded, wiping at his face again. "I need to fix my makeup."

"I think it looks fine."

"It looks like a horror movie."

"A really pretty horror movie."

Atsumu snorted, and for a moment, he looked like himself again. Not the polished, confident version he showed the world, but the real Atsumu—the one who laughed at terrible jokes, who got emotional over sappy movies, who cared so deeply about everything that sometimes it broke him.

"Come on." Suna appeared beside them, holding a damp towel. "Your face is a mess."

Atsumu took the towel with a mumbled thanks, pressing it against his eyes. Suna stood there for a moment, then reached out and squeezed his shoulder once, a brief gesture of support that spoke volumes.

"We were worried," Suna said quietly. "Not just about the crying. We've been worried for a while."

"You knew?" Osamu asked, surprised.

Suna's sharp eyes flickered to him. "We're observant. Kita-san noticed weeks ago. Ginjima too. We just didn't know how to say anything."

Kita approached, his footsteps measured and calm. He stopped a respectful distance away, his gaze on Atsumu.

"When you're ready, come to me. We'll adjust your practice schedule if you need time. There's no shame in taking a moment to breathe."

Atsumu nodded, pressing the towel harder against his eyes. "I'm sorry. For—for causing a scene."

"Don't apologize." Kita's voice was gentle but firm. "You needed to feel. That's never something to apologize for."

The team filtered back onto the court slowly, giving the twins space but staying close enough to show their support. Ginjima brought Atsumu a fresh water bottle. The first-years offered shy smiles and awkward thumbs-ups. Even the coach, who had been watching from the sidelines, gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment.

Osamu stayed by his brother's side for the rest of practice. He didn't hover, didn't smother, but he was there—a steady presence, ready to catch Atsumu if he stumbled.

After practice, when the gym had emptied and the sun was setting through the high windows, they sat together on the bleachers. Atsumu had cleaned his face, leaving it bare and pink from all the rubbing. Without the makeup, he looked younger, more vulnerable.

"I started wearin' makeup in middle school," he said, staring at his hands. "At first, it was just 'cause I liked it. Then I started noticin' that people treated me different when I wore it. They looked at me more. They complimented me. They saw me."

"I see you without makeup," Osamu said.

"You're my twin. You have to see me."

"I choose to see you." Osamu bumped his shoulder against Atsumu's. "There's a difference."

Atsumu was quiet for a long moment. Then, so quietly Osamu almost missed it: "I don't think I'm pretty, Samu. I look in the mirror, and I see the same face I've always seen. The same boring eyes, the same plain nose, the same stupid mouth. And I think—if I can't see it, how can anyone else? So I keep tryin' to make myself look better, but it never feels like enough. It never feels like I'm enough."

Osamu's heart ached. "Tsumu..."

"I know it's stupid." Atsumu's voice was thick. "I know it's shallow and vain and I should be grateful for what I have. But I can't help it. I look at you, and I see someone who's confident without tryin'. I look at Suna, and I see someone who doesn't care what anyone thinks. I look at Kita-san, and I see someone so comfortable in his own skin that he doesn't need anyone else's approval. And I think—why can't I be like that? Why do I need everyone to think I'm pretty to feel like I matter?"

"It's not stupid," Osamu said. "It's not shallow. It's just—it's who you are. And who you are is someone who cares about how they look, and that's fine. There's nothin' wrong with wantin' to feel pretty. There's nothin' wrong with needin' validation. Everyone needs it sometimes."

"But I need it all the time."

"Then I'll give it to you all the time." Osamu turned to face his brother fully. "Listen to me, Tsumu. I've spent seventeen years bein' your twin, and I've never once thought you were plain. You've got the brightest eyes I've ever seen. You've got a smile that could light up the whole gym. You've got this way of movin' that makes people stop and watch. And yeah, you're my brother, so maybe I'm biased. But I think you're beautiful. With or without the makeup. With or without the skirts. You're beautiful because you're you."

Tears were streaming down Atsumu's face again, but this time, he was smiling.

"Yer gonna make me cry again."

"Then cry." Osamu pulled him into a hug. "I told you—I'll catch every tear."

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other on the empty bleachers, while the sun continued to set and the world continued to turn. When they finally pulled apart, Atsumu's smile was shaky but real.

"I'm gonna hold you to that promise," he said. "Every day. Multiple times a day."

"I know." Osamu grinned. "I'm ready."

As they walked out of the gym together, shoulders brushing, Osamu caught a glimpse of their reflection in the glass doors. Two twins, identical but different, walking side by side.

And for the first time in a long time, Atsumu looked at his reflection and didn't look away.