Communication, Consent, Protection

The first time Osamu caught his twin brother with his mouth full of some guy’s dick, he didn’t scream. Didn’t even gasp. Just stood in the doorway, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, watching the scene freeze like a video on pause.

Atsumu had his back to the door, head bobbing over some guy sprawled on Osamu’s futon. Not Atsumu’s. Osamu’s. The guy—silver hair, slack-jawed bliss—had his fingers tangled in Atsumu’s bleached-blond hair. The room smelled like sweat and something sour, and the afternoon light caught the glisten on Atsumu’s lips.

Three seconds. Maybe four. Osamu’s brain filed it under things I will never unsee and his body took over. He backed out, closed the door with a click, and walked to the kitchen. Poured water. Drank it. Stared at the wall.

The guy left ten minutes later, shoes squeaking, mumbling about practice. Atsumu didn’t come out for another hour. When he did, he grabbed chips, flopped on the couch, turned on TV.

“Hey,” he said, not looking at Osamu.

“Hey,” Osamu said back, also not looking.

They didn’t talk about it. Not that night. Not the next day. Not the one after.

Things got weird. Awkward. Osamu started eating dinner in his room. Atsumu started coming home later, hair mussed, collar crooked. Bare minimum words: “Pass the rice.” “Your turn to wash dishes.” “Don’t use all the hot water.”

Their mom noticed. Asked if they’d fought. They both said no, in unison, flat. She didn’t push.

But Osamu couldn’t stop thinking. Not about the act itself—he knew Atsumu was bi, had known since middle school when Atsumu said some actor was “real pretty.” What bugged him was the casualness. That Atsumu had just… done that. With a guy Osamu didn’t know. On Osamu’s futon.

And then there was the other thing. The thing that made his stomach twist every time he replayed it.

He’d seen Atsumu’s bare chest. Just a glimpse. The curve, the softness that shouldn’t be there.

Atsumu used to be a girl.

They didn’t talk about that either. Not since Atsumu announced in first year of middle school he was a boy, was gonna cut his hair and wear a binder and be called Atsumu instead of Atsuko. Their parents were confused but supportive. Osamu just nodded and said, “Okay, Tsumu.”

And that was that. Except it wasn’t. Because bodies don’t change overnight. Because Atsumu still had breasts, even under layers of compression. Because Osamu had never seen them, never asked, never wanted to know.

Until now.

Thursday evening, a week after the incident, Osamu finally broke.

Both in the living room. Atsumu sprawled on the floor, scrolling, legs kicked up on the coffee table. Osamu on the couch, pretending to study, staring at the same kanji for fifteen minutes.

“Hey, Tsumu.” His voice came out rougher than he meant.

Atsumu didn’t look up. “What.”

“Did ya ever… ya know…” Osamu trailed off, face heating. He gripped the textbook tighter.

Atsumu glanced over, eyebrow up. “Did I ever what?”

“Did ya ever do that? Before.”

Atsumu’s face flickered—confusion, then amusement. “Do what? Eat chips in bed? Yeah, loads of times.”

“Not that.” Osamu set the textbook down, leaned forward, elbows on knees. Couldn’t look at Atsumu’s face, so he stared at the floor. “The thing. With the guy. That I saw.”

Silence stretched. He heard Atsumu set his phone down, sit up.

“Yeah,” Atsumu said, careful. “I have. Why?”

Osamu’s throat felt dry. He swallowed. “How… how many times?”

“Dunno. Lost count.”

Not the answer he expected. He finally looked up. Atsumu watched him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Is that what this is about?” Atsumu asked. “The silent treatment? Because ya saw me suckin’ some dude off?”

“No! I mean—yes, but—” Osamu ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I ain’t judgin’ ya, alright? I just didn’t know ya were that experienced.”

Atsumu snorted. “What, did ya think I was waitin’ for marriage?”

“No, I just—” Osamu stopped. Took a breath. “I been seein’ someone. A girl. From the cooking club.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows shot up. “Ya got a girlfriend?”

“Not a girlfriend. Yet. We been hangin’ out. I think she likes me. And I like her.” Osamu’s ears were burning. “But I don’t know what to do. Ya know. With her. When it comes to that.”

Atsumu’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Ya want me to give ya tips on how to eat pussy?”

“No! God, no. Shut up.” Osamu threw a cushion at him. Atsumu caught it, laughing.

“Relax, Samu. Just messin’ with ya.” He tossed the cushion aside, leaned back on his hands. “But seriously. Ya want advice? About girls?”

Osamu hesitated. Then nodded.

Atsumu’s smirk softened. He looked at Osamu for a long moment. “Alright. But I need to show ya somethin’ first. Promise not to freak out.”

“What?”

“Just promise.”

Osamu’s heart started beating faster. He had a feeling. “Fine. I promise.”

Atsumu stood up. Loose gray hoodie, worn thin. He reached behind his back, unzipped it, pulled it over his head. Underneath, a tight black tank top.

Osamu looked away. “Tsumu, what are ya doin’?”

“Showin’ ya somethin’.” Atsumu’s voice was steady, almost clinical. “Ya need to understand what ya’re workin’ with. With girls. And with me.”

He reached under the tank top, started undoing something. Fabric stretching, clasps popping. Then he pulled the tank top up and over his head, and Osamu’s breath caught.

Atsumu was wearing a lacy bra. Pale pink, delicate straps, a little bow in the center. And underneath, his chest was full. Soft. Feminine.

Osamu had never seen his brother like this. Not since before the transition, when they were kids and it didn't matter. Now it felt forbidden.

“This is what I look like without a binder,” Atsumu said, flat. “I don’t usually show anyone. But if ya’re gonna learn how to make a girl feel good, ya gotta know what ya’re touchin’.”

Osamu’s face was on fire. Couldn’t look away, but couldn’t meet Atsumu’s eyes. “Why are ya… why are ya wearin’ that?”

“The bra?” Atsumu glanced down. “I like it. Makes me feel pretty.” He shrugged. “Plus, binders hurt after a while. Sometimes I just wanna be comfortable at home.”

“Ya ain’t wearin’ a binder now.”

“No. Took it off after school. Figured I’d just hang around.” Atsumu’s voice turned teasing. “Didn’t expect my brother to walk in on me givin’ a lecture on boobs, but here we are.”

Osamu let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Here we are.”

Atsumu sat back down cross-legged, gestured for Osamu to join him. Osamu slid off the couch, sat across from him, close enough to see the lace detail.

“Alright,” Atsumu said. “Lesson one. Girls have sensitive spots. Clit, nipples, neck, inner thighs. But every girl’s different. Some like it rough, some like it soft. Key is communication. Ask. Listen. Pay attention.”

Osamu nodded, trying to absorb it despite the surrealness.

“And these,” Atsumu said, cupping his own breasts through the bra, “ain’t just pillows. They’re connected to the whole system. Touchin’ ‘em can make a girl feel real good, or real uncomfortable, dependin’ on her mood and size. Some girls are too sensitive there. Others want ya to focus on ‘em.”

“How do I know?”

“Ya ask. Or start gentle and watch her reaction.” Atsumu grinned. “Pay attention.”

Osamu’s mind raced. He thought about Yurie from cooking club—shy smile, always tucked her hair behind her ear when nervous. Imagined touching her, making her feel good. Stomach flipped.

“What about… ya know… the actual part?” he asked, barely a whisper.

“The actual part?” Atsumu raised an eyebrow.

“When ya… go down on her. What do I do?”

Atsumu let out a breath, looked down at his lap, then back. “Ya really wanna know?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“Alright.” Atsumu uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, voice lowering. “First, make sure she’s comfortable. Clean sheets, relaxed atmosphere. Take it slow. Don’t dive in like a hungry dog.”

Osamu nodded, hanging on every word.

“Start with kissin’. Neck, collarbone, down her stomach. Use your hands. Touch everywhere except where she wants it most. Build the tension.” Atsumu’s voice was calm, instructive. “When ya get down there, use your mouth. Gentle at first. Find the clit—little bean-shaped thing, real sensitive. Pay attention to how she reacts. Faster, slower, more pressure, less. She’ll tell ya with her body even if she’s too shy to say it.”

Osamu felt like he was taking mental notes. “And if she wants… more?”

“Then ya give her more. Fingers, if she’s ready. But always ask. Always use protection if ya’re goin’ all the way.” Atsumu’s expression turned serious. “Which brings me to somethin’ else.”

Osamu waited.

“I told ya I’ve done this a lot,” Atsumu said quietly. “But I ain’t always been careful. And when ya’re not careful, things happen.”

“What kind of things?”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. He looked at the wall, then back. “I’ve had two abortions, Samu.”

The words hit Osamu like cold water. He stared at his brother—the serious set of his mouth, hands clasped in his lap.

“What?” Osamu breathed.

“First one was last year. I was stupid. Didn’t use protection with a guy I thought I could trust. Got pregnant. Didn’t even know until eight weeks.” Atsumu’s voice was steady, but there was a tremor underneath. “Second one was three months ago. More careful, but condom broke. Went to a clinic alone. Wasn’t fun.”

Osamu didn’t know what to say. His brother had been through this twice and never told anyone. Never even hinted.

“Tsumu…” Osamu’s voice cracked.

“Don’t,” Atsumu said, holding up a hand. “Don’t give me the pity look. I’m tellin’ ya so ya understand. Sex ain’t just fun. Comes with risks. Ya gotta be responsible. Use protection. Have the conversation before, not after. And if something goes wrong, don’t be ashamed to get help.”

Osamu’s eyes stung. He blinked hard. “Did ya tell anyone? Mom? Dad?”

“No. Just the clinic workers.” Atsumu let out a bitter laugh. “How do ya tell your parents their trans son got pregnant? That he had to end it? Twice?”

“I don’t know,” Osamu whispered. “But ya could’ve told me.”

Atsumu looked at him, surprised. “Ya really would’ve wanted to know?”

“Yeah.” Osamu reached out and grabbed Atsumu’s hand. “I’m your brother. That’s what brothers are for.”

Atsumu’s eyes glistened. He blinked rapidly, looked away. “Alright. Don’t get all sappy on me.”

“I ain’t gettin’ sappy. Just sayin’.”

They sat in silence, hands still clasped. Then Atsumu pulled away, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“So,” he said, forcing a grin, “any other questions, oh wise student?”

Osamu thought about it. A million questions, but they could wait. Right now, he just wanted to make sure his brother was okay.

“Ya gonna be alright?” he asked.

Atsumu’s grin faltered. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. Got a new guy I’m seein’. He’s nice. Uses protection. Treats me good.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Atsumu stood up, stretched—his bra straps slipped down. He adjusted them casually, like they were just a regular T-shirt. “So. Ya want some snacks? I’m starvin’.”

Osamu laughed, the tension finally breaking. “Yeah. Let’s get snacks.”

They raided the kitchen: chips, mochi, half-eaten chocolate bar. Settled on the couch, Atsumu still braless, hoodie back on but unzipped. Osamu tried not to stare, but Atsumu caught him.

“Like what ya see?”

“Shut up.”

“It’s okay. I know I’m pretty.”

Osamu threw a chip at him. Atsumu caught it in his mouth, crunched triumphantly.

“So,” Atsumu said, reaching for another handful, “when do I get to meet this girl of yours?”

“Not yet. We ain’t even official.”

“But soon?”

“Maybe.” Osamu’s cheeks flushed. “I was thinkin’ of askin’ her out this weekend. To that ramen place she likes.”

“Ramen? That’s your big move? Could at least take her somewhere fancy.”

“She likes ramen, okay? And I can cook her somethin’ nice afterwards.”

Atsumu’s expression softened. “That’s sweet, actually. Homemade food. That’ll win her over.”

“Ya think?”

“I know. I got experience with romance, remember?”

Osamu snorted. “Yeah, romantic sucker.”

“Hey! That’s romantic sucker to you, thank ya very much.”

They fell into easy laughter, the week of awkwardness dissolving. Osamu felt lighter. Still had questions, still had a lot to process, but grateful to have his brother back.

Later that night, cleaning up snack wrappers, Atsumu paused.

“Hey, Samu?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For listenin’. For not… I dunno. Freaking out.”

Osamu shrugged. “Still processin’ the whole ‘my brother has boobs’ thing, but I’ll get used to it.”

Atsumu laughed. “They’re on my medical chart as ‘fully developed mammary tissue,’ if that helps.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Good.”

They grinned. Then Osamu’s phone buzzed—text from Yurie asking if he wanted to study together tomorrow.

“She’s textin’ ya?” Atsumu peeked over his shoulder. “Ooh, she’s keen.”

“Shut up.”

“Ya should ask her out now. Right now. Text her.”

“I’m not gonna—”

“Samu. Do it. I’ll do it for ya.”

Atsumu grabbed for the phone. Osamu yanked it away, laughing. “Don’t touch my phone!”

“I’m helpin’ ya!”

“Ya’re a menace!”

They wrestled for a moment, Atsumu’s long arms reaching around. Eventually Osamu shoved him off, phone clutched to his chest.

“Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll ask her tomorrow. In person. Like a normal person.”

“Boring. But okay.” Atsumu flopped back on the couch, arms behind his head. “Just remember what I taught ya. Communication. Consent. Protection.”

“I know, I know.”

“And if ya ever need more tips, I’m here.” Atsumu winked. “Free of charge.”

Osamu rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Thanks, Tsumu.”

“Anytime, Samu.”

The next weekend, Osamu took Yurie to the ramen place. Hands sweaty, nervous, but he followed Atsumu’s advice: listened, paid attention, made her laugh. By the end of the night, she had her hand in his, and he walked her home feeling like he was floating.

When he got back, Atsumu was on the couch, watching a drama and painting his nails glittery silver.

“How’d it go?” Atsumu asked, not looking up.

“Good. Really good.”

“Did ya kiss her?”

“None of your business.”

“That means no. Should’ve kissed her.”

“I’m takin’ it slow.”

“Takin’ it slow is code for bein’ a chicken.”

Osamu threw his jacket at him. Atsumu caught it, laughing, the sound filling the living room like it used to. Like it always should.

“Hey, Tsumu?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks. For the advice. And for… bein’ honest with me.”

Atsumu paused, brush hovering over his pinky nail. Then he smiled, soft and genuine.

“Anytime, Samu. That’s what brothers are for.”