Dawn and Drizzle

The key scraped in the lock, and the door swung open with this reluctant groan. Pale morning light leaked through the gap in the curtains as Atsumu stepped into the apartment. His black heeled boots—scuffed at the toes, obviously—clicked against the genkan. He didn't bother to kick them off right. One thudded to the floor, then the other, kicked sideways into the shoe rack.

The red skirt rode high on his thighs, wrinkled from being bunched up and pulled down too many times. The black tube top had slipped, and he tugged at it half-heartedly, leaving the strap dangling off his shoulder. His hair, usually big and styled to perfection, hung limp and tangled. Mascara smudged under his eyes like fading bruises.

Osamu sat on the couch in the living room, phone glowing blue against his face. He didn't look up right away. His thumb scrolled slowly—probably checking Onigiri Miya's prep list, or a message from Suna. He'd heard Atsumu come in, but he'd learned years ago not to rush after nights like this. Atsumu always needed a second to decide if he was gonna talk or hide.

Tonight—well, this morning—he walked straight into the living room.

Osamu finally looked up. Took in the skirt, the boots discarded, the defeated slope of Atsumu's shoulders. Makeup smeared like he'd been crying, or sweating. Probably both.

"How'd it go?" Osamu asked, voice flat, neutral. He kept his thumb still on the screen.

Atsumu shrugged—jerky, no bravado. "Ended like always." His voice was hoarse, roughened from shouting in some club. "Same script, different guy."

He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.

Osamu waited. He knew better than to push, but he also knew Atsumu would fill the silence eventually. He always did. The unsaid pressed heavy between them.

Atsumu dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, sinking into the cushions like a marionette with cut strings. He stared at the blank TV screen, his reflection a ghostly smudge in the dark.

"Guy took me home," Atsumu continued, voice flat. "We did it. Then he said I should probably leave. Didn't even offer a shower or breakfast. Just 'Thanks, you can go now.'"

His throat worked. Osamu watched the bob of his Adam's apple.

"I came anyway to grab my stuff from the konbini bag, but he was already opening the door." Atsumu laughed—dry, broken. "Real gentleman."

Osamu set his phone down on the armrest, face-down. He didn't say anything yet. He was waiting, the way you wait for a storm to either break or pass.

Atsumu's eyes glistened. He blinked fast, then pressed his palms against his eye sockets. "I don't know why I keep doin' it," he muttered, voice muffled. "I know how it's gonna end. Every damn time. And I still go. I think maybe this one will be different, and then it's not. And I'm here. Back here. Same as always."

That familiar knot tightened in Osamu's chest. The one he'd been carrying for years, ever since he'd realized that the way Atsumu talked about his hookups sounded hollow, and the smile after them never reached his eyes.

"Why d'you do it, then?" Osamu asked, gentle but direct. Not accusing. He genuinely wanted to know.

Atsumu dropped his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, but the tears hadn't fallen yet. "Because it's easier than tryin' to find someone who actually wants me. At least for a couple hours, someone wants my body. That's something."

Osamu's jaw tightened. That's something. The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

"You know that's bullshit," Osamu said.

"Is it?" Atsumu turned to face him fully, and Osamu saw the rawness—vulnerable and angry and desperate all at once. "Because from where I'm standin', it seems like the only thing I got goin' for me is this." He gestured at himself—the smeared makeup, the tight skirt, the body he'd worked so hard to maintain. "Guys don't look at my face and think 'I wanna take him on a date.' They think 'I wanna fuck him and then throw him out.' And I let 'em. Every time."

"Atsumu—"

"No, lemme finish." Atsumu's voice cracked. He sucked in a breath, and the tears that had been threatening finally spilled over, tracing dark lines through the smudged mascara. "I just—I want someone to buy me flowers, 'Samu. Is that so much? I want them to take me out for coffee in the afternoon, not meet me at a bar at midnight. I want to wake up wrapped in their arms and have breakfast together and feel like I matter for more than twenty minutes."

His voice broke completely on the last word. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.

Osamu didn't move for a long moment. The knot in his chest was so tight he could barely breathe. White-hot anger flared at every faceless man who'd treated his brother like a disposable convenience. He wanted to hunt them down, make them understand what they'd done. But that wouldn't fix anything. Wouldn't undo the nights Atsumu came home looking like this—hollow and ashamed.

He slid off the couch and sat on the floor in front of Atsumu, close enough that their knees nearly touched. He didn't speak. Just waited.

Atsumu's sobs quieted into hiccuping breaths. He pulled his hands away from his face, revealing a mess of tears and ruined makeup. He looked younger like this, smaller—like the kid who used to cry when he lost a video game and then pretend he'd let the other player win.

"I've never gotten flowers," Atsumu whispered. "Not once. Not a single bouquet. Not even a shitty convenience store rose."

Osamu's heart clenched.

"I've never been held after sex," Atsumu continued, barely audible. "Never had anyone stroke my hair or tell me I did good. They just—they just leave. Or they tell me to leave. And I go." He laughed again, that broken sound. "I always go."

Osamu reached out and took Atsumu's hands. They were cold, fingers trembling slightly. He squeezed them, and Atsumu's breath hitched.

"Why don't I deserve that?" Atsumu asked, looking up at him with those red-rimmed eyes. "Why does Suna bring you coffee in bed every Sunday? Why does he text you during practice just to say he's thinking about you? Why does he hold your hand in public and call you his boyfriend?" His voice cracked again. "Why do you get that, and I get nothing?"

Osamu's throat was so tight he could barely speak. He held Atsumu's hands tighter. "You do deserve it," he said, voice rough. "You deserve all of it, and more. The difference is—" He paused, searching for the right words. "The difference is that Suna saw me as a person first. He saw the boring routine, the late nights at the shop, the way I leave my socks on the floor. And he loved all of that." He looked Atsumu straight in the eyes. "You're not giving those guys a chance to see any of that. You're showing up and offering them your body, and they take it. They take what you give and they don't ask for more because you don't ask for more either."

Atsumu's face crumpled. "But how do I ask?" he demanded, voice rising. "How do I say 'I want flowers' when they're already pushin' me against the wall? How do I say 'I want breakfast' when they're already pullin' my shirt off? I don't—I don't know how to be anything else."

Osamu let go of one of Atsumu's hands and reached up to cup his cheek. His thumb brushed away a smudge of mascara. "You start by not going to the bar," he said softly. "You start by staying home with me and watching shitty TV. You start by letting yourself want something more, even if it's scary."

Atsumu's lip trembled. He leaned into Osamu's touch, eyes closing. "What if there's no one out there who wants that from me?" he whispered. "What if the only thing I'm good for is a quick fuck?"

"Then they're wrong." Osamu's voice hardened. "They're wrong, Atsumu. You're a pain in the ass, you're loud, you're dramatic, and you steal my hoodies even though you have your own. But you're also loyal and fierce and you care so damn much it hurts." He pulled Atsumu forward, into his arms. "And anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve to even breathe the same air as you."

Atsumu went rigid for a second, then collapsed into the embrace. His arms wrapped around Osamu's neck, and he tucked his face into his brother's shoulder, body shaking with fresh sobs. Osamu held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed firmly against his spine.

"I've got you," Osamu murmured into Atsumu's hair. "I've got you, you idiot. You're not alone."

They stayed like that for a long time—minutes or hours, neither counted. The morning light crept across the floor, touched the corner of the couch, climbed up Osamu's arm. Outside, the city began to stir. Inside, only the sound of Atsumu's breathing, slowly evening out, and the steady rhythm of Osamu's heartbeat against his ear.

Eventually, Atsumu pulled back, sniffling. His face was a wreck—streaming nose, puffy eyes, smeared makeup that now looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. He tried to wipe his nose with the back of his hand, but Osamu reached over to the side table and handed him a tissue.

"Thanks," Atsumu muttered, taking it and blowing his nose loudly.

"You're disgusting," Osamu said, but his voice was soft, and his eyes were kind.

Atsumu managed a weak smile. "Learned from the best."

Osamu stood up, his joints popping from sitting on the floor so long. He held out a hand. Atsumu took it, letting Osamu pull him to his feet. The skirt had ridden up even higher, and Atsumu tugged it down self-consciously.

"Come on," Osamu said. "I'll make you tea."

Atsumu followed him into the kitchen, leaned against the counter while Osamu filled the kettle and set it to boil. He moved around the small space with practiced ease—pulling down two mugs, reaching for the tea canister, dropping a bag into each cup. He didn't ask Atsumu what kind he wanted. He already knew: chamomile, with a spoonful of honey.

While the water heated, Osamu opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. "You want food?"

Atsumu shook his head. "Not hungry."

"Eat anyway."

"Pushy."

"Twin privilege."

The corner of Atsumu's mouth twitched. A real smile, this time—small, fragile, but real.

Osamu cracked eggs into a bowl, whisked them with a splash of milk, and poured the mixture into a hot pan. The scent of cooking egg filled the kitchen, warm and comforting. Atsumu watched him, arms crossed, still shivering slightly in his skimpy outfit.

"You're gonna catch cold," Osamu said without looking up. "Go put on something warm."

"Don't wanna move."

"Then at least grab a blanket."

Atsumu shuffled over to the living room and retrieved the throw from the back of the couch, wrapping it around his shoulders like a cape. He returned to the kitchen, blanket trailing on the floor, and sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. Osamu slid a plate of scrambled eggs toward him, along with a fork.

"Eat."

Atsumu picked up the fork and pushed the eggs around. He took a small bite, then another. Osamu leaned against the counter, sipping his own tea, watching.

The silence between them was different now. Heavier, maybe, but also softer. Like they'd finally broken through a wall that had been standing too long.

"I'm sorry," Atsumu said after a while, voice small. "For dumpin' all that on you."

"Don't be."

"It's just—I don't—" Atsumu set down the fork. "I don't talk about this stuff. Ever. I don't even know why I started."

Osamu took a sip of tea. "Because I asked."

"Yeah."

"And because you needed to say it."

Atsumu's eyes glistened again, but he blinked the tears back. "I'm tired, 'Samu. I'm so damn tired of pretendin' I'm okay with it."

"Then stop pretendin'."

"Easier said than done."

"I know." Osamu set down his mug and came around the counter, stopping in front of Atsumu. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind his twin's ear. "But you don't have to pretend with me. You never did."

Atsumu looked up at him, and in that moment, Osamu saw the weight his brother had been carrying—years of it, layers of hurt and disappointment and desperate hope. He saw the little boy who used to cry when their parents fought, who used to crawl into Osamu's bed and whisper that he was scared. The teenager who chased glory on the court because he didn't know where else to put his fire. The man who gave his body to strangers because it was easier than giving his heart.

And Osamu made a promise. Not out loud—not yet. But in the quiet of his own mind, he vowed to be more than a twin who lived in the same apartment. He vowed to pay attention, to ask the hard questions, to hold Atsumu when he fell apart. He wouldn't let his brother disappear into the dark anymore.

"Finish your eggs," Osamu said, voice gentle but firm. "Then we're gonna watch that stupid cooking show you like. The one with the shouting chef."

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. "You hate that show."

"I tolerate it. For you."

Atsumu picked up the fork and took another bite. This time, he ate more steadily. Osamu returned to his tea, watching the morning light strengthen through the window, watching his brother put himself back together piece by piece.

He didn't have flowers for Atsumu today, but he had tea and eggs and a promise. It was a start. It was enough for now.

Later, after the dishes were washed and they were sprawled on the couch—Atsumu now in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants that were definitely Osamu's—the show played on the TV. The shouting chef barked orders at trembling contestants. Atsumu laughed at a failed soufflé, and Osamu smiled.

"Hey, 'Samu?" Atsumu said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"Mm?"

"Thanks."

Osamu didn't reply. He just shifted closer on the couch, their shoulders brushing, and let the silence say what words couldn't.

For the first time in a long time, Atsumu didn't feel quite so alone.