Fix This One Thing

The first sign something was wrong came on a Tuesday evening in December, when Atsumu announced he was ordering pizza.

“I got the wifi bill covered,” he said, already scrolling through his phone. “So we’re celebrating.”

Osamu looked up from the counter where he was kneading dough, flour dusting his forearms. “You paid the wifi bill? When?”

“This morning. Aran helped me figure out the online banking thing.”

The lie slid out smooth, no hesitation. Osamu wiped his hands on a towel and studied his twin’s back. Atsumu had changed out of practice clothes into a hoodie too thin for December. He was hunched over his phone, shoulders tight in a way that didn’t match his casual tone.

“Since when do you need help with online banking?” Osamu asked. “You’ve been doing it for years.”

“Well, Aran’s better at it than me, okay? Got a problem?” Atsumu’s voice pitched up, defensive. He still didn’t turn around.

Osamu let it go. That was his first mistake.

---

The pizza arrived. They ate on the couch, watching some drama Atsumu had picked. Osamu noticed his brother only ate two slices before pushing the box away. Atsumu could normally polish off half a large pizza by himself. But Osamu said nothing. He was tired too — the shop had been busy, his shoulders aching from a long shift.

“Geh, you’re getting crumbs everywhere,” Atsumu said, swiping at Osamu’s shirt. “You eat like a toddler.”

“At least I’m not the one who spills protein powder all over the bathroom sink.”

“That was one time.”

“It was six times.”

Atsumu threw a cushion at him. Osamu caught it and threw it back. For a moment, everything felt normal.

But later that night, around 2 AM, Osamu got up to use the bathroom and noticed Atsumu’s bedroom door was closed. No light underneath. Not unusual. What was unusual was the faint sound of Atsumu’s voice — low, muffled, like he was on the phone with someone he didn’t want Osamu to hear.

Osamu stood in the hallway a long moment, listening. Couldn’t make out the words. Just the rhythm of his brother’s voice — clipped, careful, nothing like the loud, brash Atsumu who announced his presence in every room.

He went back to bed.

---

Over the next three weeks, the pattern established itself like a bruise spreading under skin.

Atsumu started coming home late. Not “practices ran over and I grabbed dinner with the team” late. This was different. The first time, he slid through the door at 4:47 AM, smelling like expensive cologne and something else — something floral and sharp. Osamu was awake, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Samu?” Atsumu whispered outside his door. “You awake?”

Osamu didn’t answer.

He heard Atsumu pad to his own room, heard the soft click of the door closing. In the morning, there was an extra ten thousand yen on the kitchen counter, with a sticky note that said: “Team bonus. Get yourself something nice.”

Osamu pocketed the money. Used it to buy better quality rice for the shop.

The second time, Atsumu came home at 5:12 AM. His hair was styled differently — pushed back with product, not his usual messy bedhead. He looked tired, but there was a brittle energy to him, like glass about to shatter. He made himself tea and sat at the kitchen table, not sleeping until nearly 7.

“Team party?” Osamu asked the next morning, pouring coffee.

“Yeah. Bokuto wouldn’t shut up about karaoke.”

“You hate karaoke.”

“Well, I had fun this time.” Atsumu’s smile was too bright. “You should’ve seen Hinata try to sing. It was tragic.”

The third week, there was more money. Twenty thousand this time, left in Osamu’s jacket pocket. No note. When Osamu asked about it, Atsumu just shrugged and said he’d gotten a bonus from some sponsor event.

“That’s a lot for a sponsor event,” Osamu said.

“It was a big event. Rich people, you know? They throw money around.”

Atsumu wouldn’t meet his eyes.

---

The receipt fell out of Atsumu’s jacket when Osamu went to hang it up.

It was from a boutique in Ginza. A single item: a watch. The price made Osamu’s stomach drop. He stared at the numbers a long time, trying to make them make sense. They didn’t.

He found the hotel keycard in the same pocket. A brand name he recognized — one of those luxury places near Tokyo Tower, the kind of hotel normal people didn’t stay in unless they’d won the lottery.

Osamu stood in the hallway, holding the evidence of a life his brother was living without him. The pieces didn’t fit. MSBY was successful, but they weren’t “buy watches from Ginza” successful. And Atsumu had never been the type for expensive things. He was flashy, sure, but he didn’t care about watches.

Something cold settled in Osamu’s chest.

He put the receipt and keycard back where he’d found them. When Atsumu came home that night — 2 AM, earlier than usual — Osamu was waiting at the kitchen table.

“You’re up late,” Atsumu said, hanging his jacket on the hook. He didn’t look at Osamu.

“We need to talk.”

“Can it wait? I’m exhausted.”

“No.”

The word hung in the air. Atsumu finally turned. His face was pale under the kitchen light, dark circles carved beneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

“I found the receipt,” Osamu said. “And the keycard.”

Atsumu’s expression flickered — surprise, fear, then a careful blankness. “That’s from a team thing. We had a sponsor dinner at the hotel.”

“A sponsor dinner where you bought a watch that costs more than our rent for three months?”

“It was a gift. For the sponsor’s wife. They asked me to pick it up.”

“Since when do volleyball players run errands for sponsors?”

“Since they’re nice to us and we want to stay in their good graces.” Atsumu’s voice was edging toward anger now, defensive and sharp. “Why are you interrogating me, Samu? It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

“Well, it is.” Atsumu crossed the room, stopped in front of the table. Up close, Osamu could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands trembled slightly before he shoved them in his pockets. “I’m handling things, okay? You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I’m your twin. Worrying about you is literally my job.”

“Your job is making onigiri. Stay in your lane.”

The words were cruel, deliberate. Atsumu had always known exactly where to strike. Osamu felt them land, sharp and precise, right in the center of his chest.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “Fine.”

Atsumu’s expression wavered, guilt flickering through the anger. He opened his mouth like he might apologize, then closed it and walked away.

---

After that, things got worse.

Atsumu started flinching. Not often — just sometimes. If Osamu touched his shoulder from behind. If a kitchen drawer slammed too loud. If someone knocked on the door unexpectedly. The flinch was small, barely noticeable, but Osamu noticed everything.

The nightmares started too. Osamu would wake to the sound of Atsumu crying out in his sleep — not words, just sounds. Animal sounds. Sounds that made Osamu’s blood run cold.

He’d stand outside Atsumu’s door, hand raised to knock, and listen to his brother’s breathing even out again. He’d wait until the nightmare passed. And then he’d go back to bed and stare at the ceiling until morning.

“You should go to the doctor,” Osamu said one morning. Atsumu was drinking coffee, his hands wrapped around the mug like he needed the warmth.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not sleeping.”

“I’m sleeping fine.”

“You screamed last night.”

Atsumu’s grip on the mug tightened. “It was a bad dream. Everyone has bad dreams.”

“You never used to.”

“Well, people change.” Atsumu set the mug down, stood up. “I have practice. Don’t wait up.”

He was gone before Osamu could say anything else.

---

December 18th. A Thursday.

Osamu pretended to sleep. He lay in bed, breathing slow and even, listening to the sounds of the apartment. Atsumu moving around in his room. The creak of his door. Soft footsteps in the hallway. The front door opening, then closing.

Osamu counted to sixty before he got up.

He dressed quickly — dark clothes, quiet shoes. Slipped out of the apartment and down the stairs, staying close to the wall. The street was empty, Christmas lights reflecting off the wet pavement. Atsumu was already at the corner, phone pressed to his ear, waiting.

A black car pulled up. Luxury. Tinted windows. Atsumu got in without hesitation.

Osamu’s heart was pounding as he flagged down a taxi. “Follow that car,” he said, and the driver gave him an odd look but didn’t argue.

The car led them to a district Osamu didn’t know well — upscale, glittering, full of restaurants and bars with no prices on the menus. The black car pulled into a private garage beneath a high-rise building. Osamu paid the taxi driver and got out, walking quickly, keeping his head down.

He found the entrance to the garage. It was locked, but there was a service door propped open with a trash bag. Osamu slipped through.

He stayed in the shadows, watching. The car had stopped near a private elevator. Atsumu got out. He was wearing nice clothes — clothes Osamu hadn’t seen before. A fitted black jacket, expensive shoes. His hair was styled perfectly.

And then Osamu saw the man.

He was older. Maybe mid-fifties. Well-dressed, silver at his temples, the kind of handsome that came from money and good genetics and never having to worry about anything. He put his hand on Atsumu’s lower back, and Osamu watched his brother go still.

“I’ll have the rest transferred tomorrow,” the man said. His voice carried in the concrete space. “You performed well tonight.”

“Thank you.” Atsumu’s voice was quiet. Subdued. Nothing like the loud, brash Atsumu Osamu knew.

“Same time Friday?”

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

The man leaned in and kissed Atsumu’s cheek. Atsumu didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Just stood there, frozen, like a deer in headlights.

Osamu’s vision went red.

---

He was waiting when Atsumu came home at 3 AM.

Not in the kitchen. Not sitting at the table. He was standing just inside the front door, arms crossed, back against the wall. The second Atsumu stepped through, Osamu reached out and grabbed his arm.

“What the hell, Samu—” Atsumu started, but Osamu was already talking, his voice low and shaking.

“I saw you.”

Atsumu went white. “Saw me where?”

“The garage. The hotel. The old man who paid you.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Atsumu’s face crumpled — not into anger, not into denial, but into something raw and broken. His knees buckled. He slid down the wall, landing on the floor with a dull thud.

“I can explain,” he whispered.

“Then explain.” Osamu didn’t move. He was afraid that if he moved, he would break something. “Explain why my twin brother is selling himself to some rich bastard.”

Atsumu’s laugh was hollow. “Selling myself. Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Why?”

“Because we were drowning, Samu!” The words exploded out of him, loud and desperate. “You think I don’t see the numbers? You think I don’t notice when you skip meals because you’re saving money for the shop? When you work fourteen-hour shifts and come home with your hands bleeding?”

“That’s my choice,” Osamu said. “That’s my problem to handle.”

“No. It’s ours. We’re twins. We’re supposed to share everything. And you’ve been carrying this weight alone for years, and I couldn’t— I couldn’t watch it anymore.”

Osamu sank down. Sat on the floor in front of his brother, close enough to see the tears tracking down Atsumu’s cheeks.

“The volleyball money isn’t enough,” Atsumu continued, his voice cracking. “Not with everything — the rent, the shop, your loan from when you started the business. I looked at the accounts. I saw what you were sacrificing. And I thought, if I could just... use what I have... maybe I could make things easier for you.”

“Atsumu.”

“The first time was after I got injured. Remember? I was out for six weeks, and I saw you crying in the kitchen because you didn’t know how we were going to make rent. I met him at a charity event. He was... nice. He offered me money just to have dinner with him. It wasn’t supposed to be more than that.”

Osamu’s hands were shaking. “But it became more.”

“He paid off your loan. All of it. The shop is free and clear. I didn’t know how else to—” Atsumu broke off, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I thought if I could just do this for a little while, we could get ahead. You could rest. You could stop killing yourself for me.”

“I would rather kill myself than have you do this.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Osamu reached out, grabbed Atsumu’s wrists, pulled his hands away from his face. “Look at me.”

Atsumu looked. His eyes were red, his face blotchy, his nose running. He looked like a child. He looked like the six-year-old who used to cry when Osamu got a scraped knee.

“I don’t care about the money,” Osamu said. “I care about you. Do you understand that? I would burn this whole city to the ground before I let someone hurt you.”

“He didn’t hurt me.”

“You flinch when I touch you. You have nightmares every night. You come home at 5 AM looking like you’ve seen a ghost.” Osamu’s voice broke. “Don’t tell me he didn’t hurt you.”

Atsumu’s face crumpled again. He fell forward, and Osamu caught him, pulled him into his arms, held him as tight as he could. Atsumu’s body shook with sobs, ugly and raw and devastating.

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu choked out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” Osamu whispered into his hair. “Shut up. You don’t get to apologize. You don’t get to take this on yourself. We’re going to fix this. Together.”

---

Fixing it was harder than Osamu anticipated.

The client — Watanabe Hiroshi, as they’d later learn — didn’t take kindly to being told no. The first call came two days after Atsumu ended things. Osamu answered because Atsumu was in the shower, and the number wasn’t saved.

“Put Atsumu on the phone.”

“He’s not available.”

“Tell him I have photographs. Tell him I have videos. If he wants his career, his reputation, his precious volleyball — he’ll do what I say.”

Osamu’s blood ran cold, but his voice was steady when he said, “Do what you have to do. You’ll regret it.”

He hung up.

Then he called Aran.

---

Aran Ojiro arrived at their apartment three hours later, looking like he’d run the entire way. He’d brought Kita. Because of course he had.

“Tell us everything,” Kita said, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea he didn’t drink.

And Atsumu did. Every detail. Every shameful truth. Osamu held his hand under the table and didn’t let go.

When Atsumu finished, there was a long silence. Then Kita said, “We’re going to need a lawyer. And someone who knows how to handle private investigators.”

“I know a guy,” Aran said. “Former MSBY staff. Works in security now. He’s dealt with this kind of thing before.”

By the end of the week, they had a plan. The MSBY team, to their credit, rallied without hesitation. Sakusa made a few calls to people Osamu didn’t know he knew. Bokuto offered to “have a word” with Watanabe, which everyone firmly declined. Hinata, through some connection no one fully understood, managed to dig up evidence that Watanabe had a history of this behavior — and a wife who would be very interested to know about it.

The leverage shifted.

By New Year’s Eve, Watanabe had signed a non-disclosure agreement of his own. The photographs were destroyed. The videos were deleted. The threat was neutralized.

---

The therapy started in January.

Atsumu went three times a week. He came home quiet, sometimes tearful, sometimes relieved. Osamu made him dinner every night, even when Atsumu said he wasn’t hungry. He put onigiri in the fridge with sticky notes on top: “Eat this or I’ll kill you” and “You look like shit, eat something” and “Made this with love, don’t waste it.”

Atsumu ate them. He always ate them.

“Can I ask you something?” Osamu said one night in February. They were sitting on the balcony, bundled in blankets, sharing a thermos of tea. The city glittered below them, cold and beautiful.

“Depends on what it is,” Atsumu said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Atsumu was quiet for a long time. The steam from the tea curled between them, ghostly and warm.

“Because I knew you’d stop me,” he finally said. “And I thought... I thought if I could just do this one thing, fix this one problem, you wouldn’t have to work so hard. You could have the life you deserve.”

“The life I deserve has you in it. Healthy. Happy. Whole.”

“I know that now.”

“Good.” Osamu leaned over, rested his head on Atsumu’s shoulder. “Because I’m not doing this without you. I refuse.”

Atsumu laughed — a real laugh, the first one Osamu had heard in months. “Brat.”

“Selfish bastard.”

“Jerk.”

“Idiot.”

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the city breathe. Osamu thought about the last few months — the fear, the anger, the bone-deep terror of almost losing his brother. He thought about the future, uncertain and fragile, but theirs.

“Thanks, Samu,” Atsumu said softly.

Osamu closed his eyes. “Idiot. Always have to do everything yourself.”

“Look who’s talking. Mr. ‘I’ll Work Myself to Death for the Shop.’”

“At least my work doesn’t involve rich creeps.”

Atsumu snorted. “Low blow.”

“True blow.”

They were quiet again. Then Atsumu said, “I love you, you know. Even when you’re annoying.”

“I know.” Osamu lifted his head, looked at his twin — his brother, his other half, the person he would burn the world for. “I love you too. Even when you’re an idiot.”

“We’re both idiots.”

“Yeah.” Osamu smiled. “But we’re together.”

Atsumu smiled back, small and real. “Yeah. Together.”

The tea went cold. The night stretched on. And in the morning, they would wake up, make breakfast, and face another day. Together.