Rooftop Confessions

The rooftop at Inarizaki High School was never quiet. Even at dusk, when the volleyball players had finally dragged themselves to the locker rooms and the soccer team was still running suicides on the far field, you could hear everything—the distant shouts, the thud of a ball against a goalpost, someone laughing. Osamu Miya stood at the chain-link fence, gripping it with both hands, and watched the soccer team pack up below. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

It took him three weeks to work up to this. Three weeks of watching Tanaka Ryu from across the cafeteria, memorizing the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at his teammates, imagining what it would feel like to be the one on the receiving end of that smile. Three weeks of lying awake at night, replaying every tiny interaction—the accidental brush of shoulders in the hallway, the time Tanaka held the door for him and said, "Watch your step." He didn't even know why he'd fallen for him. Maybe it was the way he carried himself: confident, but not cocky. Always the first to help a struggling underclassman. Or maybe it was just the curve of his jaw when he laughed.

Osamu had never told anyone about his feelings. Not even Atsumu. Especially not Atsumu. His twin would've turned it into some joke, a competition, something to be dissected and analyzed. Osamu didn't want that. He just wanted—needed—to know.

The soccer team filed into the school building. Tanaka lingered, adjusting his bag strap, laughing at something a teammate said. Osamu's throat tightened. Now or never. He pushed off the fence and made his way down the stairs, legs shaky, palms slick.

He caught Tanaka just outside the gym entrance. "Tanaka-senpai."

Tanaka turned. Mild surprise, then a friendly grin. "Oh, Miya? What's up? Need something?"

Osamu's words tangled in his throat. He forced them out. "Can I, uh—can we talk? For a minute?"

The grin softened into something curious. "Sure. What's going on?"

They walked to the side of the building, away from the last stragglers. The sun had dropped below the roof, casting long shadows. Osamu could feel his pulse in his ears. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I like you." The words came out in a rush, barely audible. "Not as a friend. I mean, I like you. Romantically. And I know you're probably not—but I had to say it. I had to know."

Silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap. Tanaka's expression flickered—surprise, then something else. Something careful. He took a step back—not hostile, just creating space.

"Osamu." His voice was gentle, and that made it worse. "I'm flattered, really. But I'm not interested in guys. And even if I was..." He hesitated. "You're not really my type."

The words didn't land like a punch. They landed like a slow, deliberate cut—one that kept bleeding long after the blade was gone. Osamu felt his face heat, his eyes sting. He nodded, because that was all he could do.

"Yeah. Okay. I figured. Sorry for bothering you."

"Hey." Tanaka's hand touched his shoulder. "It's fine. Don't apologize. You're a good guy, Osamu. You'll find someone."

But Osamu was already walking away, each step heavier than the last. The school building swallowed him, and he let it.

---

Their shared apartment was quiet when Osamu got home. Atsumu had practice later—some extra serving drills he'd been obsessing over. The living room light was off. Osamu locked himself in his room, pressed his back against the door, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor.

The tears came without warning. Hot and ugly, streaming down his cheeks, soaking the collar of his uniform. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to push them back in, but they wouldn't stop. Tanaka's voice echoed in his head: Not really my type.

What did that even mean? What was wrong with him?

He forced himself to look in the mirror on the back of his door. The reflection stared back—red-eyed, blotchy. He saw every flaw: the dull, dry texture of his hair, the roundness of his cheeks, the lack of definition in his arms and shoulders. He was built like a beanpole—lanky, unremarkable. Compared to Atsumu, who had that effortless shine, that golden-boy confidence, Osamu was just... there. Average. Forgettable.

He hated it. He hated himself for caring. But he couldn't stop.

The next morning, he skipped breakfast. Then lunch. By dinner, he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve to eat. One apple a day was enough. He would lose the softness. He would become something worth looking at.

---

It started small. An apple for breakfast. Then only an apple for the whole day. He told himself it was discipline, that he was just cutting out junk food. But by day three, his hands trembled during volleyball practice, and his serve went wide more times than it landed. He snapped at his teammates when they asked if he was okay. Told them to mind their own business.

Atsumu noticed the crankiness, of course. They'd been fighting over stupid stuff for weeks—whose turn it was to do dishes, who left the milk out, who accidentally took the other's gym shorts. Normal twin stuff. Osamu's temper was shorter than usual, but Atsumu just rolled his eyes and called him a grumpy ass.

He didn't notice the weight loss. Didn't notice how Osamu's uniform hung looser, or the dark circles under his eyes that no amount of sleep could fix. Didn't notice when Osamu started stealing his expensive hair products—the ones Atsumu had saved up for, the fancy import with argan oil and keratin. Osamu would wait until Atsumu was in the shower, then sneak into his room and swipe the bottle. He'd stand in front of the bathroom mirror, working the product through his dry, lifeless hair, willing it to shine like Atsumu's.

It didn't work. Nothing worked.

Then came the makeup.

He found an old concealer in their mom's toiletry bag when she visited last month. She'd left it behind, and Osamu had hidden it in his drawer, not knowing why. Now he knew. He applied it unevenly at first, blending it under his eyes to hide the shadows. Then he found a sheer lip gloss in the same bag. Then a mascara wand. Then a blush compact.

He started experimenting late at night, when Atsumu was asleep. He'd sit in the glow of his desk lamp, studying his face in the mirror, painting it into something smoother, softer, more feminine. He didn't know why that felt right. He just knew that when he looked at himself with the makeup on, the sharp edges of his self-hatred softened. He felt almost pretty.

Almost.

But every morning, he washed it off before Atsumu could see. He couldn't let his twin know. Atsumu would laugh, or worse, be kind about it. Either way, the shame would be unbearable.

---

The collapse happened on a Thursday.

The week had been a blur of dizziness and nausea. Osamu had stopped eating entirely for two days, surviving on water and the occasional energy drink. Practice was a nightmare. He couldn't focus, couldn't jump, couldn't even pass properly. Coach Kurosu pulled him aside and asked if he was sick. Osamu said he felt fine and avoided eye contact.

Atsumu caught him swaying during a set drill. "Oi, 'Samu. You okay? You look like shit."

Osamu bristled. "Mind your own business, Atsumu."

"I'm just saying—"

"I said mind your own fucking business." The words came out sharp, louder than he intended. The gym went quiet. Everyone turned. Osamu's face burned. He grabbed his water bottle and stalked out.

He didn't go far. Just to the stairwell leading up to the second floor. He sat on the bottom step, head in his hands, shaking. Could feel his heart racing, too fast, too thin. His stomach ached with emptiness. He wanted to cry, but didn't have the energy.

A few minutes later, he heard footsteps. Atsumu's voice, calling from the hallway. "'Samu? Hey, I didn't mean—"

Osamu stood up too quickly. The world tilted. He grabbed the railing, but his fingers felt like putty. Took a step up. Then another. He just wanted to get away, hide in the bathroom until the dizziness passed.

He made it halfway up the stairs when his vision went gray. His knees buckled. The last thing he heard was his own name, shouted in panic, before everything went black.

---

Atsumu saw him fall.

One moment Osamu was climbing the stairs, shoulders hunched, moving like a ghost. The next, he crumpled. Atsumu had been following him, ready to apologize for the argument, but the sight of his brother collapsing sent ice through his veins.

"Osamu!"

He bolted up the stairs, skidding to his knees beside his brother's limp body. Osamu's face was pale, almost gray. His lips had a bluish tint. Atsumu shook his shoulder, then slapped his cheek lightly. "'Samu. Wake up. Come on."

No response.

His hands shook as he checked for a pulse, found one—weak but there. He scooped Osamu up in his arms, surprised at how light he felt. When had he gotten so thin? Atsumu carried him down the stairs, shouting for help. A teacher appeared, and Atsumu explained, his voice cracking, that his brother had fainted. They directed him to the nurse's office, but the nurse had left for the day. The office was locked.

"Take him home," the teacher said. "Make sure he eats something. If he doesn't improve, call an ambulance."

Atsumu didn't argue. He carried Osamu out of the school, through the streets, all the way to their apartment. He was panting by the time he got them inside, but he didn't stop. He laid Osamu on the couch, grabbed a blanket, and knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his forehead. Still cold.

"Stupid idiot," he muttered, voice thick. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"

He went to the kitchen and made rice porridge. It was the only thing he knew how to cook—their mom had taught him when they were kids. He stirred it mechanically, his mind racing through the last few weeks. The crankiness. The weight loss. The constant excuses to skip meals. The way Osamu had been locking himself in the bathroom for hours.

It clicked. Atsumu's stomach turned.

When the porridge was ready, he carried a bowl to the couch. Osamu was stirring, eyelids fluttering. Atsumu sat down beside him, spoon in hand.

"'Samu. Eat."

Osamu's eyes opened, glassy and unfocused. He looked at the bowl, then at Atsumu, and shook his head weakly. "Not hungry."

"You're eating." Atsumu's voice was firm, but his hands were trembling. "I didn't carry your bony ass all the way home just to watch you starve yourself."

Osamu's lip wobbled. He turned his face away, but Atsumu grabbed his chin and forced him to look back.

"Don't you dare shut me out. Not now." His own eyes were wet. "What happened? Why are you doing this?"

Silence stretched. Osamu's chest hitched, and then the dam broke.

He cried. Ugly, gasping sobs that shook his entire body. Atsumu pulled him close, and Osamu buried his face in his brother's shoulder, clutching at his shirt like a lifeline.

"I told him," Osamu choked out. "I told Tanaka I liked him. And he said no. He said I wasn't his type. And I looked in the mirror and I saw—I saw everything wrong with me. My hair, my face, my body. I'm ugly, Atsumu. I'm ugly and nobody will ever want me."

Atsumu's arms tightened around him. "That's not true."

"It is. You don't know. You've never had to try. You're the pretty one. The shiny one. Everyone loves you. And I'm just—I'm the other twin. The boring one. The one nobody notices." His voice cracked. "I've been starving myself. I've been stealing your shampoo and putting on makeup at night, trying to look more like you. Trying to be pretty. But it doesn't work. Nothing works."

Atsumu was crying now too, silent tears streaming down his face. He held Osamu tighter, rocking him gently. "You stupid, stupid idiot. You're not ugly. You're my brother. You're the other half of me. How could you ever think you're ugly?"

"Because I am," Osamu whispered. "I looked at myself and I hated everything."

The confession hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Atsumu pressed his lips to the top of Osamu's head, breathing him in. He smelled like cheap concealer and exhaustion.

"Okay," Atsumu said, his voice rough. "Okay. We're gonna fix this. Together. You're gonna eat this porridge, and then tomorrow we're going to see a doctor. And we're going to figure out how to make you see what I see."

"What do you see?"

Atsumu pulled back, cupping Osamu's face in his hands. He wiped the tears from his brother's cheeks with his thumbs. "I see my twin. I see the guy who always knows when I'm faking a smile. The guy who makes the best onigiri in the world. The guy who's stubborn and kind and way too hard on himself." He laughed wetly. "You're not boring, 'Samu. You're my favorite person. And you're beautiful. Not because of your hair or your face or whatever crap you've been putting on it. Because you're you."

Osamu's face crumpled again, but this time it was different. Relief mixed with the grief. He reached up and grabbed Atsumu's wrist, holding on. "Promise?"

"Promise." Atsumu picked up the spoon. "Now eat. Please. One bite."

Osamu opened his mouth. The rice porridge was warm, bland, perfect. He swallowed, and it felt like the first real thing he'd done in weeks.

---

They stayed on the couch for hours. Atsumu fed him the whole bowl, then made another. Osamu ate it slowly, and between bites, he talked. About Tanaka. About the diet. About the makeup. About the nights he spent staring at himself in the mirror, hating the reflection.

Atsumu listened. He didn't interrupt, didn't judge. When Osamu was done, Atsumu took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry I didn't notice," he said. "I was so caught up in my own crap that I didn't see you falling apart. That's on me."

"It's not your fault."

"It kind of is. I'm your brother. I'm supposed to have your back." He set the empty bowl aside and pulled Osamu into a proper hug. "From now on, we're a team. We eat together. We talk about stuff. If you ever feel like this again, you tell me. Got it?"

"Got it."

"And if you ever want to wear makeup again, that's fine too. But do it because you want to, not because you think you have to change who you are."

Osamu laughed—a small, broken sound, but real. "You'd be okay with me wearing makeup?"

"I don't care what you wear. Just as long as you're eating and sleeping and not hating yourself." Atsumu paused. "Also, I have nice hair products. You could've just asked, you know."

Osamu snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, but I'm your ridiculous twin. Deal with it."

They sat in the dim kitchen light, the silence no longer heavy but comfortable. At some point, Osamu leaned his head on Atsumu's shoulder, and Atsumu let him.

---

The next morning, Atsumu made breakfast properly. Eggs, rice, miso soup. Osamu came out of his room, still pale but no longer trembling. He sat at the table and ate without protest.

"Good?" Atsumu asked.

"Edible," Osamu said, but there was a hint of a smile.

It wasn't a fix. Osamu knew the self-hatred wouldn't vanish overnight. The voice in his head would still whisper ugly things. But sitting across from Atsumu, watching him burn his toast and curse at the toaster, Osamu felt something he hadn't felt in weeks.

Hope.

He picked up his chopsticks and took another bite. It tasted like a new beginning.