Safe

The apartment felt like a tomb. Atsumu Miya sat on the edge of his bed, sheets twisted around his legs, phone glowing cold in his hands. Outside, Osaka did its usual late-night thing—distant traffic, a siren cutting through the dark. But inside, the silence was heavy, pressing in, broken only by his own ragged breathing.

He’d been scrolling for hours. Or maybe minutes. Time had dissolved into a slurry of pixels and shame.

It started with a tag. A casual mention from a fan account he usually ignored. But the preview image—blurred, dark, unmistakable—made his stomach drop. He clicked. Then kept clicking, like he couldn’t stop himself even though he knew it would wreck him.

The video was everywhere. Shared thousands of times. Comments poured in, all of them nasty.

“Miya Atsumu? The setter? No way.”

“He’s so desperate for it lmaoo”

“Imagine being his teammate and seeing this.”

“He’s begging. That’s so pathetic.”

His thumb shook. He opened another thread. Someone had stitched together a supercut of the footage, laughing emojis everywhere. His own voice, warped but still his, moaning and begging. Please, please, I need it— The words bounced around his skull, hot and humiliating.

He’d been drunk. Takeru was charming, persuasive, and Atsumu was so fucking lonely. He thought it was just a hookup, a moment of release. He trusted him. Let him film it because Takeru said it’d be hot, just for them, just for fun.

Now the whole world knows what Atsumu Miya sounds like when he begs for cock.

He threw the phone across the bed. It bounced off the pillow, landed face-down on the sheets. The glow dimmed. The room went dark again, just the faint city light through the curtains. His chest heaved. His eyes burned.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw spots. Didn’t stop the replay behind his eyelids: the comments, the shares, the cruel nicknames.

“Setter Slut.”

“Miya the Masochist.”

A sob ripped out of him. He slapped a hand over his mouth, ashamed of even his own grief. He’d spent years building a reputation—arrogant, talented, untouchable. The best setter in Japan. The guy who talked shit and backed it up. The guy who smiled at cameras and never, ever let them see him bleed.

Now they saw everything.

His phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

He knew who it was. Osamu. His twin had a sixth sense for Atsumu’s crises—or maybe he’d seen the video too. The thought made him nauseous. Osamu had watched his twin brother beg for it, heard the filthy words, seen the way his body arched—

Atsumu gagged. He lunged for the bathroom, but nothing came up. He hung over the toilet, dry-heaving, forehead pressed against the cold porcelain, tears dripping into the bowl. Stayed there until his ribs ached and his throat burned.

When he finally crawled back to the bed, the screen had lit up with notifications. Missed calls: Osamu (7), Suna (2), Kita-san (1), and a dozen from the MSBY group chat. Texts piled up, too many to read.

He didn’t want to read them. Didn’t want to see the careful pity, the awkward “you okay?” messages, the thinly veiled disgust.

He turned the phone face-down again and curled up, yanking the blanket over his head. It smelled like him: sweat, stale cologne, that expensive detergent. A smell that used to mean home, safe, Atsumu. Not anymore.

He replayed the worst moment, the one he couldn’t shake. In the video, at the end, Takeru had laughed. A low, cruel chuckle. And Atsumu had heard it, even in his drunken haze, but he’d been too far gone to care. He’d just kept begging, like some kind of animal.

The memory made him want to claw his skin off.

---

Time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe three. The apartment stayed dark, the city stayed loud, and Atsumu stayed curled under the blanket, eyes wide, staring at nothing.

Then he heard it: the faint click of the front door.

His heart hammered. No. No, no, no—

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Osamu’s walk. The way he dragged his left foot just a little, steady rhythm of someone who never rushed.

“Atsumu.” Osamu’s voice was low, flat. Controlled. “I know you’re here.”

Atsumu pressed himself deeper into the mattress, like he could dissolve into it. The bedroom doorknob turned. He hadn’t locked it. Why hadn’t he locked it?

The door swung open, spilling a triangle of hallway light across the floor. Osamu stood silhouetted in the frame, face unreadable. He was still in his work clothes—the white apron from Onigiri Miya was gone, but his dark jacket hung open over a plain shirt. Must have driven straight over after closing.

“You didn’t answer,” Osamu said. Not an accusation. Just a fact.

Atsumu didn’t reply. He yanked the blanket tighter, face buried in the pillow, body shaking.

Osamu stepped inside. He didn’t turn on the main light, just the small lamp on the nightstand. The soft orange glow painted the room in shadows. Atsumu felt exposed, even under the covers.

“Get out,” Atsumu choked out. Voice raw, broken. “Just—leave me alone.”

“No.”

“Osamu, I swear to god, if you don’t get out right now I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Osamu’s tone was flat, but not harsh. He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. “Yell at me? Cry? You’ve already done that. Just shut up and let me sit.”

Atsumu’s throat seized. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to be anywhere but here, in this bed, in this skin.

Instead, a broken sound escaped him—half sob, half snarl. “You saw it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Osamu was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Yeah.”

The word hit Atsumu like a physical blow. He twisted in the blankets, rolling to face the wall, unable to look at his brother. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. The apology felt stupid, inadequate. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“For—” His voice cracked. “For making you see that. For being such a fucking disaster. For humiliating you.”

“Humiliating me?” Osamu’s voice sharpened. “How the hell did I get humiliated?”

“Because you’re my twin. People are gonna look at you and think—they’re gonna think you’re like me.”

Osamu blew out a breath. “They already think we’re alike, dumbass. We share a face. The difference is I make rice balls and you set balls. Nobody’s confusing my character for yours.”

Atsumu let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sob. He pressed his forehead against the wall, feeling the cold paint against his skin. “I don’t know what to do.”

“First, stop hiding under that blanket like a kid.” Osamu reached out and tugged at the fabric. “Come on. Sit up.”

“No.”

“Atsumu.”

“I said no!” He jerked away, voice rising to a raw scream. “You don’t get it! You don’t understand what it’s like to have everyone see you—see you at your worst, see you begging for it. They’re calling me a slut, Osamu. A whore. They’re saying I deserve it because I’m so fucking arrogant. They’re saying I asked for it.”

He was shaking now, hard. The words poured out. “And Takeru—he recorded it without telling me. He laughed. And I—I just let him. I let him use me, and now everyone knows. My teammates. My coaches. The whole goddamn volleyball world. And you. You heard me.”

Osamu stayed still, letting the storm rage. His face was unreadable, but his hands were clenched on his knees.

Atsumu finally turned, eyes red and swollen, face blotchy with tears. He looked small. Broken. Nothing like the arrogant setter who strutted across courts with a smirk.

“You heard me begging for his cock,” Atsumu said, barely a whisper. “Didn’t you?”

Silence stretched.

“Yeah,” Osamu said again. “I heard.”

Atsumu’s face crumpled. He opened his mouth to apologize again, to grovel, to disappear—

“And I don’t give a shit.” Osamu’s voice was flat, almost bored. “You like sex. So what? So does half the planet. The only thing that pisses me off is that he filmed it without your permission and put it online. That’s assault, Atsumu. That’s not your fault.”

“But I—I said yes to the filming. At the time.”

“Drunk. And you didn’t know he’d leak it. There’s a difference.” Osamu reached out and, before Atsumu could recoil, grabbed his shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding. “Listen to me. I don’t care about the sex. I care that someone hurt you. And I’m going to find Takeru and make him regret ever touching you.”

Atsumu stared at him, tears streaming. “You’re not disgusted?”

“I’m disgusted by that piece of shit, not by you.” Osamu’s jaw tightened. “You’re my brother. You’re a moron, and you’ve got a big mouth, and you act like you’re better than everyone. But you’re also the guy who cried when I left Onigiri Miya to go pro. The guy who sends me pictures of every single cat he meets. The guy who calls me at three in the morning just to complain about his practice. You’re not a whore. You’re just a dumbass who trusted the wrong person.”

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.” But Osamu’s lips twitched, just a little. He shifted, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Now. I turned your phone off. You’re not going to look at it again tonight.”

“I need to—”

“You need to breathe. Tomorrow we’ll figure out damage control. Lawyer. Statement. Whatever it takes.” Osamu pocketed the phone. “For now, you’re going to sit here, let me make you some tea, and we’re going to pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. Okay?”

Atsumu shook his head weakly. “I can’t. I feel so—so dirty. Like everyone’s seen me naked. Like I’ve got no skin left.”

“That feeling will fade. It’ll take time, but it will.” Osamu stood up. “You’re still here. You’re still alive. And you’ve got me. That’s more than most people get.”

He headed for the kitchen, leaving the door open. Atsumu listened to the sounds of water running, the kettle clicking on, the familiar clatter of mugs. Osamu’s presence in the apartment made it feel less like a tomb.

Slowly, painfully, Atsumu sat up. The blanket fell away. He looked at his hands, pale and trembling. He felt like he’d been flayed open, every nerve exposed. But Osamu was right—he was still here. He was still breathing.

When Osamu came back, two steaming mugs in hand, he found Atsumu sitting on the edge of the bed, crying quietly. He didn’t say anything. Just set the tea on the nightstand and sat down beside him.

Atsumu leaned into him, head falling against his brother’s shoulder. Osamu stiffened for a moment—they weren’t the touchy-feely type—but then he relaxed, wrapping an arm around Atsumu’s back.

“I’m so tired,” Atsumu whispered.

“Then rest. I’ll be here.”

They sat like that as the night wore on, the city outside growing quieter, the first gray light of dawn creeping through the curtains. Atsumu’s sobs faded into shaky breaths. Osamu didn’t let go.

At some point, Atsumu’s phone buzzed again from the nightstand—a forgotten notification. Osamu picked it up, glanced at the screen, and grunted.

“Your manager is asking if you’re okay. Do you want to reply?”

Atsumu shook his head.

“I’ll do it.” Osamu typed one-handed, his other arm still around Atsumu. “I told them you’re taking a mental health day and you’ll call them tomorrow. They said they support you.”

“They probably think I’m a liability.”

“They think you’re a star player who got fucked over.” Osamu set the phone down. “And they’d be right.”

Atsumu closed his eyes. The tea sat untouched, but the warmth from Osamu’s body seeped into him, melting some of the ice in his chest. He thought about Takeru’s laugh. The comments. The videos. They were still out there, immortalized, impossible to erase.

But they didn’t feel like the end of the world right now.

“Samu,” he said, voice small.

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Osamu was quiet for a second. Then he tightened his arm. “Don’t mention it. Ever. I’ll deny it.”

Atsumu laughed, a real laugh, cracked and fragile but genuine. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They stayed until the sun fully rose, painting the room in pale gold. The silence shifted from oppressive to peaceful. Atsumu’s mind still raced, but the edge had dulled. His twin was here. His twin had seen the worst of him and hadn’t run.

Maybe, just maybe, he could survive this.

He let his head loll back, eyes heavy. Osamu’s hand found its way into his hair, fingers threading through the messy strands, a grounding weight. Atsumu didn’t flinch. He let himself be held.

“Love you, Samu.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

Atsumu smiled, small and tired, and for the first time in hours, his breathing evened out. The world outside still burned, but in this room, with Osamu’s steady heartbeat against his ear, he felt something he thought he’d lost forever:

Safe.