The Cold Settled In

The apartment was quiet. Same as always when Atsumu wasn't home. Osamu sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, the screen lighting up his face in sharp angles. Outside, the city hummed—traffic, sirens, the usual noise. In here, just the click of the keyboard and the fridge's low drone.

He was looking up eating disorders for a school presentation. Health class. A group project that'd seemed like a joke when his partner suggested it. But now, scrolling through medical sites and recovery forums, something cold settled in his gut.

Frequent trips to the bathroom right after meals.

Petechiae—tiny red spots around the eyes or on the face, from the strain of vomiting.

Excessive tooth brushing. To protect enamel from stomach acid.

Osamu's fingers stopped.

He stared at the words, and his brain started pulling up images he didn't want. Atsumu disappearing into the bathroom after dinner. Coming out with watery eyes and a smile that was too bright. Brushing his teeth till his gums bled.

He'd noticed. Of course he had. But he'd told himself it was nothing. Atsumu was particular about his looks. He was a setter, an athlete, a perfectionist. Maybe he just liked brushing after meals. Maybe he had a sensitive stomach.

Maybe.

He shut the laptop and pressed his palms into his eyes till he saw stars. The apartment was too quiet. Too still. He could hear the clock ticking in the living room. The faucet dripping in the sink.

The door clicked open.

Atsumu's voice rang out, bright and breezy, just like always after practice. "Oi, Samu! Did you eat yet? I'm starvin'."

Osamu didn't move. He heard the thud of a bag hitting the floor. Shoes being kicked off.

"Samu?"

"I'm in the kitchen."

Atsumu appeared in the doorway, still in his volleyball gear, hair damp with sweat. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes. He looked healthy. Looked fine.

"Did you cook?" Atsumu asked, peering at the empty stove.

"No. Thought I'd order takeout."

"From where?"

"Your choice."

Atsumu grinned, but Osamu saw it—the way his eyes flickered toward the bathroom door for just a second. The way his smile tightened at the edges.

"I'm gonna shower first," Atsumu said, already turning. "Order whatever."

Osamu watched him go. Listened to the bathroom door click shut. Listened to the water run.

He ordered katsudon from their usual place. Extra crispy, extra sauce. The way Atsumu used to love it.

Food arrived in thirty minutes. Osamu set the table, two bowls steaming, chopsticks laid out. Bathroom door still closed.

He knocked. "Food's here."

No answer.

"Atsumu."

"I heard you." The voice was muffled through the wood. "I'm comin'."

Two more minutes. Then the door swung open, and Atsumu stepped out in a t-shirt and shorts, hair still damp, skin smelling like soap. That same practiced smile. He sat down.

"Looks good."

"Eat."

They ate in silence. Osamu watched Atsumu's chopsticks move—lifting food, chewing, swallowing. It looked normal. Looked fine.

But Osamu had always been the observant one. He noticed the small bites. The way Atsumu pushed rice around his bowl. How he drank water between every few bites, filling his stomach with liquid instead of food.

"You don't like it?" Osamu asked.

"No, it's good. Just not as hungry as I thought."

"You said you were starvin'."

Atsumu's chopsticks paused. "I was. I guess I filled up on water."

Osamu said nothing. He finished his own bowl, then stood and gathered the dishes.

"Leave mine," Atsumu said quickly. "I'll finish it."

"You've barely eaten."

"I'm gettin' there."

Osamu looked at him. Really looked. The flush from practice had faded, leaving Atsumu's face pale. His wrist, where it rested on the table, was thin. Too thin. The bones stuck out like ridges.

He'd been losing weight for months. Osamu had noticed. He'd told himself it was training. Off-season conditioning. Pressure of being the best setter in Japan.

Bullshit.

"Eat," Osamu said, flat. "I'll be in the livin' room."

He walked away. Sat on the couch. Turned on the TV and stared at the screen without seeing it.

Twenty minutes later, he heard the scrape of a chair. Footsteps. The bathroom door clicking shut.

He clenched his fists till his nails bit into his palms.

When Atsumu came out, his eyes were red. Lips chapped. He smiled.

"Goin' to bed. Gotta early practice."

"It's eight."

"I'm tired."

Osamu watched him retreat to his room. Heard the door close. Heard the silence settle back over the apartment like a blanket.

He didn't sleep that night. Lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every meal they'd shared for the past year. Every time Atsumu had excused himself. Every time he'd come back looking clean and hollow and wrong.

The next evening, Osamu didn't order takeout.

He cooked. Atsumu's favorite—onigiri with salted salmon, miso soup, pickled vegetables. He set the table and called out, "Dinner's ready."

Atsumu emerged from his room, phone in hand, looking surprised. "You cooked?"

"Yeah."

"Smells good."

They sat down. Atsumu smiled. He picked up his chopsticks. Took a bite.

Osamu watched him chew, swallow, reach for his water.

"Eat more," Osamu said.

"I am."

"You're not. You've had three bites."

Atsumu's hand paused over his bowl. His smile flickered. "I'm not that hungry."

"You said you were starvin' yesterday."

"I'm not today."

"You said you were tired yesterday, too. And the day before. And the day before that."

The smile vanished. Atsumu's face went still, eyes dropping to his bowl.

"What are you tryin' to say, Samu?"

Osamu's heart pounded. He could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in his fingertips.

"I know," he said.

The words hung in the air, heavy and terrible.

Atsumu didn't look up. "Know what?"

"About the bathroom. About the—" His voice cracked. He swallowed. "About the vomitin'."

Silence. The longest silence of Osamu's life.

Then Atsumu laughed. A high, brittle sound, like glass breaking. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"I'm not stupid, Atsumu."

"I never said you were. But you're talkin' crazy."

"Am I?" Osamu leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You go to the bathroom after every meal. You brush your teeth so hard your gums bleed. You've lost weight. You never eat more than a few bites. And yesterday, when you came out of the bathroom, you had—" He stopped. His voice shook. "You had red spots around your eyes."

Atsumu's face went pale. His hands trembled, gripping the edge of the table.

"Petechiae," Osamu said. "From the strain."

"Shut up."

"It's from the strain of vomiting, Atsumu."

"I said shut up."

Atsumu stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, eyes wild. Looked like a cornered animal.

"You don't know what you're talkin' about," he said, voice low and shaking.

"Then prove it. Sit down. Finish your dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"Bullshit."

"I'm not—"

"Sit down, Atsumu."

Atsumu's jaw clenched. He looked at the bathroom door, then at Osamu, then back at the bathroom door.

"Please," Osamu said, and his voice broke on the word. "Please, just sit down."

Atsumu didn't move. Hands shaking. Eyes wet.

"I can't," he whispered.

"Yes, you can."

"You don't understand."

"Then make me understand."

Atsumu shook his head. Took a step toward the bathroom.

Osamu moved faster.

He was taller, broader, stronger. Always been the physical one, the one who moved with quiet precision. He blocked Atsumu's path, his body a wall between his brother and the door.

"Move," Atsumu said.

"No."

"Move, Osamu."

"I'm not lettin' you go in there."

Atsumu's face crumpled. For a moment, he looked young—terrified and young and so, so tired.

"Please," he said, voice cracking. "Please, I need to."

"You don't need to."

"You don't know what I need."

"Then tell me."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. I'm your brother. You can tell me anythin'."

Atsumu's hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands, pulling. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. He was shaking all over.

"Please," he said again, and now the tears were falling. "Please, let me go. Please, I can't—I can't do this—I need to—"

"No."

Atsumu's composure shattered.

He didn't scream. Didn't hit. He just collapsed, his knees buckling, his body folding in on itself like a house of cards. He hit the floor hard, hands pressed to his stomach, and he sobbed.

Osamu dropped to his knees beside him.

"Don't touch me," Atsumu choked out. "Don't—"

"I'm not goin' anywhere."

He didn't touch him. Just sat there, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his brother's body, close enough to hear every broken breath.

It went on for a long time. Atsumu cried till he had nothing left, sobs fading into wet, shuddering gasps. His hands still pressed to his stomach, fingers curled like claws.

Then he moved.

Fast—a sudden, desperate scramble. He pushed himself to his feet, stumbled toward the kitchen, and before Osamu could stop him, he was on his knees in front of the garbage bin, body convulsing with the effort of making himself sick.

Osamu was there in an instant, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him back.

"Stop," he said. "Stop, Atsumu."

"I can't—I can't—"

"Yes, you can."

Atsumu's body was rigid, trembling with the effort of holding back. He gagged, once, twice, and Osamu tightened his grip.

"Look at me."

Atsumu shook his head.

"Look at me."

Slowly, Atsumu turned. His face was a mess—tears and snot and spit, eyes red and swollen, lips bitten raw. He looked broken. Looked human.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing."

"I can't stop. I've tried. I've tried so hard, Samu, but I can't stop."

"Then we'll figure it out together."

"You don't understand." Atsumu's voice cracked again. "You don't know what it's like. You don't know how it feels to hate yourself so much that the only thing that makes it better is this. The only thing you can control."

Osamu's heart was breaking. A physical ache in his chest, sharp and raw.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me everythin'."

And Atsumu did.

He talked about middle school, when the pressure first started. When the coaches told him he had potential, but he needed to be better. When he started comparing himself to other setters—Oikawa, Kageyama, every player taller or faster or more talented.

He talked about the first time he made himself sick. How it hurt. How it scared him. How good it felt afterward, the emptiness in his stomach, the quiet in his head.

He talked about the year of recovery. The therapist. The meal plans. The careful, painful process of learning to eat again.

And then he talked about the fight with his boyfriend. The accusations. The breaking point.

"I thought I was better," he said, voice barely a whisper. "I thought I was done. But then we fought, and he said—" He stopped. Breath hitched. "He said I was too much. Too needy. Too broken. And I—I couldn't handle it. I needed to feel in control again. I needed to feel like I could fix something."

Osamu pulled him close. Wrapped his arms around his brother and held him, tight and steady, the way he'd held him when they were kids, when Atsumu had nightmares and woke up screaming.

"You're not broken," Osamu said into his hair. "You hear me? You're not broken."

"I am."

"No. You're sick. Sick is different. Sick you can fix."

Atsumu laughed, wet and broken. "When did you get so smart?"

"I've always been smart. You're just too stupid to notice."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah. Fuck me."

They sat there, on the kitchen floor, surrounded by the remains of a dinner neither of them had finished. The onigiri was cold. The miso soup had gone lukewarm.

Osamu didn't care.

"I'm gonna call a therapist tomorrow," he said. "We're gonna find someone. And you're gonna go."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you are."

Atsumu was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, head moving against Osamu's shoulder.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

"I'm gonna be there with you. Every step."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I want to."

Atsumu's breath hitched. He pressed his face into Osamu's chest, hiding from the world, hiding from himself.

"Samu?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

Osamu tightened his arms. He could feel Atsumu's heart beating, fast and frantic, like a bird trapped in a cage.

"I know," he said. "But you don't have to be scared alone anymore."

The night stretched on. The city hummed outside. The lights of Osaka flickered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor.

They stayed there, the twins, tangled together like they used to be. Atsumu's breathing slowly steadied. His trembling eased. His grip on Osamu's shirt loosened.

"Samu?"

"Yeah?"

"How'd you know?"

Osamu closed his eyes. He thought of the research. The websites. The cold realization that had settled into his bones like ice.

"I did a project for school," he said. "On eatin' disorders."

Atsumu laughed. Weak, barely a sound. "Lucky."

"Yeah. Lucky."

He pressed a kiss to the top of Atsumu's head. His brother was warm, alive, there.

"I don't want to lose you," Osamu said, voice quiet, raw. "I can't lose you, Atsumu."

"You won't."

"Promise."

Atsumu was quiet. Then, in a voice so soft it was almost inaudible:

"I promise."

Osamu held him tighter.

Tomorrow, they'd make the call. Tomorrow, they'd start the long, painful process of healing. Tomorrow, they'd face it together.

But tonight, they just stayed on the kitchen floor, holding each other in the dark.

And for the first time in a long time, Atsumu felt like maybe—just maybe—he could be okay.