The Weight of Morning
When Atsumu wakes up with an unexpected addition to his chest, he fears his volleyball career is over. But with his twin brother Osamu by his side, he learns that some changes can be managed—and some bonds are unbreakable.
The first thing Atsumu noticed was the weight.
He rolled over in bed, arm flopping across his chest, and—thump. Something soft but solid met his palm. His eyes snapped open. He looked down.
His chest looked different. Bigger. Rounder. The fabric of his beat-up t-shirt stretched in a way it definitely hadn't last night.
“What the hell?” he muttered, sitting up too fast. His vision swam. He shoved a hand down his neckline and felt the unfamiliar swell. Panic hit him hard. He scrambled out of bed, stumbled to the mirror on his closet door.
He stared.
He turned sideways.
Stared some more.
“This is a joke,” he said out loud, poking at his left pec—or whatever it was now. Didn't hurt, exactly. Just there, like two bread rolls got sewn onto his chest overnight. His nipples had grown too. Darker. More prominent.
“Atsumu! Breakfast!” his mom called from downstairs.
“Yeah,” he called back, voice cracking. “Yeah, I'm... coming.”
He yanked off his shirt and rummaged through his drawer. Everything was too thin, too tight. He found an old hoodie—the baggy one from volleyball camp last year—and pulled it on. Hung loose enough to hide the... situation. Zipped it all the way up, tugged the hood over his head, and shuffled downstairs.
Osamu was already at the table, spooning rice into his mouth like a machine. Their mom stood at the stove, flipping tamagoyaki. The whole place smelled like miso soup.
“You're late,” Osamu said without looking up.
“Shut up.”
“Rough night?” Osamu's voice was flat, but his eyes flicked up. Narrowed. “Why're you wearing a hoodie in August?”
“None of your business.” Atsumu slid into his seat and grabbed a bowl.
Osamu put down his chopsticks. He leaned back, crossed his arms, and gave Atsumu a long look. That twin thing—seeing right through him. “You're being weird.”
“I'm not.”
“You're being real weird.”
“Osamu, eat your breakfast,” their mom said, not turning from the stove.
Osamu ignored her. Leaned forward, squinting. “Your chest looks... puffy.”
Atsumu's face went hot. “Shut up!”
“Are you getting man boobs? Oh my god, you're getting man boobs. That's hilarious.”
“I said shut up!”
Their mom turned around, spatula in hand. She looked at Atsumu—really looked. Her expression shifted. A flicker of understanding, then quiet sympathy. She cleared her throat. “Osamu. Stop teasing your brother.”
“But Ma, he's got—”
“I said stop.” End of discussion. She turned back to the stove, but not before giving Atsumu a small, reassuring nod.
Atsumu glared at Osamu from behind his bangs. Osamu shrugged, picked up his chopsticks, and went back to eating. But Atsumu caught the smirk he tried to hide behind his rice bowl.
Six months. Atsumu learned to live with his new body. Bought sports bras from a convenience store—the cheap seamless kind that promised “maximum comfort.” Wore hoodies even when it was hot, changed in the bathroom instead of the locker room. Told himself it was fine. Told himself it'd sort itself out.
It didn't.
He was at the grocery store with Osamu, reaching for a bag of chips, when it happened. Sharp, twisting cramp in his lower abdomen. He gasped, dropped the chips. Hand flew to his stomach.
“What's wrong?” Osamu asked, looking up from his phone.
“Nothing,” Atsumu said through gritted teeth. “Just... stomach thing.”
“You look pale.”
“I said it's nothing.”
The cramp faded after a few minutes, but a dull ache settled in his lower back. He ignored it. Bought the chips, walked home, crashed on the couch. Next morning, he woke up to a cold, wet sensation between his legs.
He sat up.
Sheets were stained.
Atsumu stared at the reddish-brown patch, mind blank. Then overdrive. Blood. Why is there blood? Am I dying? Did I hurt something? What the hell—
He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripped. Blood had soaked through his shorts and onto the mattress. He pressed a hand to his lower stomach, which was cramping again—harder now.
Didn't even make it to the bathroom door before his mom was there.
“Atsumu?” She knocked softly. “I heard a thud. You okay?”
He couldn't answer. Just stood there, trembling, staring at the blood on his hands.
The door opened. His mom's eyes went wide, then soft. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, pulling him into a hug. “It's okay. It's okay.”
“What's happening to me?” His voice cracked.
“It's a period. Your first period.” She held him at arm's length, meeting his eyes. “It's normal. Your body's changing, and this is part of it. Happens to a lot of people.”
“I'm a guy,” Atsumu said, voice high and desperate.
“Your body has female reproductive organs, Atsumu. That's just how you were born. And this is what those organs do. Messy and painful, but not dangerous. You'll be fine.”
She walked him through it—showed him how to use pads, explained what to expect, said she'd buy him supplies. Didn't waver, not once. Just held his hand and answered every question he was too embarrassed to ask.
By the time she left him to shower, Atsumu was crying. Not from sadness. Relief.
The first period was a nightmare.
Cramps like someone wringing his insides like a wet towel. Mood swings that made him snap at everyone, then cry about snapping. And the cravings—god, the cravings. He would've murdered someone for chocolate.
Osamu, for all his teasing, showed up that first day with a bar of dark chocolate. Shoved it into Atsumu's hands without a word.
“What's this?” Atsumu sniffled.
“Chocolate. Good for cramps.” Osamu wouldn't look at him. “Ma told me. Don't read into it.”
Atsumu tore open the wrapper and bit off a chunk. Melted on his tongue, and for a moment the pain eased. He looked at Osamu, who was pretending to be deeply interested in his phone screen.
“Thanks,” Atsumu mumbled.
“Whatever.”
Next day, Osamu brought another bar. And the day after that. And the day after that. By the end of the week, there was a pile of chocolate wrappers on Atsumu's bedside table.
“You know you're gonna get fat, right?” Osamu said, tossing a fourth bar onto Atsumu's lap.
“Shut up and get me the heating pad.”
“Get it yourself.”
“Osamu.”
Osamu sighed, but he got the heating pad.
Present day. Miya living room. A Netflix loading screen on the TV.
“Give me the remote,” Atsumu said.
“No.” Osamu held it above his head.
“I was watching that.”
“You were watching some sappy romance movie.”
“It's a drama. And it's good.”
“It's boring.”
“Give me the remote, Osamu.”
“Make me.”
Suna Rintarou sat on the armchair, legs crossed, phone in hand, watching them like a nature documentary narrator. “This is the fourth time this week,” he said.
“Stay out of it,” both twins said in unison.
Atsumu made a grab for the remote. Osamu twisted away. Atsumu lunged, and Osamu stood up, holding it higher. Atsumu was shorter by a hair, but quicker. He vaulted onto the couch, then onto Osamu's lap, reaching.
“Get off,” Osamu grunted.
“Give me the remote.”
“You're crushing me.”
“Then give me the remote.”
Suna watched. Suna always watched.
Atsumu's hand closed around the remote. He grinned, triumphant. And then he felt it.
A warm, wet gush between his legs.
He froze.
Osamu froze.
The remote clattered to the floor.
Atsumu looked down. A dark spot was spreading on the front of Osamu's light gray joggers, right where Atsumu was sitting.
“Oh,” Atsumu said.
“What the hell did you—oh.” Osamu's face went through a rapid sequence: confusion, realization, then a kind of resigned calm. “Did you just...?”
“No,” Atsumu said. “Maybe. Shut up.”
He scrambled off Osamu's lap, but too late. Damage done. His own shorts were definitely compromised, and Osamu's joggers were ruined.
“I'll get you new ones,” Atsumu muttered, face burning.
“Don't worry about it,” Osamu said, standing up. He looked at the stain, then at Atsumu. “Are you okay, though?”
“I'm fine. Just a leak. Happens.”
“You've been changing pads a lot today.”
Atsumu's jaw tightened. “So?”
“So you went through three since we got home an hour ago.”
“I'm just heavy this month.”
Osamu's brow furrowed. He looked at Suna, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Osamu looked back at Atsumu.
“You sure you're okay?”
“I said I'm fine.” Atsumu grabbed the remote and pointed it at the TV, restarting his drama. “Can we drop it?”
Osamu didn't drop it. Got Atsumu a fresh pair of shorts and a new pad, didn't say a word when Atsumu changed in the bathroom. But he watched his brother more closely after that.
Three days later, Atsumu fainted for the first time.
Standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, when his vision went gray. Heard his mom call his name, and then he was on the floor, head hurt, ringing in his ears.
“Atsumu! Atsumu, can you hear me?”
He blinked up at her face. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just... stood up too fast.”
“You've been bleeding for ten days straight,” she said, her voice tight. “That's not 'standing up too fast.'”
“I'm fine.”
He wasn't.
The fainting kept happening. Once in the bathroom. Twice in his room. Once at the dinner table—just tipped sideways, face-first into his rice bowl. Osamu caught him before he hit the table.
“That's it,” Osamu said, dragging Atsumu upright. “You're going to a doctor.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I said no.”
“And I said yes. You've fainted four times today. Four times. You're a walking corpse.”
“I'm not—I just need more iron.”
“You need a doctor.”
“Osamu, I'm not going to—”
“You're going.” Osamu's voice was low and hard. “I'm not watching you die because you're too stubborn to get help.”
Atsumu opened his mouth to argue, but another cramp hit him—worse than before, like a knife twisting in his gut. He doubled over, clutching his stomach.
Osamu caught him again. “That's it. Ma! We're going to the hospital.”
The doctor was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense manner. She asked questions—how long he'd been bleeding, how many pads, how many times he'd fainted. The answers made her frown.
“Fifteen times in four days,” she repeated. “And you're changing pads every thirty minutes?”
“About that,” Atsumu admitted.
She nodded, making notes on her tablet. “I'm diagnosing you with menorrhagia—abnormally heavy menstrual bleeding. We'll run tests, but based on symptoms, I think it's a hormonal imbalance causing severe hemorrhaging. Treatable, but we need to get it under control quickly. You're at risk of severe anemia, which explains the fainting.”
Atsumu just stared at his hands. “So I'm not dying?”
“No, you're not dying.” The doctor smiled gently. “But you need treatment. I'm prescribing a hormonal medication to regulate your cycle and reduce the bleeding. Also iron supplements, rest, stay hydrated. No volleyball until we stabilize you.”
“No volleyball?” Atsumu's head snapped up.
“No volleyball,” the doctor confirmed. “You faint on the court, you could seriously hurt yourself.”
Osamu, standing in the corner, let out a breath Atsumu hadn't realized he was holding. “So he'll be okay?”
“With proper care, yes. But you need to watch him. If he faints again, or if the bleeding gets heavier, bring him back in.”
“I will,” Osamu said.
Atsumu glared at him. “I can take care of myself.”
“You fainted fifteen times.”
“I was trying.”
“Try harder not to die.”
The doctor cleared her throat. “I'll write the prescription. Rest, fluids, iron-rich foods. And no exertion.” She looked at Atsumu. “That means no arguing with your brother.”
“That's impossible,” Osamu said.
The next few weeks were a blur of medication, heating pads, and vegetable soup. Their mom made sure Atsumu ate three meals a day, all packed with spinach and red meat and beans. Osamu brought him chocolate every evening, even after the cravings stopped.
“You don't have to keep doing this,” Atsumu said one night, unwrapping the bar Osamu had tossed onto his lap.
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
Osamu sat on the edge of the bed. “Because the first time, you looked at me like I'd given you the moon. And you smiled. You don't smile much anymore.”
Atsumu looked away. “I smile.”
“You fake smile. It's different.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
But no heat in it. Osamu reached over and ruffled Atsumu's hair. Atsumu let him.
“I'm sorry I bled on your joggers,” Atsumu said quietly.
“I told you, don't worry about it. They were old anyway.”
“Still.”
“Still nothing. You're my twin. You bleed on me, I bleed on you. It's the twin code.”
“There's no twin code.”
“There is now. I just invented it.”
Atsumu snorted. He bit into the chocolate, let it melt on his tongue. The cramps were better now—duller, more manageable. The medication working.
“Hey, Osamu?”
“What?”
“Thanks. For... you know. Not being weird about it.”
Osamu shrugged. “You'd do the same for me.”
“Yeah. I would.”
“Then don't mention it.”
A month later, Atsumu was cleared to play volleyball again. Still on medication, still had to take iron, still had to monitor. But he could play.
He walked into the gym, ball tucked under his arm, and found Osamu already stretching.
“You're late,” Osamu said.
“Shut up.”
“You got your period again, didn't you?”
“None of your business.”
“Did you take your meds?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Good. Don't faint.”
“I won't faint.”
“You fainted fifteen times.”
“Are you ever gonna let that go?”
“No.”
“Jerk.”
“Twins.”
Atsumu grinned. “Yeah. Twins.”
That evening, they were back on the couch. Remote sat on the armrest, untouched. Atsumu leaned against Osamu's shoulder, a heating pad pressed to his stomach. Cramps mild, bleeding light. Manageable.
“You wanna watch your drama?” Osamu asked.
“Nah. You can pick.”
“Seriously?”
“Don't make me change my mind.”
Osamu grabbed the remote and scrolled through Netflix. Picked some action movie—loud, explosive, mindless. Atsumu didn't care. He was warm, and comfortable, and his brother was solid against him.
Suna appeared from the kitchen, holding a bag of chips. Looked at them, then at the TV.
“Truce, huh?” he said.
“Shut up,” both twins said.
Suna smirked. Sat on the other end of the couch, propped his feet on the coffee table, and watched the movie in silence.
Credits rolled. Explosions faded. And somewhere in the middle of the final scene, Atsumu fell asleep, head heavy on Osamu's shoulder.
Osamu didn't move. Just reached over, adjusted the heating pad, and kept watching.
Because that's what twins did.
더 보기: Haikyuu!
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