All Fours

The autumn air at Inarizaki smelled like dead leaves and old rain. Osamu Miya walked through the gates for the first time in two months, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the usual crush of students pushing past. Suna had stayed behind to talk to the volleyball club manager, so Osamu was on his own, scanning the hallways for a flash of familiar blond hair.

Didn't have to look far.

The crowd parted around a figure near the water fountain. Osamu stopped mid-stride, breath catching. That was his brother. But it wasn't.

Atsumu wore a pleated skirt that barely covered the tops of his thighs. His blazer hung open over a thin white tank top, his face painted—thick black eyeliner, shimmering eyeshadow, lipstick the color of dried blood. He leaned against the wall with practiced ease, laughing at something a group of second-year boys said. One of them reached out and touched Atsumu's bare knee. Atsumu didn't flinch.

Osamu's stomach turned. He forced himself forward, pushing through bodies, but before he could reach his brother, Atsumu dropped to all fours.

The laughter sharpened, turned cruel. Atsumu lowered his head, tongue lolling out, and purred—a low, throaty sound that made Osamu's skin crawl. Someone threw a crumpled juice box at his feet. Atsumu picked it up in his teeth.

"Good boy," a tall boy cooed, patting Atsumu's head like a dog. Atsumu's eyes fluttered shut, a parody of enjoyment.

The world tilted. Osamu's feet carried him away before he could think—down the east hallway, past the trophy case, into the empty stairwell. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal railing and breathed. Harsh, ragged breaths that tasted like bile.

This wasn't Atsumu. The Atsumu he knew was proud, arrogant, a king on the court who'd rather die than bow. The Atsumu he knew would've socked anyone who touched his knee without permission. The Atsumu he knew despised being laughed at.

But this creature in the hallway—this hollow, painted thing—that wasn't his brother.

Couldn't be.

---

The days blurred into a fog of avoidance. Osamu ate lunch with the volleyball team but kept his back to the cafeteria doors, couldn't watch Atsumu perform for the hungry eyes. He stayed late in the gym, practicing serves until his shoulders screamed, delaying the walk home. When he did go back to the Miya household, their room was a minefield of unfamiliar scents—perfume and something metallic Osamu didn't want to name.

Atsumu would come in late, humming a song Osamu didn't recognize, and throw himself onto his futon without a word. Sometimes he whispered to himself, little fragments. "They like it," he'd murmur. "They like it when I'm pretty." Osamu would lie still, pretending to sleep, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

And yet.

During practice, Osamu saw things he wished he hadn't. Atsumu's hands, steady as stone when setting a ball, would shake when he picked up his water bottle. His eyes, once bright with competitive fire, had gone flat—like windows painted over. He smiled at the team, but the smile never reached his eyes. He laughed when Kita said something dry, but the sound was wrong—too high, too brittle.

One evening, Osamu came home early to grab a forgotten textbook. The house was quiet, parents still at work. He climbed the stairs to their room and paused at the door. A muffled sound came through the wood. Not crying. Something worse. A low, keening wail that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

His hand hovered over the doorknob. He could push it open. He could see what was wrong. He could be there.

Instead, he turned around and walked back down the stairs. He sat on the front porch until the sound stopped, staring at the dying leaves on the pavement.

He told himself it was anger. He told himself Atsumu was doing this on purpose, being dramatic, ruining the reputation they'd both worked so hard to build. He told himself if Atsumu wanted help, he'd ask.

But the truth was simpler and uglier: Osamu was afraid. Afraid of what he might see. Afraid of what he might have to feel. Afraid that if he opened that door, he wouldn't recognize the person inside.

---

The breaking point came in the form of laughter.

Osamu was in the locker room after practice, changing out of his sweaty jersey, when three boys from the baseball team walked in. Loud, brash, still in their cleats. They didn't notice him at first.

"Did you see her today? Fucking hell, that skirt gets shorter every week."

"Her? It's a him, idiot. Miya Atsumu. The setter."

"Same diff. He's got that ass, though. My friend from third year said he does it for free. Just walks in and—"

Osamu slammed the locker shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

The three boys turned. Their faces went pale when they saw him.

"Hey, Miya. We didn't—"

"Shut your mouths," Osamu said quietly. Voice steady, but hands shaking. "Don't talk about my brother."

"Oh, come on, man. It's not like he's—"

"I said shut your mouths."

They scattered, mumbling apologies. Osamu stood there in the dim light, breathing hard, knuckles white against the locker. The air smelled like sweat and neglect.

He thought about Atsumu's hands. The tremor in them. The hollow eyes. The wailing that had followed him into his dreams.

He grabbed his bag and left without showering.

---

That night, Osamu didn't pretend to sleep. He lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling, waiting. The clock on his phone read 11:47 PM when the door slid open.

Atsumu stumbled in. Still wearing the skirt, but makeup was smudged—black streaks down his cheeks. He smelled like cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. He didn't look at Osamu.

"'Tsumu."

Atsumu froze. Shoulders tensed.

"'Tsumu, we need to talk."

"Not now, 'Samu. I'm tired." Flat, mechanical.

"Now."

Atsumu turned. In the dim light from the window, his face was a mask of exhaustion and defiance. "What? You gonna yell at me? Tell me I'm embarrassing you? Go ahead. Got nothing left to lose."

Osamu stood up. Crossed the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. "I don't care about that. I care about—" He stopped. Throat closed.

Atsumu laughed. Horrible sound, hollow and sharp. "You don't care? Since when? You've been ignoring me for weeks. You walk past me in the halls. You left me, 'Samu. You went to the beach with Suna's family and you left me here."

The accusation hit like a punch to the chest. Osamu opened his mouth to defend himself, but no words came. Because it was true. He had left. He'd been having the time of his life while Atsumu—while something was happening to Atsumu.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Atsumu's mask cracked. Just a hair. His lip trembled. "It doesn't matter. Nothing matters."

"Yes it does." Osamu reached out, grabbed Atsumu's wrist. His brother flinched, tried to pull away. Osamu held on. "Tell me what's wrong. Please."

For a long moment, Atsumu stared at him. Eyes glassy, distant. Then he laughed again, but this time broken, wet. "You want to know what's wrong? Fine. I'll show you."

He turned his back to Osamu and lifted his shirt.

The word was carved into his lower back, just above the waistband of the skirt. Four letters, jagged and red, still fresh in places. SLUT. The skin around the scars was puckered and angry, scabbed over in some spots, raw in others. Looks like it was done over several days. Maybe weeks.

Osamu's vision went white. He felt the world tilt, knees buckle. He grabbed the edge of the window sill to keep from falling. "Who did that to you?" His voice was a stranger's. "Who?"

Atsumu let the shirt drop. Didn't turn around. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. Yes, it matters. Who hurt you?"

A long silence. Then Atsumu's shoulders began to shake. He sank to his knees on the cold floor, and the sound that came out of him was the same wailing Osamu had heard through the door weeks ago. The sound of something breaking that couldn't be fixed.

"All of them," Atsumu sobbed. "Everyone. They all wanted a piece. And I gave it. I gave it because it was easier. If I offer first, they can't take. If I'm already dirty, I can't be ruined."

Osamu dropped to his knees beside him. Wrapped his arms around his brother, felt the fragile bones, the violent trembling. Atsumu clung to him like a drowning man.

"It was the summer," Atsumu whispered into Osamu's shoulder. "Mom and Dad's friends. The couple from Osaka. They said they'd take care of me while you were gone. They said it was a vacation. But it wasn't." His nails dug into Osamu's back. "It wasn't. It was a basement and a locked door and I screamed for you and you didn't come."

Osamu felt something inside him shatter. A clean break, like a bone snapping. He held Atsumu tighter, rocking him gently.

"He said if I told anyone, he would find me again. He said he had pictures. He said no one would believe a slut." Atsumu's voice broke. "So I became one. I became one, 'Samu. I made myself into what they already thought I was. It was the only way to survive."

The confession poured out in fragments: the first night, the second, the weeks of silent terror. The moment Atsumu realized no one was coming to save him. The decision to strip himself of dignity before anyone else could strip it from him. The razor blade he'd found in the bathroom cabinet last week.

"I can't anymore," Atsumu whispered. "It's impossible to live with this. Every time someone looks at me, I feel their hands. Every time someone laughs, I hear his voice. I can't—I can't—"

Osamu pulled back, cupped Atsumu's face in his hands. "Listen to me. You are not dirty. You are not broken. Those people—they took something from you, but they did not make you anything. You are Atsumu. My brother. The best setter in Japan. And I am going to help you, do you understand? I will burn this whole fucking city down before I let anyone hurt you again."

Atsumu stared at him, eyes red and raw. "You can't fix it."

"I know. But I can be here. I can hold you. And I can make sure those bastards face what they did." Osamu's voice hardened. "Tell me their names."

Atsumu shook his head. "No. I don't want—"

"Tell me their names."

A sob. "Mr. and Mrs. Yamada. From the street behind the shrine. They have a white car."

Osamu memorized the names. Pressed his forehead to Atsumu's. "Okay. Okay. We'll handle that tomorrow. For tonight, just—just stay with me."

They lay down on the floor because neither had the strength to move. Osamu kept his arm around Atsumu, feeling each shuddering breath. The moonlight crawled across the tatami mats, cold and indifferent.

"I'm sorry," Osamu whispered into the dark. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry I walked away. I'm sorry for all of it."

Atsumu's hand found his and squeezed.

---

The next morning, Osamu called their parents. Short, clinical. Atsumu sat beside him, silent, wearing an old hoodie of Osamu's that swallowed his frame. Their mother cried. Their father cursed. They said they'd come home immediately.

Then Osamu called the school. Asked for the counselor's office, made an appointment for that afternoon.

And then he went to the police.

The station was cold and fluorescent. The officer who took the statement was a woman with kind eyes who didn't flinch when Atsumu described what happened. She asked questions Osamu wanted to block out, but Atsumu answered them all, voice flat, hand gripping Osamu's under the table.

Afterward, Osamu went to the school hallway where Atsumu had performed his daily humiliation. He found the boys who had thrown the juice box, who had laughed, who had called his brother a slut. He didn't hit them. He stood in front of them, tall and calm, and said, "Atsumu is my brother. Anyone who touches him, talks about him, or looks at him wrong will answer to me. I don't care if you think it's a joke. I will make your life a living hell." He didn't have to specify how. The look in his eyes was enough.

The word spread fast. By the end of the week, the catcalls stopped. The whispers became fewer. Some students even started to look at Atsumu with something like shame.

---

The therapy sessions started in October. Atsumu came home from the first one with red eyes but a small, fragile smile. "She said it's not my fault," he told Osamu. "Took her forty-five minutes to make me say it, but she did."

Osamu nodded. "She's right."

The scars on Atsumu's back faded from angry red to pale pink. He stopped wearing makeup. Stopped wearing skirts. Wore baggy sweaters and sweatpants, and spent a lot of time sleeping. Osamu didn't push him. Made rice balls and left them by Atsumu's futon. Sat with him in silence when the silence was needed.

The Yamadas were arrested in November. Osamu didn't go to the trial. Didn't need to see their faces. Just needed to know they were behind bars.

Spring came slowly, reluctantly. Atsumu returned to volleyball practice, but he didn't play. He watched from the side, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. The coach had offered to let him set again, but Atsumu shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "Maybe never."

Osamu didn't argue. Just kept playing, kept practicing, kept being the best opposite hitter he could be. For both of them.

One evening, when the cherry blossoms were just starting to bloom, they sat on the veranda of the Miya house, watching the dusk settle over the garden. Atsumu's sleeve rode up as he reached for his tea, revealing the thin white lines on his wrist. He saw Osamu look and quickly pulled the sleeve down.

"Don't hide them," Osamu said softly.

Atsumu hesitated. Then he slowly pushed the sleeve back up. The scars were faint, but they were there.

"Part of my story," Atsumu said. Voice steadier now, less hollow. "Not all of it. Just a part."

Osamu nodded. He reached out and took Atsumu's hand, thumb tracing gently over the scars. "We'll keep adding to the story then. Good parts. Better parts."

Atsumu smiled. Small, and it didn't reach his eyes the way it used to. But it was real. It was his.

"'Samu?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for staying this time."

Osamu squeezed his hand. "I'm not going anywhere, 'Tsumu. Not ever again."