Heels Over Head

The Miya house was quiet except for the low hum of the TV playing a cooking show Osamu wasn’t really watching. He lay sprawled on the beat-up couch, one arm draped over his eyes to block the ceiling light, the other hand holding his phone as he scrolled with lazy, bored swipes. Practice had been brutal. Atsumu was in one of his moods—demanding every set be perfect, which for him was just a normal day. For everyone else, it meant running suicides until their lungs burned and their legs felt like jelly.

His calves still ached. He’d peeled off his sweaty jersey the second he got home, tossed it in a heap by the washing machine for later. Now he was in a loose black tank and gray sweatshorts, the cool fabric a relief against his hot skin. The house still smelled faintly of last night’s curry rice, a scent that clung no matter how many windows they opened.

He was just starting to doze off, thumb pausing mid-scroll on a video of a cat failing to jump onto a counter, when he heard it. The front door clicked open—the familiar, heavy sound that meant Atsumu was home. Osamu didn’t look up. He could already picture it: Atsumu kicking off his shoes, leaving them in a messy pile, stomping to the kitchen to raid the fridge, complaining how hungry he was.

But then—a second sound. Sharper, more delicate. Click, click, click. Heels on the hardwood floor.

His thumb froze. He slowly lowered his arm and sat up, squinting at the hallway. The footsteps came closer, a steady, rhythmic clack-clack-clack, so out of place in their bachelor pad it made his brain stutter.

Then Atsumu rounded the corner.

Osamu blinked. Blinked again. The phone slipped from his hand and landed on his stomach with a soft thud.

Atsumu was wearing a tiny plaid skirt. And when Osamu said tiny, he meant tiny. Like, the kind of thing you’d see in a cheap magazine or on a mannequin in a store window he’d make a point of walking past. It was paired with a white crop top that barely covered his ribs—midriff and belly button out. Strappy black heels, completely impractical, strapped up his calves. His face was caked with a thick layer of makeup. Dark, smoky eyeshadow made his amber eyes look almost predatory. Lip gloss made his mouth shine. His hair, usually a wild blond mess, was gelled into something almost respectable.

Atsumu struck a pose, hand on his hip, the other flicking his hair back with practiced drama. “Well? What do ya think?”

Osamu’s mouth opened, then closed. He felt like he’d been hit in the head with a volleyball. His brain cycled through a dozen explanations, each more ridiculous than the last, before landing on the most obvious. “What the hell are ya wearin’?”

“Fashion, Samu,” Atsumu said, striding into the room with the kind of confidence that came from either total self-assurance or a complete lack of self-awareness. He dropped his bag—a small satchel thing that was definitely not his usual sports duffel—by the armchair and flopped down with a dramatic sigh. “Ya wouldn’t get it.”

“I don’t want to get it,” Osamu shot back, voice flat. He pointed at his twin. “Where were ya? Practice ended an hour ago. I figured ya stayed late to work on yer stupid serve again.”

Atsumu waved a dismissive hand. “Ditched it. Had better things to do.”

Osamu’s eye twitched. “Ya ditched practice? Ya? The guy who screams at me for bein’ even two minutes late to mornin’ practice ditched?”

“People change, Samu. Priorities shift.” Atsumu leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs with a slow, theatrical move that made the skirt ride up even higher. Osamu looked away, face heating in secondhand mortification.

“Ya went to a party then, huh?” Osamu guessed, forcing himself to look at Atsumu’s face and nothing below the neck. “With… someone?”

A wide, smug grin spread across Atsumu’s glossed lips. “With my boyfriend.”

The world tilted. “Yer what?”

“My boyfriend,” Atsumu repeated, savoring the word like expensive chocolate. “Ya know, a person ya date? Romantically? I know it’s a foreign concept to ya, considerin’ yer married to onigiri, but—”

“Ya have a boyfriend?” Osamu cut him off, voice climbing an octave. He sat up fully, feet on the floor. “Since when? Who is it? How come I didn’t know?”

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “Since a few weeks. And I didn’t tell ya because I knew ya’d react like this. All dramatic and weird.”

“Me? Dramatic? Me?” Osamu gestured wildly at his twin’s entire outfit. “Yer the one who walks in lookin’ like a discount idol from a late-night commercial! I have every right to be dramatic!”

Atsumu just laughed, light and teasing. He stood up, stretching his arms overhead, and the crop top rode up even further, exposing a sliver of his toned stomach. Osamu made a strangled noise.

“Would ya cover up?” He grabbed the nearest thing—the throw blanket from the couch—and hurled it at his brother. It hit Atsumu square in the face.

Atsumu pulled it off with a sharp tsk. “What’s yer problem, Samu? It’s just a little skin. Not like yer anythin’ special anyway.”

“It’s not about that!” Osamu snapped, though part of him knew that was a lie. It was weird. So, so weird. Atsumu had never dressed like this. He was a tracksuit-and-jersey guy. The most flamboyant he got was a particularly loud pair of volleyball shorts. This was a whole other level.

Atsumu huffed and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders—barely. It draped like a shawl, leaving his legs and most of his chest exposed. Somehow worse.

“There,” he said, plopping back down. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Osamu deadpanned. He rubbed his face, already feeling a headache forming. “Alright. Spill. Who is this mystery boyfriend I’ve never heard of? A teammate? Some guy from another school?”

Atsumu’s smirk widened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “It’s Aran.”

The name didn’t register for a second. Osamu’s brain was still processing the crop top. Then it clicked. “Aran? Like… Aran Ojiro?”

“The one and only.”

Osamu’s face went blank. Then a slow look of dawning horror spread across it. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Atsumu purred. “Oh, Samu. Ya should see the way he looks at me. It’s—”

Osamu gagged, loud and exaggerated, and lurched back against the cushions like he’d been hit. “Gross! That’s gross! So gross, Atsumu!”

Atsumu’s expression flickered from smug to offended. “Hey! Don’t talk about Aran like that!”

“I’m not talkin’ about Aran! I’m talkin’ about ya!” Osamu jabbed a finger at him. “Ya and Aran?! He’s our senpai, ya moron! He used to yell at us for bein’ idiots!”

“He still yells at me for bein’ an idiot,” Atsumu said, a fond, dreamy look crossing his face. “It’s cute.”

“It’s not cute!” Osamu couldn’t stop the images flooding his brain. Aran Ojiro—towering, broad-shouldered powerhouse with a permanent scowl and a deep, rumbling voice. All muscle and stern lectures, the kind of guy who could probably bench press both twins without breaking a sweat. And Atsumu. Atsumu, in that outfit, with that makeup, on a date with him.

Osamu slapped both hands over his face. “I’m gonna be sick. I’m actually gonna be sick.”

“Yer so dramatic,” Atsumu said again, but with a hint of genuine irritation. He pulled the blanket tighter. “Aran’s a great guy. He’s kind, thoughtful, and he makes me feel…” Atsumu paused, searching for the word. Osamu peeked through his fingers and saw his brother’s cheeks flush pink beneath the makeup. “He makes me feel happy, okay? Is that so hard to believe?”

Osamu slowly lowered his hands. He stared at his brother, saw the vulnerability hiding behind that cocky smirk. Atsumu was putting on a show, as always, but underneath—something real. Something fragile. It softened the disgust in his chest, just a little.

“I believe ya,” he said quietly. “But it’s still weird.”

Atsumu snorted. “It’s not weird. It’s cute.”

“Weird.”

“Cute.”

“Fine!” Osamu threw his hands up. “It’s cute. Happy? But I still think it’s weird ya dressed up like this for him. What did he say when he saw ya?”

A triumphant grin spread across Atsumu’s face. “He blushed. Full-on, tomato-red blush. And then he told me I looked beautiful.”

Osamu made another gagging noise, but this time there was no heat. He shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yer an idiot, Tsumu.”

“Yer an idiot,” Atsumu shot back, but his voice was warm.

They sat in silence for a moment. The cooking show transitioned to a commercial for a new brand of rice cooker. The air between them settled into familiar, comfortable calm. Osamu picked up his phone again, but didn’t look at it. He watched his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Atsumu was fiddling with the edge of the blanket, picking at a loose thread. He looked… happy. Content. A look Osamu didn’t see on his brother’s face very often, not just sitting around the house. Atsumu always had to be doing something, always the center of attention, always the best. But right now, in the quiet, wrapped in a cheap throw blanket with smudged makeup, he looked at peace.

Osamu sighed, long and heavy, carrying all his reluctant acceptance. “Alright. Fine. Ya win. I’ll… try to get used to it.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Don’t make me say it again.” Osamu looked away, a blush creeping up his own neck. “Just… be safe, alright? I know Aran’s a good guy, but still. And don’t expect me to call him ‘brother-in-law’ anytime soon.”

Atsumu laughed, bright and genuine, filling the room. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Not until the weddin’, at least.”

“Don’t push it.”

“But ya’ll come, right? To the weddin’?” Atsumu’s voice was teasing but earnest underneath. “I’ll need a best man.”

Osamu rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they didn’t get stuck. “Ya haven’t even been datin’ for a month. Calm down.”

“I’m just bein’ prepared.”

“Yer bein’ delusional.”

They both laughed, the earlier tension dissolving into something lighter. Atsumu leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out and letting the blanket fall open. Osamu immediately looked away again, face scrunching.

“Can ya at least go change?” he grumbled. “I’m gettin’ a headache from lookin’ at ya.”

Atsumu laughed again. “Fine, fine. But only because I’m hungry, and my heels are killin’ me.” He stood up, wobbling slightly on the tall heels, and clacked his way toward his bedroom. He paused at the doorway, turning back. “Hey, Samu?”

“What?”

“Thanks. For not bein’ a total jerk about it.”

Osamu shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Whatever. Just… don’t wear that skirt around me again. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

Atsumu grinned, flash of white teeth and gloss-covered lips. “No promises.”

He disappeared into his room, and Osamu heard the sound of him struggling with the heels, followed by a muffled curse and a thump. He shook his head, a fond smile finally breaking through his grumpy facade.

He picked up his phone, scrolled to Aran’s name, and typed: Don’t break my brother’s heart, or I’ll break yer kneecaps. Hit send before he could second-guess himself. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed.

Wouldn’t dream of it. Also, please tell him to wash his face before he sleeps. He’ll break out.

Osamu laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the quiet house. He heard Atsumu’s voice from his room, demanding to know what was so funny. Osamu just shook his head and typed back: Too late. He’s already a greasy mess.

He locked his phone and tossed it onto the coffee table, settling back into the couch. The headache was still there, a dull throb behind his eyes, but muted now. Underneath the exasperation, the disgust, the teasing, there was a quiet, steady warmth in his chest.

Atsumu was happy. That was all that mattered. Even if it was with their terrifying, bunhead of a former senpai. Even if it meant sitting through dinner with the two of them making googly eyes at each other. Even if it meant seeing that damn skirt again.

Osamu let out a long, resigned sigh.

He was never gonna live this down.