Pressing Matters

The first thing Atsumu noticed when he woke up was the weight.

Not the usual heavy-limbed sluggishness from a bad night’s sleep, or the familiar soreness from yesterday’s practice. No—this was different. Something pressing down on his chest, like someone had strapped two small melons to his sternum while he was passed out.

He groaned, rolled over, grabbed his phone off the nightstand. 6:47 AM. Still half-blind from sleep, he sat up—and felt the pull against his shirt.

Looked down.

There was a curve under his tank top. Two curves, actually. Rounded and soft, pressing against the cotton like they had every right to be there.

“What the hell?” His voice cracked as he scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping. He stumbled to the full-length mirror by his closet and stared.

The reflection stared back—same sharp jaw, same slightly asymmetrical eyes, same stupid bedhead. But his chest had decided to take a detour. He poked the left one. Soft. A little tender.

“No, no, no, no, no.” He yanked his shirt up to look. Yep. Boobs. Actual, honest-to-goodness boobs.

He pulled the shirt back down, grabbed the baggiest hoodie he owned—Osamu’s—and shoved his arms through. The hoodie was oversized, but the new protrusions still made a subtle tent in the fabric. He zipped it to his chin.

Breakfast. He needed to face this like a rational person. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe he ate something weird. Maybe—

The kitchen smelled like rice and miso. Their mother was at the stove, stirring a pot. Osamu already sat at the table, bowl in hand, scrolling through his phone.

Atsumu shuffled in, arms crossed over his chest. Sat down as quietly as possible—which for him meant the chair screeched across the floor.

Osamu looked up, blinked, then squinted. “Why’re you wearin’ my hoodie?”

“Just grabbed it.” His voice came out higher than he wanted. He reached for the rice bowl their mother set in front of him.

“You’re actin’ weird.” Osamu set his phone down, studied his twin with that lazy scrutiny you only get from seventeen years of shared DNA and shared space. “You got a hickey or somethin’?”

Atsumu choked on his rice. “No!”

“Then what’re you hidin’?”

“Nothin’!”

Their mother turned from the stove, wiping her hands on her apron. She had that look—the one that said she could see right through both of them. “Atsumu, take the hoodie off at the table. It’s rude.”

“I’m cold.”

“It’s June.”

“It’s air-conditioned.”

Osamu snorted. “You’re sweatin’.”

Atsumu’s face went red. He knew he was losing. Osamu was too observant, their mother too sharp. With a sigh that could have carried a volleyball serve, he unzipped the hoodie.

The moment the fabric fell open, Osamu’s chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide, then narrow, then wide again as he processed his twin brother’s chest, now sporting a very clear pair of breasts under a thin t-shirt.

For a second, silence.

Then Osamu let out a laugh. Not a chuckle—a full, genuine, belly-deep laugh that shook his shoulders and made his eyes water. “What the hell, ’Tsumu? You got tits!”

“Shut up!” Atsumu yanked the hoodie back up, zipping it with angry jerks.

“No, but seriously—when did those happen? You get a growth spurt in the wrong spot?” Osamu was wheezing now, leaning back in his chair.

Their mother turned around. She took one look at Atsumu’s red face and Osamu’s laughing fit, then calmly walked over and flicked him on the forehead. Hard.

“Ow!”

“Don’t tease your brother. It’s probably just hormones.” She turned back to Atsumu, her expression softer. “Have you been feeling any different? Tired? Sore?”

“I dunno.” Atsumu stared at his rice. “Just woke up like this.”

She nodded, like this was a perfectly normal thing. “I’ll take you to the doctor after school if it doesn’t go away. For now, eat your breakfast.”

Osamu rubbed his forehead, still grinning like an idiot. But he didn’t say anything else. Not because of the flick—well, partly—but because he could see the genuine panic behind Atsumu’s bravado. He reached across the table and stole a piece of tamagoyaki.

“Hey!”

“Quit yer bitching. Compensation for the emotional damage you caused me this morning.”

Atsumu threw a chopstick at him.

---

The doctor diagnosed it as a temporary hormonal imbalance—nothing dangerous, probably triggered by stress or growth. Would resolve on its own in a few months, though the doctor warned that secondary changes might occur. Atsumu didn’t ask what that meant. He didn’t want to know.

A week later, the twins went to the beach with a group of friends. The sun was brutal, the sand hot, the water the perfect shade of turquoise. Everyone peeled off their shirts or changed into swimwear. Atsumu, following his mother’s advice, had bought a bikini top—black, sporty, the least embarrassing option he could find. He wore it under a loose tank top, but once they hit the sand, Suna—who came along because he had nothing better to do—pointed out the tank top would get wet and heavy.

“Just take it off.” Suna was already shirtless, lounging on a towel. “You look like a tourist who forgot sunscreen.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re gonna get heatstroke.”

Atsumu grit his teeth. Suna was right. He peeled the tank top off in one quick motion, exposing the bikini top.

The reaction was immediate. Kita, setting up an umbrella nearby, just raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Aran, who was burying Ginjima’s legs in the sand, did a double-take but looked away fast. Osamu, already in the water, saw it from ten meters out and nearly swallowed a mouthful of seawater.

But the worst were the boys.

A group of guys from another school—loud, tanned, clearly on the hunt—had been eyeing the girls on the beach. When Atsumu took off his shirt, their attention shifted. One of them, a tall guy with a surfer haircut, nudged his friend and grinned.

“Hey, check that out.”

Atsumu heard it. His ears burned.

Surfer Boy walked over, confidence radiating like cheap cologne. “Hey, nice top. Didn’t know guys could pull off a bikini like that. You single?”

Atsumu’s eye twitched. “Yeah, I’m single. And I’m also not interested.”

“Don’t be like that. We could have some fun—”

“I said I’m not interested.” His voice dropped, laced with a threat that made the guy take half a step back.

Osamu appeared from the water, dripping and scowling. “He said buzz off. You deaf?”

Surfer Boy raised his hands in surrender and retreated, muttering about “weird twins.”

Atsumu sat down hard on his towel, arms crossed. “This is so stupid.”

“Could be worse.” Osamu flopped onto the towel beside him. “They could’ve asked for a picture.”

“I will drown you.”

“You’d have to catch me first.”

Suna, without looking up from his phone, said, “You two are grossly entertaining. Please continue.”

Atsumu threw a handful of sand at him.

---

The first period came without warning.

He was in his room, practicing his jump serve form in the mirror, when a cramp hit him so hard he doubled over, clutching his stomach. It felt like someone was wringing his insides like a wet towel. He stumbled to the bathroom, and that’s when he saw the blood.

Stood there staring at his underwear for a full minute. Then he did the only thing he could think of: called for his mother.

She was at his side in seconds, took in the situation with a calm he desperately needed. She explained everything—pads, cramps, hormones—while he sat on the edge of the bathtub, feeling like his body had betrayed him in the worst possible way.

“I hate this,” he whispered.

“I know, baby.” She brushed his hair back. “It’ll get better. Your body just needs to adjust.”

He spent the rest of the day in bed, curled around a hot water bottle, feeling miserable and emotional. He cried at a cat video. He cried when he couldn’t find the remote. He cried because the cramps came back and they hurt.

At some point, Osamu knocked on his door and came in without waiting for an answer. He was holding a convenience store bag.

“Mom told me.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out a block of dark chocolate and a pack of strawberry Pocky. “Figured you might need these.”

Atsumu stared at the chocolate. His lower lip wobbled. “Samu…”

“Don’t you dare cry again. I’m not gonna be your tissue.”

Atsumu snatched the chocolate and hugged it to his chest. “You’re not completely useless.”

“High praise.” Osamu stood up, but hesitated before leaving. “Seriously, though. You okay?”

“I’ll live.”

“Good. Don’t bleed on my hoodie.”

He left, and Atsumu took a bite of the chocolate. Sweet, rich, exactly what he needed. He told himself the warmth in his chest was from the chocolate, not from his twin’s unexpected kindness.

---

Two months later, the hormonal imbalance had stabilized. The breasts were still there, but smaller, and Atsumu had learned to live with them. He’d also learned to live with his monthly cycle, though he still hated every second. The cramps were manageable now, the bleeding predictable. His mother had been right—his body adjusted.

But on a lazy Sunday afternoon, everything went sideways.

The living room was a battlefield. The TV remote was the prize.

“I was watchin’ that!” Atsumu shouted, lunging for the remote Osamu held just out of reach.

“You were watchin’ some boring documentary about ants. I’m not sittin’ through that.”

“It was about soldier ants! They’re fascinating!”

“They’re insects. They eat and die. Gimme the remote.”

Suna, sprawled on the other end of the couch with his phone, watched with the detached interest of a nature documentary narrator. “He has a point. The ant one was pretty dry.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” Atsumu whined.

“I’m on the side of entertainment. Keep fighting.”

Osamu dangled the remote over his head. “Come get it.”

Atsumu didn’t think. He just acted. Climbed onto Osamu’s lap, one knee on either side of his twin’s thighs, and reached for the remote. Bold move—reckless and desperate, exactly his style.

Osamu’s eyes went wide. “What the—get off!”

“Give me the remote!”

They wrestled for a moment, Atsumu’s weight pressing down on Osamu’s lap. And then Osamu felt it.

A wetness. Damp, spreading warmth against his joggers.

He froze.

Atsumu froze too, because he felt it—a sudden gush, a loss of control, the unmistakable sensation of something going very, very wrong.

He scrambled off, backing away until he hit the coffee table. Eyes wide, face pale. “I—Samu, I—oh god—”

Osamu looked down. There was a dark patch on the front of his light gray joggers. Blood.

For a long moment, no one moved. Suna slowly lowered his phone, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline.

Atsumu’s voice came out small, horrified. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—I think I bled through my pad—”

“It’s fine.” Osamu’s voice was tight. He stood up, the stain more visible now. “It’s just blood. I’ll change.”

“But your pants—”

“I said it’s fine.” He grabbed Atsumu’s shoulder, squeezed, forced his twin to meet his eyes. “Accidents happen. Don’t make a thing of it.”

Atsumu’s eyes were glassy, threatening tears. Osamu sighed.

“Seriously. I’ve got like ten pairs of these. It’s not a big deal.” He paused, then added, “Just don’t do it on my good ones.”

Suna cleared his throat. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see anything. But for the record, that was a plot twist I didn’t see coming.”

“Shut up, Suna,” both twins said in unison.

---

But the accident wasn’t the end of it.

Over the next few days, Atsumu’s bleeding didn’t slow down. It got worse. He changed pads every thirty minutes, and even then, he left stains on his sheets, on the bathroom floor, on the kitchen chair when he sat down too quickly. His mother grew worried. Osamu grew quiet.

Atsumu fainted once in the hallway. Twice in the bathroom. Three times in his own room.

He lost count after ten.

His mother tried to get him to see a doctor, but Atsumu waved her off, insisting it would stop soon. It had to stop soon.

It didn’t.

On the fifth day, Atsumu stood up from the couch and his vision went black. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor, Osamu’s face hovering above him, eyes wide with panic.

“’Tsumu? ’Tsumu, wake up!”

Atsumu blinked, disoriented. Head pounding. Body felt like wet paper. “Wha’ happened?”

“You fainted again.” Osamu’s jaw was tight. “That’s fifteen times. Fifteen.”

“’S not that many…”

“You’re bleeding through pads every half hour. You look like a ghost. Mom’s already got her keys.” Osamu helped him sit up, but Atsumu swayed, and Osamu had to catch him. “We’re goin’ to the hospital. Now.”

Atsumu opened his mouth to argue, but a wave of dizziness hit him, and the words died in his throat. He leaned into Osamu’s grip, too weak to fight.

Their mother appeared in the doorway, car keys in hand. “Let’s go. I’ve got his insurance card.”

Osamu lifted Atsumu—bridal style, because it was faster than trying to get him to walk—and carried him to the car.

---

The hospital was bright and sterile and smelled like antiseptic. Atsumu got admitted immediately, hooked up to an IV, given a battery of tests. Diagnosis came back within a few hours: severe hormonal imbalance causing menorrhagia—abnormally heavy menstrual bleeding—plus acute anemia from blood loss. He was dangerously close to needing a transfusion.

He stayed in the hospital for three days. They gave him medication to regulate the bleeding and iron supplements to bring his levels back up. His mother stayed by his side, murmuring reassurances and stroking his hair. Osamu came every day after practice, always bringing something—a convenience store pudding, a bag of chips, a manga he’d stolen from Atsumu’s shelf.

“You have no taste,” Atsumu said weakly, holding up the manga. “This volume is the worst one.”

“Then don’t read it.” Osamu sat down in the visitor’s chair, crossing his arms. “I’ll take it back.”

“No, I’ll read it. Just so I can criticize it.”

“You’re welcome.”

On the third day, Atsumu was discharged with a prescription and a strict order to rest. His mother drove them home, and Osamu helped him up the stairs to his room.

Atsumu settled into bed, pale but alive. Osamu hovered by the door, looking uncharacteristically awkward.

“You okay?” Osamu asked.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Good.” Osamu lingered, then walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. “You scared me, you idiot.”

Atsumu blinked. “I scared you? Since when do you get scared?”

“Since you started fainting every five minutes.” Osamu’s voice was gruff, but his eyes were soft. “Don’t do that again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Try harder.”

They sat in silence for a while. Atsumu’s hand rested on the blanket, and Osamu reached out and covered it with his own.

“Thanks for the chocolate,” Atsumu said quietly. “And for carrying me to the car. And for not makin’ fun of me for bleedin’ on your pants.”

Osamu snorted. “I’m savin’ that one for later. When you’re not a human tissue.”

“Typical.”

“But seriously.” Osamu squeezed his hand. “I got your back. Always.”

Atsumu felt his eyes sting. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Don’t. I’m not your tissue.”

They both laughed, quiet and breathless. From the doorway, Suna—who had let himself in because the front door was unlocked—leaned against the frame and watched them with a deadpan expression.

“You two are grossly cute,” he said.

“Get out, Suna!” they shouted in unison.

Suna smiled—a rare, genuine smile—and backed away, hands raised. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you to your bonding moment. But if you start braiding each other’s hair, I’m filming it.”

Osamu threw a pillow at him. Suna caught it and disappeared down the hall.

Atsumu laughed, weak but real. For the first time in days, he felt like himself again.

“Hey, ’Samu?”

“What?”

“Pass me the remote.”

Osamu rolled his eyes, but handed it over. Atsumu turned on the TV and found a documentary about soldier ants.

Osamu groaned but didn’t leave. He stayed right there, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching ants march across the screen.

And for a while, everything was okay.