The Thin Plaster Wall

The headboard smacked the wall in a rhythm Osamu knew by heart by now. Two months of this. Every creak of the springs, every wet slap, every moan from his brother’s throat—he didn’t have to see it. His brain supplied the pictures anyway, vivid and nasty. On the other side of that thin plaster, Atsumu was loud. Shameless.

“Yeah—right there—fuck—harder—”

Osamu pressed his palms over his ears, but the sound traveled through his skull. Beside him, Suna Rintarou lay on the futon they’d dragged into Osamu’s room for the sleepover, scrolling his phone with that blank look. He never commented. That was worse than a joke.

“—gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna breed you—”

The words cut through the noise like glass. Osamu’s stomach twisted. He threw off the blanket and stood, pacing the tiny gap between his desk and bed. Suna glanced up, one eyebrow barely moving.

“You gonna bang on the wall?”

“No.”

“Then sit. You’re making the floorboards creak.”

Osamu sat, but his jaw stayed tight. The sounds next door got louder, higher—that pitch that meant Atsumu was close. Then a long, shuddering cry, a few wet sounds, and silence. Osamu hated that silence almost as much as the noise. It meant it was over. Meant he had to wait for the aftermath.

Footsteps. The front door opened and closed. Atsumu’s partner—spiky hair, lazy grin, Osamu had seen him leaving before—whistled as he walked down the driveway. A scooter engine coughed to life and faded.

Osamu counted to ten, then stood again. Suna put his phone down.

“Let me guess. Check on him.”

“Don’t have to come.”

“I’m already here.” Suna unfolded himself from the futon with that boneless grace and followed Osamu down the hall.

They didn’t knock. Osamu opened Atsumu’s door without warning—habit from childhood that never died. The smell hit first: sweat and sex and something floral from Atsumu’s perfume layered over it like cheap air freshener. The window was cracked, but the night air did nothing.

Atsumu lay sprawled across the bed, tangled in damp sheets. He wore a silk robe, deep blue, tied loose at the waist. It gaped open over his chest, showing a constellation of bruises—purple and red and yellowed at the edges. Bite marks. Hickeys. Fingernail scratches raking down his ribs. His neck was a mess of blooming marks, and there was a smear of something glistening on his collarbone.

Atsumu turned his head slowly. Eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips swollen. He smiled.

“Oh, it’s just you two. Thought you were out.”

“It’s eleven,” Osamu said. “On a school night.”

“So? You my keeper now?” Atsumu pushed up on one elbow. The robe slid further open, showing a hipbone marked with thumbprint bruises. “If you’re gonna lecture me, save it. I’m tired.”

Osamu’s throat tightened. He wanted to scream. Wanted to shake Atsumu until those fever-bright eyes focused on something real. Instead, he looked at Suna, who stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, observing like a scientist.

“You okay?” Suna asked. Not concerned. Just confirming data.

Atsumu laughed. Ugly. “Never better.”

---

Two months ago, Osamu had walked into the Inarizaki gym early. The second-years were huddled around Kita’s phone, whispering and snickering. When they saw Osamu, they went quiet. Too quiet.

“What?” Osamu asked, already on edge.

Ginjima tried to shrug it off, but Omimi wasn’t quick enough. He swiped the phone away, but not before Osamu saw the frozen frame—a familiar face, mouth open, eyes rolled back, a hand tangled in blond hair.

Atsumu. On a porn site. Over a hundred thousand views.

Osamu grabbed the phone. Omimi let him. The channel was called At-sum-mer Heat—a pun so stupid it had to be Atsumu. Dozens of videos. Thumbnails of his brother’s face, his brother’s body, in poses that made Osamu’s stomach drop.

He threw the phone back and walked out. Atsumu wasn’t at practice that day. When he came home that night, Osamu waited in the kitchen.

“You found it,” Atsumu said. Not a question. He was grinning, but it was brittle. “What’d you think? Pretty good quality, right? I use a ring light.”

Osamu didn’t answer. Just stared. Atsumu’s grin faltered.

“Oh, don’t be a prude,” Atsumu snapped. “It’s just sex. People do it all the time. I’m making money off it.”

“You’re seventeen.”

“Almost eighteen. And it’s legal as long as it’s solo. Which most of it is. The collabs are off-site.”

The casual way he said collabs made Osamu want to punch a wall. “The team saw it.”

“So?” Atsumu’s voice pitched higher. “They’re jealous. They don’t got what I got.”

“You’re a joke to them.”

The words hung in the air. Atsumu’s face went blank, then cold. “Better a joke than a ghost, Osamu. Nobody even notices you exist.”

They didn’t speak for three days after that.

The fight two weeks ago had been worse. Osamu found Atsumu in his room, streaming live, dressed in nothing but a cropped jersey and lace panties. The chat scrolled so fast Osamu couldn’t read it, but he heard Atsumu’s voice—cooing, laughing, promising “something special” for his “generous supporters.”

Osamu slammed the laptop shut. Atsumu screamed at him, shoved him. They ended up on the floor, Osamu pinning Atsumu’s wrists, both breathing hard.

“Why do you care?” Atsumu hissed. Eyes wet but defiant. “It’s my body. My life. You don’t get to control me just ‘cause we came out of the same hole.”

“I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to keep you from—from destroying yourself.”

“I’m not destroying anything. I’m building something. I’m famous.”

“You’re a porn star.”

“And proud of it.” Atsumu grinned, wide and feral. “Maybe you’re just jealous. When’s the last time anyone made you feel wanted, ‘Samu? When’s the last time someone touched you and meant it?”

That was when Osamu walked away.

---

Now, standing in the doorway of Atsumu’s sex-soaked room, Osamu saw his brother in the dim light and felt nothing but tired.

Atsumu stretched, wincing as his bruises pulled. “You gonna stand there gawkin’ all night? I need a shower.”

“Who was that guy?” Osamu asked.

“Don’t know his name.” Atsumu shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Suna finally moved, stepped into the room, picked up a crushed condom wrapper from the floor. Held it between two fingers, examined the brand, then dropped it in the trash can. “He didn’t use it.”

“What?” Osamu spun.

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “He did. That wrapper’s from last week. I need to clean.” He swung his legs off the bed, and the robe fell open fully. His thighs were marked with handprints, and there was a streak of something white drying on his stomach. He didn’t bother to cover himself.

Osamu looked away. Suna didn’t.

“You’re a mess,” Suna said. But no judgment. Just observation.

“I know.” Atsumu stood, wobbled, steadied himself. “That’s the point.”

He walked past them into the bathroom, leaving the door open. The shower started, loud and steamy.

Osamu stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the debris of his brother’s life—empty water bottles, a camera on a tripod, a box of sex toys half-hidden under the bed, a laptop with a dozen browser tabs open. He wanted to clean it all up. Burn it. Fix it. But he didn’t know how.

---

Later that night, after the shower stopped and Atsumu came out wrapped in a towel, golden skin still damp, something shifted. Atsumu sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed, and said quietly:

“I know I piss you off.”

Osamu stayed in the doorway. Suna had retreated to their room, leaving the twins alone.

“You don’t just piss me off,” Osamu said. “You scare me.”

Atsumu looked up. Eyes red-rimmed, but not crying. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“Then don’t. But let me help. Let me—be there.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m not offering to babysit. I’m offering to be your brother.”

Long silence. Then Atsumu nodded, once, sharp. “Okay.” He pulled the towel tighter. “Okay.”

That was the closest they got to reconciliation. No hug. No tears. But the next morning, Atsumu deleted the At-sum-mer Heat channel. He told Osamu he was done.

Osamu believed him.

---

Three weeks later, Atsumu started throwing up every morning.

He hid it at first—stress, bad food. But when his period didn’t come, he bought a test from a convenience store fifteen kilometers away, took it in a public restroom, and stared at the two pink lines for a full ten minutes.

First thought: Who?

He sifted through the last two months like a deck of cards. The spiky-haired guy. The one with the beard. The quiet one who paid extra. The two from Osaka who’d filmed it. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

Second thought: Get rid of it.

He didn’t tell Osamu. Didn’t tell anyone. Made an appointment at a clinic in the next prefecture, paid cash, went alone on a Tuesday morning.

The procedure was cold and quick. The nurse was kind but distant. The doctor’s hands were sure. Atsumu lay on the table, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting water stains. Fourteen. Fifteen. The suction machine hummed. He didn’t cry.

Afterward, they gave him a pad and a pamphlet about aftercare. He threw the pamphlet in the trash outside the clinic.

He took the train home, sat in his room, and stared at the wall until the sun went down.

When Osamu asked if he was okay, Atsumu said he had a stomach bug.

---

The pregnancy changed something in Atsumu’s body he hadn’t expected. His breasts swelled, tender and sore. A thin, milky fluid leaked from his nipples when he pressed them. He’d read about it—pseudolactation, hormonal aftershocks. It would pass.

But Atsumu didn’t wait for it to pass. He saw an opportunity.

He resurrected At-sum-mer Heat with a new video. This time, he didn’t hide his face. Sat in front of the camera, bare-chested, squeezed a drop of milk onto his finger. Licked it off, looked at the lens, and said:

“Guess what your girl can do now?”

Comments exploded. Views exploded.

Osamu found out when he got a text from Suna with a link. He watched the first ten seconds, then closed the browser. Hands shaking.

That night, he confronted Atsumu.

“You said you were done.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You’re lactating, Atsumu. That’s not—that’s not something you just use.”

“It’s my body.” Atsumu’s voice was ice. “I can use it however I want.”

“You’re hurting yourself.”

“I’m not hurting. I’m thriving. Do you know how much money that video made in three hours? Thousands. More than you’ll make in a month at your part-time job.”

Osamu shook his head. “This isn’t about money.”

“Then what is it about?” Atsumu stepped closer, and Osamu saw it—the same fever-bright look, but deeper now. Wilder. “You want me to be pure and innocent? That ship sailed a long time ago, ‘Samu. I’m not your little brother anymore. I’m a product. And products sell.”

Osamu thought about hitting him. Instead, he turned and walked out.

---

The descent accelerated.

Atsumu filmed himself during his next period, used the menstrual blood as a prop, spread it over his skin, drank it in a stylized shot that went viral on a darker corner of the internet. His followers called him “goddess” and “queen” and “the most unflinching star alive.” He ate up the praise like oxygen.

His room became a studio. The bed was always made now—for filming. Black sheets, soft lighting, deliberate camera angles. He stopped going to school. Inarizaki called, but he didn’t answer. Kita showed up at the door once, but Atsumu didn’t let him in.

Osamu tried to talk to him. Sat beside him on the bed while Atsumu edited a new video, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“I’m worried about you,” Osamu said.

“Noted.”

“This isn’t healthy.”

“It’s profitable.”

“Atsumu—”

“Look.” Atsumu paused the footage, turned to face Osamu. Eyes clear, voice steady. “I know what I’m doing. I know you think I’m broken, but I’m not. I’m just… using what I have. Everything in this world is a transaction. I’m getting paid. I’m getting attention. And I’m good at it. Why is that so wrong?”

“Because you’re not happy.”

“How would you know?” Atsumu’s composure cracked, just for a moment. “You don’t live in my head. You don’t know what makes me happy. Maybe this does. Maybe this is the only thing that makes me feel like I exist.”

Osamu couldn’t argue. He didn’t have the words. So he sat there, silent, while Atsumu turned back to his editing.

---

Two weeks later, Osamu found a video on Atsumu’s channel that showed his brother masturbating with a menstrual cup full of blood. Comments were a mix of adoration and disgust.

Osamu packed a bag that night. Drove to a motel on the outskirts of town, paid for a week, and didn’t come back.

He left a note on the kitchen counter: I can’t watch you do this to yourself. I’ll always be your brother, but I can’t be here. I’m sorry.

Atsumu found it the next morning. Read it twice, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the trash.

He uploaded a new video that afternoon. Title: Alone at last.

---

Years passed. Osamu moved to Osaka, opened a small onigiri shop, built a quiet life. He saw Atsumu’s face on billboards sometimes—not pornographic, but suggestive, for adult beverage ads or streaming platforms. Atsumu had become a brand. Atsumu had become famous.

They never spoke again.

At family gatherings, their mother would say, “He asked about you,” and Osamu would nod and change the subject. He didn’t ask about Atsumu. He didn’t want to know.

But sometimes, late at night, when the shop was closed and the streets were empty, Osamu would open his phone and go to At-sum-mer Heat. He’d watch a few seconds of a video—just enough to see his brother’s face, to hear his voice, to remember who they used to be before the cameras and the fluids and the endless, hungry eyes.

Then he’d close the browser, turn off his phone, and lie in the dark, listening to the silence.

He never slept well.

And somewhere, in a city far away, Atsumu turned on his ring light, smiled at the lens, and said:

“Ready when you are.”