Three Months Cold

The autumn air in Miyagi was sharp, clean—smelled like rotting leaves and the promise of frost. Osamu sat on the edge of his twin brother’s empty bed. The sheets were cold. Untouched. Something twisted in his chest, but he didn't bother naming it.

Three months.

Three months since graduation. Since Atsumu stood in their childhood kitchen with that hollow look and said, “I’m not gonna play pro.”

Osamu thought it was a joke at first. Atsumu lived for volleyball. Breathed it. Their mom used to say that boy came out of the womb spiking. But Atsumu just shrugged, turned away, said, “No plan. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just… figure it out.”

And Osamu—tired of being the responsible one, chasing his own dreams of culinary school—let it go. Told himself Atsumu would come around. That the fire would reignite. That their parents would nudge him back on track.

Now he was home for autumn break from his training program, and the house was too quiet. Their mom looked surprised when he asked about Atsumu. “He’s not with you?” she’d said, stirring miso soup. “He said he was staying at MSBY’s training facility. Special program.”

Osamu nodded, kept his face blank, but something cracked inside.

Atsumu never mentioned any special program.

He called Atsumu’s phone. No answer. Texted. Read receipts, no reply. He even called some old Inarizaki teammates—Sunarin, the twins from the other school—and no one had seen him since graduation. Not a single one.

That’s when Osamu started looking. Found an address scrawled on a torn note in Atsumu’s desk drawer. A district in a nearby city. Cheap rents, high crime. The kind of place you end up when you’ve got nowhere else.

He went there today. Found the building—a concrete box with peeling paint and a broken buzzer. Door propped open with a brick. The smell inside was mildew and stale cigarettes. He climbed three flights, knocked on 303.

No answer.

He waited an hour. Two. Finally, around dusk, he heard footsteps. Slow, heavy. The door cracked open, and there was Atsumu.

His twin brother looked like a stranger.

Hair longer, unwashed, hanging in lank strands around his face. Shadows under his eyes like bruises. Thin hoodie. Hands shoved in pockets. When he saw Osamu, his face went through a quick series of shifts—surprise, panic, then a practiced blankness that made Osamu’s stomach turn.

“Samu,” Atsumu said, flat. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Osamu kept his voice even. “Mom and Dad think you’re in some MSBY program. They haven’t seen you since graduation. I’ve been calling.”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. “Been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“None of your business.”

They stood there, hallway light flickering, until Osamu reached out and pushed the door open. The apartment was a single room. Mattress on the floor, hot plate, pile of clothes. A makeup bag on a rickety table. Curtains drawn, air thick with cheap perfume and something sour.

“You’re gonna tell me,” Osamu said, stepping inside. “Or I’m not leaving.”

Atsumu laughed. Broken sound. “Fine. Whatever. Close the door.”

Now they’re back at the family home. Kitchen warm with their mom’s cooking. Atsumu spent the whole dinner silent. Their parents fussed over him, asked about the training program. Atsumu gave curt, vague answers. Osamu watched his brother’s hands shake when he lifted his chopsticks, the way he barely touched the food.

After dinner, Osamu pulled him into the backyard, under the bare branches of the old persimmon tree. Cold night. Atsumu shivering in just a thin sweater.

“You’re not staying here tonight,” Osamu said. Not a question.

Atsumu looked at the ground. “I have to go back.”

“No, you don’t. You’re gonna tell me everything. What the hell is going on? Where have you been living? Why’d you lie about MSBY?”

Atsumu hunched his shoulders. The silence stretched. For a moment, Osamu thought he’d just walk away. But then Atsumu let out a breath—white in the cold air—and started talking.

He told him about the apartment. The job. The men and women who paid him to dance, to touch, to do whatever they wanted. He said it matter-of-factly, like reading a weather report. Osamu felt the world tilt.

“Three months,” Atsumu said, voice rising slightly. “Pays enough for rent and food. It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Osamu’s voice came out rough. “Atsumu, you’re a—you’re my brother. You’re a genius setter. You could’ve gone anywhere.”

“I broke my shoulder.” Quiet. Flat. “After graduation. Practicing alone, slipped on a wet patch, scraped it. Didn’t go to a doctor—stupid. Thought it would heal. It didn’t. By the time I got it checked, they said nerve damage. Can’t set anymore. Not ever.”

Osamu stared at him. The air was cold, but the cold inside him was worse.

“You never said anything.”

“What was I gonna say? ‘Hey Samu, I’m a cripple now, please come take care of me’?” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “You had your school. Mom and Dad had their plans. I didn’t have anything. I can’t do anything. I’m not good at anything except volleyball, and I can’t do that. So I found something I’m good at.”

Osamu stepped closer. Hands shaking. “Atsumu, you’re good at a lot of things. You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have anything else.” Atsumu’s eyes were wet, but the tears didn’t fall. “Don’t look at me like that. I chose this. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Osamu grabbed his wrist. Atsumu flinched. That’s when he noticed—the marks on his forearms. Fingertip-shaped bruises, fading yellow and purple. Osamu’s grip tightened. Atsumu tried to pull away.

“Don’t,” Atsumu hissed.

“What are these?” Osamu pushed up the sweater sleeve. His stomach lurched. Marks went higher, up to his bicep. Skin raw in places.

“Clients. They get rough sometimes. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Osamu shouted. Let go. Breathing hard. “Where’s the makeup bag I saw? You never wear makeup. What are you hiding?”

Atsumu’s face went white. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Show me.”

“Samu, stop—”

“Show me, or I swear I’ll tear this house apart looking.”

Atsumu’s hands trembled as he reached into his duffel bag. Pulled out a black makeup bag, heavy with products. Osamu unzipped it. Tube of concealer thick enough for a bruise, foundation, beauty blender. At the bottom, a folded piece of paper and a small prescription bottle.

Osamu pulled out the bottle. Label had Atsumu’s name, but the drug name made him freeze. Mifepristone. Followed by Misoprostol.

Abortion medication.

Heart stopped. He looked at Atsumu, who was staring at the ground, face a mask of shame.

“What is this?” Osamu’s voice barely a whisper.

Atsumu didn’t answer. Instead, his hand darted back into the bag, but Osamu was faster. Pulled out a white box and a plastic bag. Inside the box—a breast pump. The bag contained maternity pads.

Osamu felt like drowning.

“Atsumu.” Voice raw. “Tell me. Now.”

Atsumu’s composure shattered. He sat down hard on the grass, knees to chest, buried his face in his arms. Voice muffled, broken.

“Three weeks ago, I missed my period. Scared. Couldn’t face it. So I bought the pills just in case. But then I went to a clinic—false alarm. Not pregnant. Never was.”

Osamu crouched in front of him. “And the breast pump?”

Atsumu laughed, bitter, hollow. “There are sites where you can sell breast milk. Some guys with money pay a lot for it. Figured if I ever did get pregnant, I could… I don’t know. Make money that way. Still in the box. Never used it.”

Osamu’s mind reeled. His twin brother, his other half, living this nightmare alone. Selling his body. Considering an abortion he didn’t need. Planning to sell his own milk. And Osamu had been in culinary school, learning to make onigiri, thinking everything was fine.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he whispered.

Atsumu lifted his head. Eyes red, but the tears had stopped. “Because I’m a failure, Samu. I was the one supposed to make it. The talented one. And I couldn’t even take care of myself. Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“You’re not a failure.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “You’re my brother.”

“I’m worthless.” Flat. Certain. “No skills. No future. Scraped my own shoulder on a wet floor and ruined everything. I deserve this.”

Osamu grabbed him by the shoulders. Atsumu winced. Osamu felt the thinness of his frame, bones too close to skin. He pulled his brother into a hug. Atsumu went rigid.

“Don’t,” Atsumu said. “I’m dirty. I’m disgusting.”

“Shut up.” Osamu held tighter. “You’re not. You’re my twin. You’re Atsumu. And I am not letting you go back there.”

Atsumu’s body shook. Then sobs came. Ugly, raw, broken sobs that shook his whole frame. Osamu held him on the cold ground under the persimmon tree, autumn stars cold and indifferent above them.

They stayed like that a long time. The house dark. Their parents asleep. Only sound was Atsumu’s ragged breathing as the tears finally stopped.

“I can’t go home,” Atsumu whispered. “They’ll be ashamed.”

“They won’t,” Osamu said. “And if they are, I’ll handle it. You’re coming back with me tomorrow. We’re getting you to a real doctor. For your shoulder, and… and for your head.”

Atsumu pulled back. Face blotchy, eyes swollen. “I don’t have money for a doctor.”

“I have savings. I’ll pay. And you’re gonna quit that job.”

“I can’t just quit. I owe people. The apartment. Some clients know where I live.”

Osamu’s blood went cold. “We’ll get you out. Tonight. I’ll take you to a hotel, and tomorrow we’ll get your stuff and break the lease. You don’t owe them anything. You owe yourself a chance.”

Atsumu stared at him. The old fire flickered in his eyes—dim, but there. “Why are you doing this? I lied to you. Disappointed you.”

“Because you’re my brother.” Osamu’s voice firm. “And because you’re not worthless. You never were. You just forgot.”

Atsumu’s lip trembled. He reached out, grabbed Osamu’s wrist—grip weak, desperate. “I don’t deserve this.”

“Too bad. You’re gettin’ it anyway.”

They sat together until the cold became unbearable. Then Osamu helped him up, and they went inside. Their parents asleep. Osamu made tea. They sat in the dark kitchen, not talking, just breathing.

In the morning, Osamu would call his school, take a leave of absence. Drive Atsumu to that rundown apartment, help him pack, take him to a clinic. Make sure he saw a therapist. Be there for every ugly, painful step.

But for now, he just watched Atsumu sip his tea, hands still shaking, and made a silent vow. He would not let his twin disappear again.

The first light of dawn crept through the window when Atsumu spoke again.

“Samu?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

Osamu didn’t answer. Just reached across the table and took his brother’s hand. The grip was weak, but it was there.

It was a start.