Silver Lamé and a Heart Emoji

The party was pounding—bass bleeding through the walls, making the whole cramped house feel like it was breathing. Atsumu Miya stood in the middle of it, all glitter and sharp edges in a sea of sweat-stained t-shirts. His top was a scrap of silver lamé, cut so low it showed off his collarbones and the faint shimmer of highlighter he'd dusted there. The skirt was even worse—black pleather barely covering his ass, paired with heeled boots that made his legs look miles long. Eyeliner winged out sharp enough to draw blood. Lips dark and wet like cherries.

He looked like trouble. He felt like a lie.

The omega part of him was screaming to go home, curl up in his nest of mismatched blankets, ignore the phone buzzing in the clutch pressed against his hip. But he'd been cooped up for weeks—Osamu watching him like a hawk, their parents trusting him about as far as they could throw him after the last time—and he was done with being good. Done being the fragile omega who needed protecting. Tonight, he was just Atsumu, and Atsumu wanted to have fun.

He'd texted his mom at eleven: At Suna's. Studying. Don't wait up.

She sent back a heart emoji. Easy.

That lie was smooth, practiced. He'd been telling it for years.

A guy in a backwards cap bumped into him, beer sloshing onto Atsumu's arm. "Oh shit, sorry—hey." His eyes traveled down, then back up, a slow grin spreading. "You're, like, really pretty."

Atsumu's mouth curved into a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Yeah, I know."

Too easy. The guy—Kenta, a senior in business or something—was all over him within minutes. Hand on the small of his back, breath hot against his ear, compliments that slid off Atsumu's skin like oil on water. But Atsumu laughed, leaned into the touch, let himself be pulled toward the kitchen for another drink.

His phone buzzed. Then again. Then a third time, insistent and angry.

He fished it out of his clutch. The name on the screen: Osamu 🍙

Stomach dropped.

He ducked into a hallway that smelled like stale beer and regret, pressed the phone to his ear. "What."

"Where are you?" Osamu's voice was flat, but Atsumu knew him too well. There was an edge underneath, sharp as a knife.

"Suna's. I told Mom."

"Yeah, I know what you told Mom." Pause. "Video call me."

"Why?"

"'Cause I wanna see your face when you lie to me."

Atsumu's jaw tightened. He ended the call and hit video, angled the camera toward the wall behind him—peeling floral wallpaper, a flickering light. Not his face. Not his outfit.

"There," he said. "Happy?"

"Turn the camera around."

"No."

"Tsumu." Osamu's voice cracked, just slightly. "I'm not playin'."

"I'm at a friend's house, okay? It's fine. I'm fine. Stop bein' such a mother hen." Atsumu's voice pitched higher, defensive. "I'll be home tomorrow. Don't tell Mom."

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Atsumu could picture his brother sitting in their shared room, phone pressed to his ear, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Osamu always saw through him. A twin thing, or maybe just an Osamu thing—sniffing out a lie like a bloodhound.

"Fine," Osamu said finally, heavy and reluctant. "But you owe me an explanation."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Atsumu hung up before his brother could say more.

He stood in the dim hallway a moment, heart hammering. Then he squared his shoulders, smoothed down his ridiculous skirt, and walked back into the noise.

Kenta was waiting by the kitchen island, two fresh drinks in hand. "Everything okay?"

"Peachy," Atsumu said, and took the cup.

---

Two hours later, Atsumu was in a stranger's apartment.

Not bad, as far as stranger apartments went. Clean enough. A potted plant that looked alive. A couch that didn't smell like cat piss. Kenta had been charming on the walk over, keeping up a steady stream of conversation that Atsumu only half-listened to. He was thinking about the way Osamu's voice had cracked. About the look on his face when he'd hung up.

But he was here now, and he wasn't going to waste it.

Kenta kissed him the moment the door clicked shut. A good kiss—confident, practiced, with just the right amount of teeth. Atsumu let himself be pressed against the wall, let his head fall back as lips trailed down his neck. This was what he wanted. This was what omegas did at parties, right? Went home with nice guys and let themselves be wanted.

Kenta's hands slid up his thighs, pushing the hem of his skirt higher. "You're so hot," he murmured against Atsumu's collarbone. "I can't believe you're real."

Atsumu laughed, breathless and hollow. "Believe it."

They stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding clothes and inhibitions. Kenta's fingers found the waistband of Atsumu's underwear, and Atsumu's whole body went rigid.

One second he was present, floating, letting it happen. The next, he was there—hyperaware of the weight on top of him, the smell of cheap cologne and beer, the eagerness in Kenta's breathing. His skin crawled. His chest tightened until he couldn't breathe.

"Stop," he gasped. "Stop, stop, stop—"

Kenta pulled back immediately, hands flying up. "Whoa, hey—are you okay?"

Atsumu scrambled off the bed, pressing himself against the far wall. Hands shaking. Whole body shaking. Words tumbled out before he could stop them: "I can't do this. I'm sorry, I thought I could, but I'm not ready, I'm not—I've never—"

He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the anger. The disappointment. What the hell did you come here for, then?

But none of that came.

Kenta was quiet for a long moment. When Atsumu opened his eyes, the guy was sitting on the edge of the bed, expression concerned but not cruel. "Okay," he said. "That's okay."

Atsumu blinked. "What?"

"I said it's okay." Kenta ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath. "I'm not gonna push you into anything. That'd be fucked up."

"But… I came here. I wanted to—"

"Wanted to and ready to are two different things." Kenta's voice was gentle, steady. "Do you want me to take you home?"

Atsumu's throat tightened. He shook his head, mute.

"Okay. Then let's just… watch something. You like terrible reality TV? I've got a whole queue."

And just like that, the tension broke. Kenta ordered takeout—greasy fried rice and dumplings from a place down the street—and they sat on opposite ends of the couch, a safe distance between them, while he flipped through shows. Atsumu didn't say much. He ate mechanically, tasting nothing, watching colors blur on the screen. Part of him was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Kenta to try again, or get angry, or kick him out.

But he didn't. He just sat there, quiet and solid, occasionally commenting on the drama unfolding on screen. When Atsumu's eyelids started to droop, Kenta threw a blanket over him and said, "Get some sleep. I'll drive you wherever you need to go in the morning."

Atsumu didn't sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night in his head. The way Osamu's voice had cracked. The way his own body had seized up in fear. The way a complete stranger had been kinder to him than he'd expected.

He felt stupid. Grateful. Drowning.

Morning came gray and cold, light filtering through dusty blinds. Kenta made him coffee in a chipped mug and didn't ask questions when Atsumu said he needed to go to Suna's. The drive was short, silent except for the low hum of the radio. When Kenta pulled up outside the familiar apartment building, he turned to Atsumu. "Hey. For what it's worth… you did the right thing. Stopping, I mean."

Atsumu's jaw tightened. He nodded once, curt, and got out of the car without saying goodbye.

The walk from Suna's to the Miya household was twenty minutes. In flat shoes, nothing. In four-inch heeled boots and a skirt that barely qualified as clothing, it was a gauntlet. Every step sent a jolt up his spine. People stared. A car honked. Atsumu kept his eyes on the pavement and walked faster.

The sun was fully up by the time he reached the house. His house. The familiar two-story with the faded sign and chipped welcome mat his mom kept meaning to replace. Looked the same as ever. Ordinary. Safe.

Atsumu felt anything but.

He slipped off his boots at the front door, wincing as raw feet met cold tile. The house was quiet. Too quiet. He crept through the entryway, holding his breath, praying his parents were still asleep—

Osamu was in the kitchen.

He stood at the counter, a mug of coffee in his hand, wearing rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants. Hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept. He looked up when Atsumu entered, and his face went through a rapid series of changes: confusion, recognition, then a cold, burning anger that made Atsumu's blood turn to ice.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

The words were quiet. Worse than shouting.

Atsumu's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He stood there in his pleather skirt and glittery top, makeup smeared from a sleepless night, looking exactly like what he was: a runaway omega who'd gotten in over his head.

"I asked you a question." Osamu set his mug down with a clink that echoed in the silence. His hands were shaking. "Where the hell were you?"

"Suna's," Atsumu tried, but the lie died on his lips.

"Don't." Osamu's voice cracked, just like it had on the phone. "Don't you dare lie to me right now. I've been up all night. I drove past Suna's at three in the morning and his lights were off, so don't tell me you were there."

Atsumu's throat burned. "Osamu—"

"You could've been anything." Osamu's voice rose, cracking with emotion. "You could've been dead in a ditch and I wouldn't have known because you lied to me. You sneaked out in that—" He gestured at Atsumu's outfit, hand shaking. "And you expect me to just pretend everything's fine?"

"It's not like that!"

"Then what's it like?" Osamu stepped forward, and Atsumu stepped back, hitting the wall. His brother's face was twisted with worry and fury, alpha instincts overriding everything else. "Tell me, Tsumu. Where were you?"

The dam broke.

Atsumu's knees gave out. He slid down the wall, landing hard on the tile floor, buried his face in his hands. The words came out in a rush, tangled and raw, spilling over each other like they were trying to escape before he could stop them. He told Osamu everything. The party. The guy. The apartment. The moment he'd panicked and said no. The way Kenta had been kind instead of cruel, fed him, covered him with a blanket, driven him to Suna's in the morning like it was nothing.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just wanted to feel normal, for once. Wanted to be like everyone else and not have to worry about everything."

The kitchen was silent except for Atsumu's ragged breathing. He kept his face buried, waiting for Osamu's anger to hit him like a wave. Waiting for the shouting, the accusations, the I told you so he deserved.

Instead, he heard footsteps. Then a familiar scent—soap, rice, the faint salt of tears—and Osamu was on the floor beside him, arms wrapping around him tight.

"You idiot," Osamu whispered, voice thick. "You absolute idiot."

Atsumu sobbed into his brother's shoulder. The makeup ran, black streaks staining Osamu's white t-shirt. He didn't care. Osamu didn't seem to care either, because he just held on tighter, one hand fisting in the stupid glittery top, the other cradling the back of Atsumu's head.

"I was so scared," Osamu muttered. "I called Suna at three in the morning because I knew you were lyin'. When he said you weren't there, I thought—I thought—"

"I know." Atsumu's voice was muffled. "I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry. You're always doin' this." Osamu pulled back, hands gripping Atsumu's shoulders. His eyes were red, but his jaw was set. "I'm not gonna tell Mom and Dad. But you gotta promise me somethin'."

Atsumu sniffled, wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. "What?"

"You gotta be safer." Osamu's grip tightened. "If you wanna go to a party, you tell me. You send me the address. You keep your location on. And if you're gonna wear something like that—" He gestured at the outfit again, mouth twisting. "—you let me pick you up. I don't care what time it is."

"You'd do that?"

"Don't make me say it again." Osamu's ears were red. "You're my twin. My omega twin. I'm supposed to protect you, even when you make it real hard."

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. "I make it impossible, actually."

"Yeah, you do." But Osamu was smiling now, just a little. He pulled Atsumu to his feet, steadying him when he wobbled. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up before Mom wakes up. You look like a raccoon that lost a fight."

"Gee, thanks."

They stood in the kitchen, morning light slanting through the window, casting golden lines across the floor. Atsumu's face was a mess of smeared makeup and dried tears, his outfit ridiculous in the daylight. But Osamu's hand was warm on his shoulder, grounding him, pulling him back from the edge.

"Hey, 'Samu?"

"Mm?"

"Thanks."

Osamu snorted. "Don't thank me. Just don't do it again."

"I can't promise that."

"I know." Osamu's voice softened. "But try, okay? For me."

Atsumu looked at his brother—the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines etched into his young face, the t-shirt ruined with makeup that he wasn't even complaining about. His chest ached, but it was a different kind of ache now. Warm. Full.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll try."

It wasn't a perfect promise. It wasn't a clean solution. But it was a start.

And for now, that was enough.