The Name I Give Myself

The first time Atsumu posted a picture of himself in a bikini, it was a joke. Sort of.

He was bored, scrolling through his phone on a lazy Sunday, the kind where Osamu’s at the shop and the apartment just sits there, heavy and quiet. The bikini was cheap—pink with little white polka dots, left over from a beach trip with the team months ago. He put it on for laughs, snapped a selfie in the bathroom mirror, almost deleted it.

Then he looked at it. The way the fabric clung to his lean frame, the soft curve of his hips, the way he tilted his chin. He looked good. And the thought of someone else seeing him like that, wanting him like that—it sent something warm through his chest.

He posted it on a site he’d found during a late-night scroll. One of those places where people sell pictures of themselves. Nothing wild at first—bikinis, underwear, maybe a shot of his ass in tight shorts. He used a fake name—Katsumi—and kept his face out of the frame. Just his body, anonymous and available.

The notifications came fast. Comments, likes, messages. “Beautiful.” “Your skin is perfect.” “I want to kiss every inch of you.”

His cheeks burned, but he couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time in ages, someone wanted him for him—not as Miya Atsumu, the star setter, not as Osamu’s twin, but as this soft, pretty thing that only existed in the glow of his phone screen.

It became a habit. A hobby. A lifeline.

---

The content escalated so slowly Atsumu didn’t notice. Bikinis became lingerie. Lingerie became poses—on his knees, back arched, legs spread. He bought a cheap ring light and a tripod, then a better camera. He learned to angle his body to hide his sharp jawline, to crop out the tattoos that would give him away. He wore wigs sometimes—long blonde curls, a sleek black bob—and pretended to be someone else.

The money was good. Not life-changing, but enough to buy nice things without Osamu asking questions. A new watch. Expensive skincare. A pole.

He didn’t really know why he bought the pole. Maybe because he’d seen a video online of someone doing a dance—an anime character, pink and white hair, a whiplash grin. Angel Dust. The dance was called “Losing Streak,” and it was filthy and gorgeous and Atsumu watched it sixteen times before he decided he had to learn it.

He set the pole up in the spare bedroom—the one Osamu never used because it was full of old boxes and discarded volleyball gear. He installed a lock on the door, told Osamu it was for storage. “Don’t go in there,” he said, too casual. “I’m sorting through stuff.”

Osamu grunted, already buried in a recipe book. “‘Kay.”

The first time Atsumu slid his body around that pole, something unlocked in his chest. The rhythm of the song, the way his muscles flexed and released, the silk of the fabric against his skin—it was a kind of freedom he’d never known. He recorded it, edited it, posted it.

It went viral. Not viral viral, but viral enough. Thousands of views. Comments pouring in. “This is art.” “I’m literally shaking.” “Katsumi, marry me.”

He basked in the attention like sunlight. And when the requests for private shows started coming, when the offers of cash for more piled up, he didn’t say no.

The first time he met a stranger in a hotel room, his hands shook so bad he almost backed out. But the man was kind, older, gentle. He told Atsumu he was beautiful. Touched him like he was something precious.

Afterward, Atsumu lay on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, and felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with sex. He was wanted. Not for his volleyball fame, not because he was Osamu’s twin. Just for being this soft, vulnerable version of himself.

He started taking more bookings. Not many—two, three a month, enough to feel alive. He kept it all secret, tucked away in a second phone and a locked drawer, and came home to Osamu every night with a smile that was just a little too bright.

---

“Did you see that guy on the train today?” Osamu said one evening, stirring a pot of simmering broth. His voice was flat, the way it got when he was about to complain. “Dressed like a girl. Fishnets and everything. Fucking gross.”

Atsumu’s hand froze over the rice cooker. “Gross?”

“Yeah. Like, just pick a lane, you know? Who wants to see that shit?”

The words lodged in Atsumu’s throat like a bone. He forced a laugh. “Guess it’s not yer thing.”

“It’s nobody’s thing,” Osamu said, turning to face him. His face was hard, disgust curling his lip. “Men who dress like that? They’re just attention whores. Desperate.”

Atsumu nodded, kept his eyes on the rice cooker, and felt his secret world crumble a little. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Because the fishnets Osamu was talking about were in his bag, right there in the corner of the room, wrapped around a pair of thigh-high boots and a lace bodysuit he’d worn just last night.

After dinner, he locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection until his eyes went blurry.

You’re disgusting, he thought. He’d hate you if he knew.

But he couldn’t stop. The next morning, he uploaded a new video—pole dancing in a schoolgirl skirt, his face hidden by a pink wig—and watched the likes pour in. The validation was a drug, and he was addicted.

---

It was a Tuesday when Osamu found it.

Atsumu had been careless. He’d left his gym bag unzipped after practice, and when he went to grab a towel, the fishnets spilled out. Black, fishnet stockings, shimmering under the fluorescent kitchen light.

Osamu picked them up with two fingers, like they were contaminated. “Tsumu.”

Atsumu’s blood turned to ice. “Those aren’t—those are for a thing—”

“What thing?” Osamu’s voice was low, dangerous. He dropped the fishnets and walked to the spare bedroom. The door was locked.

“Samu, don’t—”

But Osamu was stronger than him. One good shove and the lock splintered, the door swinging open to reveal the pole, the ring light, the wigs on their stands, the laptop still open to Katsumi’s profile page.

Osamu stood there for a long, terrible moment. Then he turned to Atsumu, and his face was a mask of pure revulsion.

“You’re Katsumi?”

Atsumu couldn’t speak. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

“The femboy whore?” Osamu’s voice rose, cracking. “The one who dances around in his underwear for money? That’s you?”

“It’s not—I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Osamu slammed his hand against the wall, inches from Atsumu’s head. Spit flew from his lips. “I saw your page. The lingerie. The positions. You let people fuck you for cash, don’t you?”

Atsumu flinched. “Samu, please, just let me explain—”

“Explain what? That you’re a goddamn degenerate?” Osamu’s hand came up, fingers curled into a fist. His arm shook. The slap was coming—Atsumu could see it in the wild fury of his brother’s eyes—but at the last second, Osamu pulled back. His fist dropped to his side. “I can’t even look at you.”

He turned and walked out of the room. The front door slammed.

Atsumu slid down the wall, his knees giving out. He sat on the floor of his ruined secret room, surrounded by the pieces of a life he’d built in the dark, and sobbed until his throat was raw.

---

That night, after Osamu came back—silent, rigid—Atsumu deleted everything.

Every account. Every video. Every picture. Every message. He factory-reset the second phone and smashed it with a hammer. He took down the pole and shoved it into a dumpster behind the convenience store. He bagged up the wigs, the lingerie, the fishnets, the boots—all of it—and threw it away.

He didn’t say anything. Just did it, methodically, while Osamu watched from the doorway.

When it was done, Atsumu looked at his brother and said, “I’m sorry.”

Osamu didn’t respond. He just turned and went to bed.

They didn’t talk about it the next day, or the day after that. Life resumed its familiar rhythm: practice, meals, sleep. But Atsumu moved through it like a ghost. His setter hands, once so sharp and precise, felt clumsy. His jokes fell flat. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

He stopped laughing.

He stopped caring.

The volleyball court, which had always been his sanctuary, felt like a cage. Every time he jumped, every time he tossed, he felt the weight of Osamu’s gaze on him—not angry anymore, just… watching. Waiting for him to slip.

Atsumu didn’t sleep. He lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, and thought about the hotel rooms, the kind strangers, the rush of being seen. He missed it. He missed himself.

But he couldn’t go back. Not after what he’d seen in Osamu’s eyes. That disgust. That betrayal. It was worse than any slap.

---

Three weeks passed. Then a month.

Osamu noticed. Of course he noticed. They were twins; they’d shared a womb, a childhood, a life. He couldn’t miss the way Atsumu’s eyes had gone dull, the way his shoulders slumped, the way he’d stopped arguing back when Osamu criticized his cooking.

One night, after dinner, Osamu sat down across from him. His face was tight, uncomfortable.

“You’re not okay.”

Atsumu didn’t look up from his bowl of rice. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “You look like you’re dying, Tsumu. You look like—like you’re hollow.”

Atsumu set down his chopsticks. His hands were shaking. He couldn’t stop them. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to be okay.”

“I can’t.” The words came out small, broken. “I can’t be okay when you look at me like I’m a monster.”

Osamu flinched. “I don’t—”

“You do.” Atsumu’s voice rose, raw and desperate. “You called me a degenerate. You said you couldn’t look at me. I saw your face, Samu. You wanted to hit me.”

“I didn’t hit you.”

“But you wanted to.” Tears spilled down Atsumu’s cheeks. “And I get it. I get it. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting. But it was the only time I felt like anyone wanted me. Not the setter. Not yer twin. Just… me.”

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

“So what do you want?” Osamu finally asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I want to go back,” Atsumu said. “But I won’t. Not if it means losing you.”

Osamu closed his eyes. His jaw worked. When he opened them again, there was something raw in his gaze—not acceptance, not understanding, but a weary, reluctant surrender.

“Don’t do it here,” he said. “Don’t bring it home. And don’t make me see it.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. “Are you… serious?”

“No.” Osamu’s laugh was bitter. “But I’d rather have you whole and doing… that… than half-dead in my kitchen. So go. Do your… thing. Just…” He swallowed hard. “Don’t make me watch.”

---

Atsumu returned to it slowly, cautiously, like testing a wound.

He bought a new phone. A new pole. New clothes—softer, prettier than before. He reopened his accounts under a new name—Rin—and posted his first video in weeks. A simple thing, just him in a lace bralette, swaying to music.

The comments came flooding back. “Missed you.” “You’re so beautiful.” “Welcome home.”

And for the first time in a month, Atsumu felt warmth in his chest.

But home was different now.

Three days later, Atsumu was in the living room, practicing a new routine. He’d brought the pole in from the spare room—Osamu had said he wouldn’t make him hide it, not in his own home. So Atsumu was dancing, spinning, lost in the rhythm, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a sheer top.

Osamu walked in with a glass of water.

He froze.

Atsumu froze, too, his body wrapped around the pole, one leg hooked high. He looked at his brother, waiting for the disgust, the anger, the words that would cut him open.

Osamu’s face went pale. His throat worked. And then, unbidden, a gag rose from his chest—a violent, retching sound, like he was going to be sick. He covered his mouth and fled to the bathroom.

The door slammed. The lock clicked.

Atsumu stayed on the pole, his arms trembling, his eyes dry. He finished the routine—he had to, or he’d break—and then got dressed and sat on the couch, staring at the blank TV.

When Osamu came out, he didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain. He just said, “I’ll be at the shop late tonight,” and left.

---

They found a rhythm, eventually. An uneasy, fragile rhythm.

Atsumu booked his clients at hotels, never at home. He filmed his videos in the spare room, with the door closed and music loud enough to drown out the sound. He never talked about it, never showed Osamu, never let the two worlds touch.

But the damage was done.

Osamu stopped eating dinner with him. He stopped making conversation. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone, and flinched whenever Atsumu walked past in something revealing. The gagging didn’t stop—sometimes Atsumu caught him with his hand over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the reflex.

And Atsumu learned to hide. He learned to keep his happiness quiet, to celebrate his wins alone, to smile at his reflection in the hotel mirror and pretend it was enough.

Because it was enough. The money, the attention, the feeling of being wanted—it filled the hole that Osamu’s love had once filled. It wasn’t better. It wasn’t worse. It was just different.

And on the worst nights, when the hollow ache returned, Atsumu would open his phone and scroll through old messages with Osamu—the ones from before. “You’re an idiot.” “You’re my idiot.” “Love you, twin.”

He read them until his eyes burned, then closed the app and went back to work.

Because this was the only version of himself that anyone wanted.

And he had to be okay with that.

---

One evening, weeks later, Osamu came home late from the shop. Atsumu was already in bed, scrolling through his phone, but he heard the front door open, heard the familiar footsteps.

A moment later, Osamu appeared in his doorway. His face was tired, drawn.

“Tsumu.”

“Yeah?”

Osamu hesitated. Then he said, “I’m trying.”

Atsumu’s heart clenched. “I know.”

“I don’t…” Osamu rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at him. “I don’t understand it. I don’t think I ever will. But you’re my brother. And I can’t watch you fall apart again.”

“So you’re okay with it?”

“No.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “I’m not okay with it. But I’d rather have you alive and doing… that… than dead from hating yourself.”

Atsumu didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, but the words got stuck.

Osamu nodded once, sharp, and turned to leave. At the door, he paused.

“I won’t gag next time,” he said. “I’ll try not to, at least.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He just walked to his room and closed the door.

Atsumu lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the tears slide down his cheeks. They weren’t sad tears, or happy ones. They were just there, a release of pressure he hadn’t known he was holding.

Maybe it wasn’t a happy ending. Maybe it wasn’t even a good one.

But it was something.

And for now, that was enough.