The Weight We Carry Alone

The pain was a monster living in his gut, twisting and clawing. Atsumu lay curled on his side in the dark, comforter pulled up to his chin even though sweat glued his hair to his forehead. A heat pack pressed against his lower stomach—his only shield.

His phone sat forgotten on the nightstand. Texts from teammates glowed and faded unanswered. He couldn't focus on them. Couldn't focus on anything except the nausea and the dull ache that spread down his thighs and into his lower back. Day two. The worst day. The day his body felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to breathe through the latest spasm. Just breathe, Atsumu. Just breathe. Useless. Always useless. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he bit his lip hard to keep quiet. He hated this. Hated feeling weak. Hated being reduced to a shivering mess over something he couldn't control.

The door creaked open, spilling hallway light into the room. He didn't have to look to know who it was. He knew those footsteps, that presence.

“Oi, Tsumu. You still in bed? It's almost eight.”

Osamu's voice was flat, unimpressed. It scraped against Atsumu's frayed nerves. He pulled the comforter tighter, a silent plea for his twin to leave.

The footsteps came closer. The mattress dipped as Osamu sat down. “Seriously? You're not even gonna get up for breakfast? Ma made onigiri.”

“Not hungry,” Atsumu mumbled into his pillow. His voice came out rough, strained.

A beat of silence. Then a sigh. “You're being dramatic, you know that? It can't be that bad. Girls deal with it all the time. You don't see them staying in bed for two days straight.”

The words hit like a physical blow. A fresh wave of pain lanced through him, sharp and hot, and he let out a small, involuntary whimper. He pressed the heat pack harder into his stomach, curling around it.

“Tsumu.” Osamu's voice had lost some of its teasing edge, but it was still laced with disbelief. “Come on. Get up. We'll miss the train.”

Atsumu slowly, painfully, turned his head to glare at his brother. His face was pale, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “I'm not goin',” he managed through gritted teeth. “I can't.”

Osamu stared at him, a frown creasing his brow. He looked like he was about to say something else, something dismissive, but when he saw the sheen of tears in Atsumu's eyes, his mouth snapped shut. He looked uncomfortable. Out of his depth.

“Fine,” he said, standing up abruptly. The mattress bounced, sending a jolt of agony through Atsumu's pelvis. He hissed in pain, but Osamu was already walking away. “Stay here and wallow in self-pity if you want. I'm goin'.”

The door clicked shut, and Atsumu was left alone in the dark with his pain and the hot, bitter taste of betrayal.

The next day was worse, but in a different way. The physical pain had ebbed slightly, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion and a lingering dull ache. But the emotional pain—the cold hurt of Osamu's dismissal—festered like an open wound.

Atsumu hadn't spoken a single word to his brother since the previous morning. When Osamu came home from school, he found Atsumu in the kitchen, making tea with shaking hands. He had opened his mouth, probably to ask about practice or make a snide comment about Atsumu's “lazy day,” but Atsumu simply walked past him, eyes fixed straight ahead, as if Osamu wasn't there.

The silent treatment continued into the next morning. Atsumu refused to look at him at breakfast. Refused to acknowledge his presence as they got ready for school. The tension in the Miya household was thick enough to choke on. Their mother sighed but wisely stayed out of it. She knew better than to get between her sons during one of their feuds.

At school, Atsumu moved through the day like a ghost. Sat in class, staring blankly at the board, words blurring together. His cramps were still there, a constant gnawing companion, but he had learned long ago to build a wall around his pain. He wore a mask of indifference, even though his insides felt wrung out.

Practice was out of the question. He sent a brief, curt text to Kita-san and Coach Kurosu, informing them he was unwell. He expected a lecture or at least a concerned inquiry, but all he got was a simple acknowledgment. Fine by him.

That afternoon, he was sprawled on his bedroom floor, a new heat pack warming his stomach, when a familiar lazy knock sounded on his door.

“Yo, Atsumu. You alive in there?”

Suna Rintaro. Atsumu felt a flicker of relief. Suna was his partner in crime on the court, a quiet, observant presence who never pried but always seemed to understand.

“Barely,” Atsumu called out, his voice weak.

The door slid open, and Suna padded in, his long lanky frame folding into a cross-legged position on the floor beside him. He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at Atsumu, his sharp eyes scanning his pale face and the way he curled around the heat pack.

“Bad one?” Suna asked quietly.

Atsumu just nodded. A wave of gratitude washed over him. Suna didn't question him. Didn't tell him to suck it up. He just knew. Suna had an older sister. He got it.

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the soft hum of the heat pack. Then the door slammed open, and Osamu stormed in, his face set in an angry scowl.

“Oi, Tsumu, what the hell is your problem? You've been ignorin' me all day. You can't even look at me? What's your deal?”

Atsumu didn't even bother to turn his head. Stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.

“He doesn't want to talk to you, 'Samu,” Suna said, his voice calm and even. “Maybe you should leave him alone.”

Osamu scoffed. “Leave him alone? I'm his brother. He's bein' a jerk for no reason. Just 'cause he's got a little cramp, he's gotta act like the world is endin'? It's not a big deal. It's just a period.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and cruel. Atsumu flinched—small, almost imperceptible—but Suna saw it. His eyes narrowed.

“It is a big deal, Osamu,” Suna said, his voice dropping a register. No longer calm. There was an edge of steel in his tone. “For some people, it's a really big deal.”

Osamu rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. You're gonna side with him? He's just bein' a drama queen. He always does this when he's on his period. Mopes around, acts like he's dyin'. It's annoyin'.”

Atsumu felt a tear slip from the corner of his eye. He couldn't help it. The pain, the exhaustion, the sheer overwhelming cruelty of his brother's words—it was too much. He turned his face away, pressing it into the carpet to hide the tears.

Suna watched him, jaw tightening. Then he turned to Osamu, his expression cold.

“You should try it.”

Osamu blinked. “Try what?”

“Try feeling what he feels. Just for a minute.”

Osamu scoffed again, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “What are you talkin' about?”

“My sister has a period pain simulator. She's a nurse. Uses it to teach students about how severe menstrual cramps can be.” Suna's voice was flat, businesslike. “I can get it. You can wear it. See for yourself if Atsumu's bein' a drama queen.”

Osamu's expression shifted from anger to skepticism. He looked at Atsumu, still curled on the floor, still refusing to look at him. Then back at Suna, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Fine. Bring it. I'll prove to you both that this is all in his head.”

Suna didn't say anything. Just pulled out his phone and started typing.

Forty minutes later, Suna returned, carrying a strange contraption. A thick black belt with a series of electrodes attached to pads on the inside. He set it on Atsumu's bed.

Osamu was pacing the room, looking bored and impatient. Atsumu had managed to sit up, leaning against his headboard, his face still pale and drawn. He watched Suna with tired, wary eyes.

“Alright, genius,” Osamu said. “Show me what you've got.”

Suna gestured to the device. “Take off your shirt. These pads need to go on your lower abdomen.”

Osamu stripped off his jersey without hesitation, revealing a lean, muscled torso. He stood with his hands on his hips, radiating confidence. “This is gonna be a cakewalk.”

Suna attached the pads to Osamu's skin, positioning them carefully. Then strapped the belt around his waist, securing it. He picked up the remote control—a small black box with a dial.

“You sure about this? There's no shame in backing out,” Suna said, voice flat.

“Just do it already,” Osamu said.

Suna turned the dial to the lowest setting.

Osamu snorted. “That's it? I can barely feel it. Told ya. He's bein' dramatic.”

Suna didn't reply. He turned the dial up one notch.

Osamu's smirk faltered. “Okay… maybe a little tingle.”

Another notch.

Osamu's hand flew to his stomach. “Whoa. That's… that's somethin'.”

Another notch.

Osamu's face drained of color. He let out a sharp breath, his body tensing. “Suna. That's enough.”

But Suna didn't stop. He knew what Atsumu lived through. Knew that what Osamu was feeling now was nothing compared to the real thing. He turned the dial again.

Osamu let out a choked cry. He doubled over, grabbing the bedframe. “Suna. Stop. It hurts.”

“This is level six,” Suna said calmly. “Atsumu's pain is usually around an eight or nine.”

“I don't care!” Osamu shouted, his voice cracking. “Turn it off! Turn it off!”

Suna held the dial steady. “You said he was bein' dramatic. You said it wasn't a big deal. You said girls deal with it all the time. So, deal with it.”

Osamu's legs gave out. He slumped to his knees on the floor, clutching his stomach, his face contorted in agony. A low, guttural moan escaped his lips.

“It hurts,” he whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks. “It hurts so bad. Please, Suna. Please. Make it stop.”

Suna watched him for a long, silent moment. Then he looked at Atsumu. Atsumu was staring at his brother, eyes wide. He had never seen Osamu look so broken, so vulnerable. A part of him felt a vicious, petty satisfaction, but a larger part just felt sad.

Suna turned the dial all the way to zero. The electrodes went dead. Osamu collapsed forward, his forehead pressing against the cold floorboards, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps.

“How long did that last?” Suna asked, his voice soft.

“I don't know… a minute? Two?” Osamu croaked.

“Atsumu endures this for eight days,” Suna said. “Every month. For hours at a time. Sometimes it's worse than what you just felt. Sometimes it's milder. But it never stops. It's not a ‘little cramp.’ It's a medical condition that affects his ability to function. And you, his twin brother, called him a drama queen. You told him to suck it up. You made him feel even worse than he already did.”

Osamu didn't answer. He couldn't. Still shaking, body wracked with aftershocks of simulated pain. He slowly pushed himself up onto his hands, head hanging low.

Suna stood up and walked over to Atsumu. He pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket and held it out. “Eat this. Helps with the cramps. Dark chocolate, seventy percent cocoa.”

Atsumu took it with trembling fingers. “Thanks, Suna.”

Suna gave him a small, rare smile. “I'll see you tomorrow.” He walked to the door, then paused, looking back at the two brothers on the floor. “Don't be too hard on him,” he said softly. “He learned his lesson.”

Then he was gone.

The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by Osamu's ragged breathing. After a long moment, he moved. Crawled across the floor, inch by painful inch, until he was sitting in front of Atsumu. Looked up at him, face still wet with tears, eyes red and swollen.

“Tsumu…” His voice was a broken whisper. “I'm so sorry.”

Atsumu looked at him. Saw the fear, the shame, the genuine remorse in his brother's eyes. Saw the knowledge that had been violently, painfully forced into him. The wall of ice around his heart began to crack.

“I didn't know,” Osamu said, voice hitching. “I didn't know it was that bad. I thought… I thought you were just… I was just bein' a jerk. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

Atsumu bit his lip, fighting back another wave of tears. “It's okay, 'Samu.”

“No, it's not,” Osamu said, shaking his head. “It's not okay. I was an ass. I made you feel like shit when you were already feelin' like shit. I'm the worst brother in the world.”

“You're not,” Atsumu said, voice breaking. “You're just a dumb boy who doesn't know any better.”

A choked laugh escaped Osamu's lips. “Yeah. I'm a dumb boy.” He reached out a shaky hand and placed it on Atsumu's knee. “How… how can I make it better?”

Atsumu let out a shaky exhale. Exhausted. In pain. But mostly, relieved. “Just… don't tell me I'm fakin' it. And maybe… bring me some more of that chocolate.”

Osamu nodded, face serious. “I can do that. I can do more than that.” He scrambled to his feet, legs still weak, and started rummaging in his own room. Came back with a pillow, a soft fleece blanket, and a bottle of ibuprofen.

“Here,” he said, awkwardly offering them. “The blanket is softer than yours. And the ibuprofen is for the muscle cramps. Suna's sister said it helps with prostaglandins or somethin'. I don't know, I looked it up.”

Atsumu stared at him, stunned. “You looked it up?”

Osamu's face turned a deep shade of red. “Yeah. On my phone. In the bathroom. After Suna sent that text. I figured… I should know what I was talkin' about before I opened my big stupid mouth.”

Atsumu let out a watery laugh. He took the blanket and wrapped it around himself. It was soft. Smelled like Osamu's detergent. Smelled like home.

Osamu sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at his brother with a new kind of respect. “Does it really last eight days?”

“Sometimes seven, sometimes nine,” Atsumu said, leaning back against the headboard. “And it's not always this bad. But sometimes it is. And it's just… exhaustin'. You know? Like my body is fightin' a war against itself.”

Osamu nodded slowly. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu said. “It kinda does.”

They sat in silence for a while, the earlier tension dissolved into something softer, more fragile but more real. Osamu reached out and picked up the chocolate bar Atsumu hadn't opened yet. Peeled back the foil and broke off a square, holding it out to his brother.

Atsumu took it, popped it into his mouth. The bitter, rich chocolate melted on his tongue. Didn't make the pain go away, but made it feel more manageable. He looked at Osamu, who was watching him with a worried expression.

“You want some?” Atsumu asked, offering the bar.

Osamu shook his head. “Nah. It's yours.” He paused, then added, “But I'll buy you a new one tomorrow. And the day after that. And every day until you feel better. Okay?”

Atsumu felt the tears threaten to return, but this time they were good tears. Happy tears. He blinked them back and gave his brother a weak smile.

“Okay.”

Osamu reached out and awkwardly patted Atsumu's head. Clumsy, unfamiliar gesture, but full of sincerity. “Get some rest, Tsumu. I'll keep the door open a crack, and if you need anythin', you just yell. I'll be right there.”

Atsumu settled deeper into the soft blanket, the warmth of the heat pack and the comfort of his brother's presence surrounding him. The pain was still there, a dull throbbing ache, but it no longer felt insurmountable. He had someone who understood now. He wasn't alone.

As Osamu moved to leave, he paused at the door. “Hey, Tsumu?”

“Mm?”

“I'm really sorry.”

Atsumu closed his eyes, a small genuine smile gracing his lips. “I know, 'Samu. I know.”

And for the first time in two days, he felt like he could finally rest.