Threads of Trust

The dorm room smells like sweat, fabric softener, and that liniment they both slather on after practice. Atsumu’s humming some song he caught on the radio this morning, standing in front of the little mirror tacked to the wall. Practice jersey’s long gone—he’s in a loose black t-shirt now, tugging at the hem, adjusting the compression stuff underneath. The binder’s old, frayed at the edges, but it does what it’s supposed to. Flattens the curves that still catch him off guard sometimes when he glances in the mirror. He’s used to it, though. Part of the routine.

The door bangs open and Osamu stumbles in, face red for reasons that have nothing to do with the two-hour practice they just finished. He slams the door, leans against it, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon.

Atsumu glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow up. “Ya look like ya saw a ghost. Or worse—someone from Seijoh.”

Osamu doesn’t laugh. Just stands there, hands shoved in his track pants pockets, jaw working like he’s chewing on words he can’t spit out.

Atsumu turns fully, arms crossed. “Spit it out, ’Samu. Ya’re turnin’ purple. Not a good look.”

“Shut up,” Osamu mutters, but there’s no heat. He pushes off the door, shuffles to his side of the room, drops onto his futon with a thud. Stares at the ceiling, fingers drumming on his knees.

Atsumu watches, curious. Osamu doesn’t get worked up over nothing. He’s the calm one—the one who rolls his eyes at Atsumu’s dramatics and calls him an idiot at least five times a day. Seeing him like this, fidgety and flushed? Weird. Unsettling.

“Alright,” Atsumu says, dropping onto his own futon across from Osamu. “What’s got yer panties in a twist? Did Kita-senpai give ya extra chores again?”

“No.” Osamu’s voice cracks. He winces, sits up, rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, Tsumu. I gotta ask ya somethin’. And ya gotta promise not to laugh.”

Atsumu’s interest piques. “I make no promises. But go ahead.”

Osamu takes a breath, then another. His eyes dart to Atsumu’s chest for a split second, then back to his face. “Hey, Tsumu… did ya ever… ya know?”

Atsumu blinks. “Did I ever what? Eat a whole cake by myself? Yes. Every birthday since we were twelve.”

“No, ya idiot.” Osamu’s ears are burning now. “Did ya ever… y’know. With someone. Romantically. Intimately.”

The room goes quiet. Atsumu’s smirk fades into something more thoughtful. He gets it. Of course he gets it. Osamu isn’t asking about Atsumu the setter, the proud twin who lives for volleyball. He’s asking about the parts of Atsumu no one really talks about—the parts that existed before he started binding his chest and cutting his hair short, before he insisted on male pronouns and a name that feels like his own skin.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, steady. “I have. A few times.”

Osamu’s shoulders sag with relief, like he was bracing for a no. “Okay. Good. That’s… good.”

“Why do ya wanna know?” Atsumu leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Ya plannin’ on writin’ a romance novel or somethin’?”

“Shut up.” But Osamu’s voice lacks bite. He picks at a thread on his pants. “I’m… I’m gettin’ serious with someone. A girl. From the girls’ volleyball team. Kinoshita Yui.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows shoot up. “The libero? The one with the killer serves?”

“Yeah.” A small, almost shy smile flickers across Osamu’s face. “We’ve been seein’ each other for a couple months. And I think… I think she wants to, uh, take the next step. And I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Atsumu nods slowly, piecing it together. “So ya want advice.”

“I want your advice,” Osamu corrects, meeting his eyes. “Because ya were a girl once. Ya know how things work down there. Ya know what feels good and what doesn’t. And I figured… ya might have some insight I can’t get from some online forum or a shoujo manga.”

There it is. Honest. Vulnerable. Osamu rarely shows this side of himself, and Atsumu feels a warmth bloom in his chest. His twin trusts him enough to ask this. It means something.

“Alright,” Atsumu says, crossing his legs. “I’ll help. But fair warnin’—I’m not gonna sugarcoat anything.”

“I wasn’t expectin’ ya to.”

Atsumu stands up. The conversation’s about to get real, and he wants to be comfortable. He reaches for the hem of his shirt, and Osamu’s eyes go wide.

“What are ya doin’?”

“Relax. I’m just takin’ off the binder. It’s been on all day, and it’s startin’ to pinch.” Atsumu pulls the shirt over his head, then works his hands under the compression fabric, peeling it off with practiced efficiency. He tosses it onto his bed without ceremony.

Osamu’s breath hitches.

Standing there in just a lacy red bra, Atsumu looks nothing like the athletic setter Osamu shares a court with. The bra cups a generous D-cup, smooth and full, and the contrast between Atsumu’s sharp jawline and the soft curves is jarring. Osamu’s seen his brother shirtless before—they grew up together, shared baths as kids—but not like this. Not since Atsumu started binding. It’s been years.

“What’re ya starin’ at?” Atsumu asks, but there’s no malice. He even grins. “Never seen a set of tits before?”

Osamu’s face goes crimson. “I—that’s not—I mean, I have, but not yours—this is so weird.”

“Get used to it, ’Samu. I’m gonna teach ya how to handle ’em properly.”

Atsumu sits back down on his futon, gesturing for Osamu to come closer. Osamu hesitates, then shuffles over until they’re sitting side by side, knees almost touching. Atsumu takes his brother’s hand—warm and calloused from years of gripping a volleyball—and guides it toward his chest.

“Here,” Atsumu says, voice dropping softer. “I’m gonna show ya some basics. Pay attention.”

Osamu’s hand hovers, trembling slightly. “I dunno if I should—”

“Ya asked for help, so let me help. Stop bein’ a coward.” Atsumu’s tone is firm but not unkind. He presses Osamu’s palm flat against the cup of his bra, right over the swell of his breast. “Feel that? That’s what a chest feels like. It’s not a volleyball. It’s softer. Ya gotta treat it gentle, especially at first. Don’t just grab or squeeze like you’re goin’ for a kill. Start light, trace your fingers around the edges, get her used to your touch.”

Osamu’s throat is dry. His hand feels like it’s on fire, but he forces himself to focus. “Light. Got it.”

“And when ya do touch the actual breast, use your whole palm, not just your fingers. Some girls like a firm touch, but ya gotta build up to it. Start with the sides and under—that’s where a lot of the nerve endings are.” Atsumu guides Osamu’s hand slowly, demonstrating on himself without a hint of shame. “And the nipples—some like ’em played with, some don’t. Always ask. A simple ‘do ya like this?’ goes a long way.”

Osamu pulls his hand back, staring at his palm like it’s been blessed. “This is insane. I’m gettin’ sex tips from my twin brother.”

“And ya should be grateful,” Atsumu says, reaching for his shirt again. He pulls it on, not bothering with the binder this time. The fabric drapes loosely over his chest, curves still visible. “Consider it my contribution to yer love life.”

“Thanks,” Osamu mumbles, and he means it. “But there’s more.”

“Figured.”

Osamu takes a shaky breath. “How do I… ya know, make it good for her? The whole thing. I don’t wanna be one of those guys who just finishes and rolls over.”

Atsumu’s expression softens. For all his bravado, he can see how much Osamu cares about this girl. “It’s different for everyone, but there are some basics. Foreplay is important. Don’t just dive in. Kiss her, touch her, make her feel wanted. And when ya get down to it, pay attention to the clit—most girls can’t finish from penetration alone. Use your fingers or your mouth, and don’t be shy about askin’ what she likes.”

Osamu nods, absorbing every word. “What about protection?”

“Always wear a condom. Even if she says she’s on birth control. Trust me on that.” Atsumu’s voice dips, losing some lightness. “I know from experience.”

Osamu’s eyes widen. “Ya mean ya…?”

“I’ve had two terminations.” Atsumu says it flat, matter-of-fact, like he’s talking about the weather. “First time I was sixteen, and I was stupid. Thought pullin’ out was enough. It’s not. Second time was last year, right before I started livin’ full-time as a guy. That one was harder. Not because I regretted it, but because the hormones from the pregnancy made the binder hurt like hell.”

Osamu’s face goes pale. “Tsumu… I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not exactly dinner table conversation.” Atsumu shrugs, but his eyes are distant for a moment. Then he snaps back, forcing a grin. “But that’s why I’m tellin’ ya. Don’t be an idiot like me. Wrap it up, and make sure she’s on board with everything before ya do anything.”

“I will.” Osamu’s voice is hoarse. He reaches out and grabs Atsumu’s hand, squeezing tight. “Ya really went through all that on yer own?”

“Had a friend drive me. And ya were there for me later, even if ya didn’t know what was goin’ on.” Atsumu squeezes back. “I’m fine now. It’s just part of my story. And now it can be part of yer education.”

Osamu lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Ya’re unbelievable.”

“I know.” Atsumu releases his hand and flops back onto his futon, staring at the ceiling. “So, any more questions? I’m an open book tonight.”

Osamu is quiet for a moment. Then, hesitantly, “Did ya enjoy it? When ya were with someone?”

“Enjoy what?”

“The… physical stuff. Did ya like it, or was it just somethin’ ya did?”

Atsumu considers the question. “I liked parts of it. I liked makin’ the other person feel good. And honestly, my body still responds to stimulation the same way, even if I don’t love every part of it. I like breast play—that’s why I showed ya how to do it. When someone does it right, it feels amazing. But I don’t like bein’ touched below the belt. Dysphoria kicks in. So I stick to what works for me.”

Osamu nods slowly. “That makes sense.”

“What about ya? Ya ever done it before?”

“No,” Osamu admits. “That’s why I’m so nervous. I don’t wanna mess up.”

“Ya won’t. Just listen to her, and be honest about bein’ nervous. Girls usually appreciate that more than some guy actin’ like he knows everything.” Atsumu turns his head to look at his brother. “And if she’s any good, she’ll help ya figure it out together.”

Osamu lies down on his own futon, staring up at the same ceiling. The awkwardness isn’t gone, but it’s softened into something else—a quiet understanding. They’ve shared so much over the years: meals, beds, victories, losses. This is just another thing to add to the list.

“Hey, Tsumu?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

Atsumu smiles, small and genuine. “Don’t mention it. And I mean that literally. If ya tell anyone about the bra, I’ll spike a volleyball at yer face.”

Osamu snorts. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They lie there in silence for a minute, the tension slowly dissolving. Then Osamu speaks again, voice light.

“So… red lace, huh? Fancy.”

Atsumu throws a pillow at him. “Shut up!”

Osamu catches it, laughing. “I’m just sayin’. Ya got taste.”

“It’s comfortable, okay? And it was on sale.” Atsumu sits up, grabbing the binder off his bed. “Now turn around. I gotta put this back on before Kita-senpai walks in and has a heart attack.”

Osamu turns, still chuckling. “Sure, yer highness.”

The bickering resumes as they get ready for bed, falling back into their usual rhythm. But there’s a new layer now—trust and openness that wasn’t there before. As they switch off the light and settle into their futons, Osamu feels a weight lift. He has a plan, he has advice, and he has a brother who always has his back, no matter how weird things get.

“Goodnight, ’Samu.”

“Goodnight, Tsumu. And thanks again.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now go to sleep. We got practice at six.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

The room falls silent, just the soft hum of the heater. And for the first time all evening, everything feels exactly right.