Chapter Text
The silence of the night was unnerving tonight. There was no rustle of wind, no hum of the AC, not even the calling of an owl or a distant car- just a simple stillness in the air that made the room thick with a sort of uncanny feeling. Osamu couldn’t even hear his brother snoring away in the next room over. It itched an ugly kind of anxiety across his chest.
Osamu stirred under the blankets, one arm heavy across his chest. He had tossed and turned for the better part of two hours, waiting for sleep to capture him in her gentle arms, but it didn’t look like luck was on his side tonight. When was it ever?
Instead, he could already feel the headache forming for tomorrow, but that wasn’t a new feeling anymore either.
Osamu wondered when he became so accustomed to feeling so utterly helpless like this.
The floorboard by the closet creaked a gentle ‘crick.’
His eyes snapped open.
And… nothing. Just the familiar dark of his room and the small rays of moonlight that managed to shine through the heavily guarded window.
No one was-
Someone was there.
Tall, silent, the outline wrong enough that his gut churned.
Osamu froze. He wanted to believe it was his imagination, that his tired mind was playing tricks on him, but the longer he stared the more sure he became. A person. Watching.
His pulse spiked so hard it hurt. He swallowed, throat bone-dry. His vision blurred around the edges.
Move. Yell. Do something.
But his body wouldn’t listen. His chest rose in quick, shallow jerks, every muscle locked. The thick cotton blanket felt like a cage as it was a shield.
The figure tilted its head. Slowly. As if curious.
“Osamu.” His name, whispered, soft as a caress.
The breath hit his skin before the sound fully sank in - warm, damp against his ear. They hadn’t moved and yet, all at once, they felt so close Osamu could smell it, taste it on his tongue. Something unfamiliar clinging to the air- sharp cologne, smoke, sweat. Not his.
His hands twitched against the sheets, desperate to tear them off, to run, but his body was pinned by invisible weight.
The figure stepped closer. One heartbeat, then another, then another, and suddenly it was at the foot of his bed.
He saw teeth. A grin too wide in the dark. An inky shadow in the vague shape of a human, but just off that he couldn’t be certain.
“I see you.” Hands reached for him, wrapping around his throat, choking him.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t breathe.
His whole body lurched- and he was sitting up, wheezing into the air, the room glaringly empty under the dim glow of the streetlight through the blinds.
No figure. No whisper. No letter.
Just his own ragged breathing, sweat dripping down his temples, his hands shaking as they clutched tight into his top, wrinkling the soft fabric.
He stumbled out of bed, flicked the light on, checked the closet, checked the locks. Again and again. His nails dug into the doorframe as he pressed the lock down for the fifth time, as if sheer repetition could erase the memory. The cold fingers wrapped tight around his throat had felt so real, the pressure, the weight, the force - all of it had nothing more than a terrible nightmare.
But his chest still ached, his ears still rang with the whisper of his name, and when he pressed his palm into the mattress, he swore he felt another weight there.
As though someone had only just left.
—
Sometimes being seen is scarier than being lost in the shadows.
It’s almost irrational - that way of thinking. But it’s the truth, the whole truth.
If Osamu was some heroic main character of some shounen anime, he’d like to think that maybe it was better this way. That there was some big noble cause to all this - that all this was worth something. Because surely, if the mysterious letters were becoming this bold this quickly, then this was bound to happen to some other poor unfortunate soul. And that, in some way he’s actually saving someone else from this fate, that maybe he had captured their attention so that Tsumu or Suna or Aran could be spared.
He doesn’t let himself dream for too long- not when it’s that stupid.
Because realistically, he knows that they all shine much brighter than he does, athletically, academically, presently. Afterall, it was his fault that he never tried harder to be in the spotlight. Osamu wasn’t much of a “sacrifice” than just some teenager playing volleyball for some school in another part of Japan like the thousands of other teens just like him, compared to the rest of his team. There was nothing heroic about being the one they…chose.
The part of him that’s logical knows that what is happening shouldn’t be happening. That he shouldn’t be scared to walk out of his house, glancing at every snap of a twig, flinching at every unfamiliar face who looks his way - choking in the middle of the night on a half formed sob and the ghost of fingers around his throat.
He should tell someone.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he continues on with his life with the ever growing knowledge that someone out there is watching - always watching.
He locks his windows at night, then he unlocks and locks them again- just to hear the sound. Then he closes the blinds and sets a bottle of water precariously on the edge of the windowsill, just as a precaution and tells himself that it’s enough. He knows it’s not.
In the quiet of his room, hidden from any prying eyes and so intimate to only himself, Osamu Miya could pretend to be alright. As if the night was every other night and the world wasn’t watching his every step, watching, waiting , closing in-
Rather, he continues to do his homework every night, makes dinner, gets ready for school, badgers his brother for taking the last pudding. Every action meticulously crafted to portray a front of being ‘fine.’
He wasn’t.
The damning evidence of just how deep these eyes have their claws in Osamu comes in the form of something so small and insignificant that, honestly, it's laughable. The type of laugh that comes on before a full on mental breakdown- but tomato tomato .
It shows in his eyes. Or rather the eyes of others.
Because it is a fact, a law of nature, that Osamu Miya goes through life at the heel of his brother’s foot. From birth till death. Never once had he ever backed down from a challenge and despite his reputation of being quieter, it doesn’t mean he’s any less explosive. He’s still a Miya through and through, afterall.
So when he stops meeting the gazes of the people around him, something wrong creeps up the spines of everyone who knows even a fraction of truth to Osamu.
He doesn’t mean for it to happen. Really, he doesn’t. All Osamu knows is that if he looks at Atsumu for too long, he feels like crying, and his chest hurts so damn bad, and everything feels wrong, wrong , wrong - so he just…stops.
He starts avoiding looking Atsumu in the eyes, knows that if he looks he’ll see that his brother knows something is horribly wrong with Osamu and Osamu can’t hide from that fact . Because no matter how much shit Osamu throws at him, he knows that his twin is smarter than most people give him credit for. And if there is anyone who understands Osamu the best, it’d be his other half. There’s also that deep fear there, that if Osamu looks at Atsumu for too long everything he’d been bottling up, shoved deep in the hidden corner of his bedroom desk behind a jumble of pens and paper clips would come spilling out before he’d get a chance to to take a second breath.
And what happens then? What if they find out Tsumu knew? What if he got hurt?
Osamu couldn’t risk that happening.
So, he continues avoiding looking anyone in the eyes, quietly locks, unlocks, and locks his windows every night, and retreat back under his covers, pretending that the walls of his quiet bedroom were still solid, before he starts thinking how slowly, so very slowly, this was becoming his reality.
—
Morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, pale and flat against Osamu’s walls. It didn’t make the room feel warmer. If anything, it only sharpened the edges of the shadows pooling in the corners. He swore that they were laughing at him.
He’d been awake for an hour already. Not because he’d slept well - he hadn’t, but because his eyes kept snapping open every time the house creaked or the faintest sound brushed against the silence. It was easier just to stay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for anything out of place besides the snoring of Atsumu in the next room and their dad getting ready for work before the first sun rays even broke the distant horizon.
When he finally did get up, the first thing he did was check the window. The water bottle was still standing guard from the night before, the blinds were undisturbed and the latch was down. Secure.
He tugged it once. Twice. Three times. Still locked. And only then did the tension in his shoulders ease, just a little but it was enough.
He made himself hobble downstairs on his stupidly swollen ankle just to check the front door next. Then the back door. Then the window in the hallway, the ones in the kitchen, the bathroom. By the time he made it back to his room, the loop had already formed in his head- check, check again, make sure, just one more time, and he found himself standing by his window, testing the latch again even though he’d just done it, just to hear the gentle ‘ click .’
It became the rhythm of his morning.
Atsumu noticed at breakfast.
“Ya look fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered through a mouthful of toast.
Osamu didn’t look up from the bowl in front of him, his eye bags and pale skin a testament to the amount of sleep he had last night. “You’re imagining things. We share the same face, asshole.”
“Am I?” The way his brother stared at him made it hard to keep his own expression steady. His eyes felt like needles poking at his skin, tearing him apart, seeing, seeing, seeing-
Osamu didn’t dignify his attitude with a response. He just picked up his bag and the crutches his parents must’ve gotten him last night, left out by the front door and muttered something about leaving early. The younger twin slipped out the door before Atsumu could push further.
His breakfast remained untouched.
—
At school, Osamu overcompensated.
He laughed louder than he meant to at something Ginjima said during lunch, even when the rest of the table threw him a concerned glance before continuing their roughhousing. Poked Atsumu in the ribs when his brother’s face scrunched in confusion at a math problem (Osamu didn’t understand it either, but he’s in a lower class so he has a valid excuse). Even forced himself into the middle of a conversation about an upcoming practice match, something that landed him a suspicious look from Tsumu. Osamu didn’t look back at him.
And, it worked, for a while. Kita’s usual watchful gaze slid past him without comment and Aran’s attention stayed fixed on the first-years.
But pretending to be fine was exhausting. Every time someone turned away, his smile slipped. Every time he thought no one was looking, his eyes flicked toward the door, the windows, the corners of the room.
Someone was watching, watching , always watching-
And when Kita caught him mid-scan as he slowly made his way into the gym, the clanking of his crutches echoing off the walls, the older boy didn’t call him out - just held his gaze for a fraction too long. The message was clear: I see you.
Osamu looked away first, an icy feeling creepy up his chest and threatening to freeze his lungs.
His ankle throbbed in response.
—
Surprisingly, or maybe not, it isn’t Atsumu who really confronts him first. It’s Suna Rintarou.
Since the events of practice from last week, Osmau had been bound to crutches while his stupid sprained ankle healed. Which meant no practice, no rough housing, and no heavy lifting. Which meant the only person who shared all his classes, practice schedule, and lunch period had to pick up Osamu’s slack, carry around his books and bag like some glorified pack mule all while glaring at anyone getting a tad too close to the injured teen. Which meant that Suna Rintarou had an endless amount of time around the other teen to observe and corner one Osamu Miya.
They were halfway to their next class when Suna stopped walking. Just stopped. Osamu looked up, confused, and immediately regretted it - Suna’s eyes were locked on him, unreadable but sharp.
“Alright Samu, spill. What the fuck has been up with you recently.” Suna’s eyes pierced right through Osamu, as if he already knew the answer he just wanted to hear it from the grey haired teen. The shorter male could only glower back and his eyes scanned the area for an escape route. Although, where would he even go? It wasn’t as if he could out hobble Suna.
“Noth-”
“It’s not.”
Osamu huffed, still vehemently refusing to meet his eyes. “It is.”
“Who do you think I am? Atsumu? Because that idiot might let you off the hook just because he can’t control his own emotions long enough to talk like a grown adult, but I’m not about to let you push this off any longer.” There was a flicker of something else behind those emerald eyes. Osamu couldn’t bring himself to linger on it.
“There is literally nothing to talk about.” Already angling his body to move past the middle blocker.
“Right. So last week practice was nothing? Running away like some prey animal? Being more dramatic than Atsumu? That’s nothing too?”
Osamu could only bite his lip in frustration. “Yes! It is nothing! Great, we came to the same conclusion.” He moved to shove past Suna, but his attempt was almost laughable- pathetic. The taller male grabbed his crutches, and Osamu could feel the frustration bubbling up faster than he cared to admit as he was immediately forced to a halt.
“Let. Go.” Osamu spat. He could only glare at the long fingers wrapped tightly around the cold metal of the supports.
“No.”
“I’m serious, Suna. Let go.”
Suna tilted his head, an almost amused smirk on his face that didn’t match his eyes. “So am I, Samu.” He leaned in and Osmau had to fight down the urge to shudder. “You’re not gonna limp away from me, Samu. Not this time.”
Osamu’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. “There is nothing to talk about,” he repeated, each word pressed out like it cost him something.
Suna didn’t respond immediately. He just stood there, tall and solid, his hand still wrapped around the crutch like a lock on a door. The hallway wasn’t crowded, but it was busy enough that a few passing students glanced over - then quickly looked away when they saw Suna’s expression.
“Y’know,” Suna finally said, voice low, “you’re pretty good at hiding things. Better than most people think.”
Osamu hated the way his stomach dropped at that. “Good. Then quit poking at it.”
“Not when it’s making you look like you’re about to crawl out of your own skin every time someone gets near you.”
He felt heat crawl up his neck. “Drop it, Suna. Please.”
It was humiliating, nearly begging to be let go like this. In front of Suna Rintarou, nonetheless.
For a moment, the brunette didn’t say anything. Osamu had almost believed that the middle blocker was going to actually back off. He should’ve known better.
“Fine.” There was no heat in Suna’s acceptance. Just finality. The kind that left no room for argument. “Fine. You say it’s nothing, it’s nothing.”
The air between them felt too close now- heavy. Osamu could feel the weight of Suna’s gaze like a hand pressing down on his chest. He glanced away, scanning the lockers, the floor, anywhere but those damn green eyes.
“But, you think Atsumu hasn’t noticed?” Suna asked quietly. “He has. He just… he’s not sure what to do with it yet.”
Osamu’s grip on the other crutch tightened until his knuckles went white.
Suna tilted his head, watching. He could almost see the little fox ears going this way and that as if the wing spiker was some big puzzle to solve. “But me? I don’t need to understand everything before I call bullshit.”
Something in Osamu’s throat threatened to give - something hot and shaky and dangerously close to cracking his voice. He swallowed it down like poison.
“I said let go,” he muttered again.
Suna did. Just like that. Fingers slipping off the metal without resistance. But he didn’t step back.
“Alright,” Suna said easily, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You wanna keep lying? Go for it. I’ll still be here no matter how big a tantrum you throw.” Osamu couldn’t help but scoff and mutter, ‘I’m not throwing a tantrum.’ Suna pretended not to hear - just because he’s an asshole like that.
“But do one favor for me, Samu, and I’ll drop it forever. I promise.”
“What.” The other could tell this wasn’t going to be good. Nothing Sunarin ever requested with that look and tone was good.
“Look me in the eyes.”
“...What?”
“Look me in the eyes. Simple enough right?” Suna only huffed an easy laugh. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice what you’ve been doing?”
The words shouldn’t have been sharp. They weren’t barking or shouting. Just spoken, plain and steady, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Osamu’s stomach knotted anyway.
“...Huh? Stop joking around, Suna. You’re being stupid right now, we’re gonna be late to class.” His own voice came out smaller than he wanted, like something brittle you could snap in two.
“Since when have you ever cared about being on time?” Suna’s tone had that lazy drag to it- half-amused, half-bored, the way he always spoke when something had caught his attention. Not unkind, it was still Sunarin, afterall. He wasn’t teasing. He was testing.
And Osamu hated tests. Hated what they did to his breathing.
His mind knew it was just Suna - his teammate, his friend, the guy who sat next to him on the bus and stole his snacks without asking, and recorded every single one of the twins' half-assed fights. But something in his body didn’t believe that. His shoulders prickled. His palms went damp. He couldn’t help but imagine the dark shadowy figure hiding in the corner of his room, in every place his eyes weren’t looking.
The trick was to glance just beside someone’s eyes - to focus on the bridge of their nose, the line of their forehead. He’d gotten good at it, since everything started. People thought he was looking at them, really looking, when all he was doing was skimming the edges. Before this, all of this, it was just a trick he’d used when fangirls were starting to prick on his nerves. Enough so that they thought he cared, but not enough for him to remember any of their faces.
Now, instead of harmless cheerleaders, it simply felt safer this way. Easier not to see what might be staring back.
Suna didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t give him the out most people did without realizing it.
“C’mon,” Suna said quietly. “Just for a second.”
Osamu’s chest tightened. He knew the mechanics - lift your chin, aim your gaze, make the connection. But his body wasn’t listening. It was like there was a thin glass between them, and on the other side was something dangerous.
His eyes flickered up, just enough for the color of Suna’s irises to register, deep green, steady, one second, then two. His whole body rebelled despite his efforts. Osamu’s gaze dropped like a stone, back to the floor, to the scuffed linoleum where a dark mark shaped like a crescent curved beneath Suna’s shoe.
His heart was hammering like he’d just been cornered. He bit his lip hard, hard enough to taste the sharp tang of iron on his tongue. He gripped his crutches so hard the metal pushed hard into his fingers.
He hated that this was happening over nothing. Overlooking .
Osamu had tried over and over again, screaming into his mind, ‘It’s nothing. It’s nothing. You’re being a coward. It’s nothing’ until he was mentally exhausted. Except it wasn’t nothing, and in some deep hidden corner of his being, the one that not even Tsumu has seen- he knew that.
Osmau couldn’t help but think that seeing someone who might be seeing something else entirely was surely worse than being noticed at all.
The hallway was quiet as the late bell rang, sharp against the silence. The gray clouds rolled over the horizon outside, casting a humid grey hue over the school - the threat of rain hung in the air.
“Huh,” Suna said finally, not smug or sharp, just confirming something he’d suspected.
Osamu’s jaw locked. He wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that it was stupid, that he just didn’t feel like playing along. But his throat wouldn’t work right, and the heat in his face made it feel like he’d been caught.
“That’s what I thought,” Suna murmured, and then, because he was Suna fucking Rintarou- started walking again, like he hadn’t just peeled apart something raw and ugly open right in the middle of the god damn hallway.
Osamu stayed rooted for a heartbeat longer, pulsing loudly in his ears, fighting the feeling of screaming at the back of the middle blockers' perfect head- indignant and scared.
He was starting to feel sick of being seen. Over and over and over again.
—
The bus ride to Itachiyama was thick with a nervous kind of energy.
The boys weren’t silent - Miya Atsumu couldn’t be silent if his life depended on it - but the jokes and chatter carried a sharp edge. Every laugh sounded just a little too loud, every jab a little too forced. You could tell the team were anxious to get on the court.
Osamu sat with his back to the window near, legs sprawled out infront to take up the rest of the chair, crutches on the floor in front. The ankle beneath his wrap ached even at rest, a dull reminder that today he’d only be watching. He hated that part most of all - being a passenger while the team shouldered the weight of facing one of the strongest high school squads in Japan.
At least he got a whole seat by himself out of it.
Akagi’s head popped up over the seat behind him. “Look how scared they look,” he murmured, chin tipping toward Aran and the first-years a few rows up. The younger boys were too still, eyes fixed on their hands or the floor. One looked like he was about to cry.
“Yeah. Can’t make fun of ‘em too much, though. Remember when we were like that?” Osamu said, voice low and reminiscing. The libero huffed a laugh, “I don’t think you guys were that bad. I remember Atsumu nearly vibrating out of his seat on our first away game.”
Now, Atsumu was up front, naturally, holding court with Oomimi and half-teasing Kita about how he’d “blow Sakusa off the court.” Kita only gave him that even look - unimpressed, unruffled.
Osamu hummed in response.
He turned to watch the trees outside blur past the window outside. Maybe time away from Hyogo would be good for him. Hours away from the stifling atmosphere, eyes on his every move, letters in locked, sacred places -
Yeah, yeah, maybe time away is good.
By the time they arrived, the air itself seemed charged.
Itachiyama’s campus loomed larger than life, the polished gymnasium lit up like a stage. The other team was already there, warming up with mechanical precision. Osamu’s gut tightened when his eyes landed on Sakusa Kiyoomi. Cool, calculating, lethal - very toss, every spike was clean, no wasted movement. Komori, too, moved with an easy sharpness that made him look untouchable. Akagi looked like he was ready to run onto the court, right then and there.
Inarizaki filed in, setting their bags down, stretching. Atsumu was loud as ever, practically vibrating with anticipation. Aran clapped a hand to his shoulder, grounding him. Osamu stayed near the bench, every step on his crutches echoing the fact that he’d be useless today. There were whispers from the other team, no doubt questions on how the famed wing spiker had gotten injured. But as Osamu took in a breath of the humid Tokyo air, the trees dancing in the wind and cars reaving in the background, he felt more free than he had been in weeks.
The whistle blew, and the match began.
From the first serve, Itachiyama set the pace. Komori’s recieve was flawless, setting up a quick that slammed into Inarizaki’s floor before anyone could react. The crowd roared.
Atsumu bared his teeth, his pride too sharp to back down. “Again!” he barked, tossing the ball for his own serve.
This time, they fought back harder. Atsumu’s sets cut quick, sharp angles. Aran smashed through with power, Oomimi blocked with desperate force. Suna slipped in a feint that earned a rare point, his smirk flashing for half a heartbeat.
But Sakusa was a wall. His serves curved with brutal spin, catching Ginjima twice. His spikes shredded through Aran’s block like paper. Every time Inarizaki clawed a point, Itachiyama stole it back with something more polished, more merciless.
On the bench, Osamu’s fingers dug into his knees. He wanted to scream. He wanted to be out there, to feel the ball sting against his arms, to carry just a little of the weight his brother was shouldering alone. Instead, he could only watch Atsumu’s movements sharpen into something frantic, angry.
Set one slipped through their fingers.
Set two, they rallied harder. Atsumu’s serves grew sharper, his voice louder. “Give me something’!” he yelled, setting the ball to quick and certain the hitter’s were almost struggling to keep up. And it worked, they held even, tied point for point. The bench was on their feet, voices hoarse with cheering. Osamu’s throat burned with it.
The inarizaki libero dived for the ball when it shot past Oomimi’s hands and sent it flying high towards Atsumu who scanned the court for familiar gray before realizing his other half wasn’t there to receive his set.
It was Kita who ended up scoring the winning point for set two, barely scraping by for a win.
For set three, the team went in with the same fire. But it looked as if Itachiyama wasn’t going to let them win so easily. With every point one team would score, the other would shortly follow. Back and forth and back again, the points climbed until they were officially in overtime, neither school willing to back down.
But with Inarizaki down a key player, there came mistakes when adrenaline is high and the tension even higher.
The final whistle blew, the scoreboard screamed their failure: 26-28.
They bowed, breathless and heavy. Atsumu scowled but went through the motions, muttering under his breath. Aran clapped him on the back, Oomimi painted against his knees, Suna rubbed at his temples with a grimace. Kita stood tall, nodding once at the opposing captain with respect while Akagi bounded up to the net to shake enthusiastic hands with Komori - already asking for advice.
Osamu watched from the bench, disappointment and relief mixing in his chest.
Afterward, the two teams mingled briefly in the corridor outside the gym. Itachiyama’s boys were polite - cool but not cruel. Iizuna smiled easily, offering a quiet “Good game” that felt more like truth than mockery. Sakusa, mask tugged over his face, simply inclined his head, eyes unreadable.
Atsumu bristled anyway. “Next time,” he snapped, fire still burning in his voice. “We’ll take ya next time.” His eyes locked onto Sakusa’s, who only stared back impassively.
Komori’s smile widened just slightly, standing tall next to his cousin. “We’ll see.”
Then they were gone, footsteps fading down the hall. Inarizaki collected their bags, silence heavier now than on the ride over.
Despite the loss, Osamu felt lighter. He joked with Suna on the way to the bus, as if that morning had never happened, tension easing from his shoulders. Suna himself looked unaffected, like the whole event was just another one of Osamu’s simple nightmares, smiling down at him as he typed away on his phone. The grey haired twin might not have noticed, but as he looked back at Suna, meeting his gaze without trouble - Suna let out a breath he didn’t realize had been trapped in his chest. He loosened his grip on his phone and tucked it into his pocket, focusing on the shorter as he recounted thoughts of the game that had caught his attention from the sidelines.
The Tokyo skyline shone, twinkling in the distance.
Inarizaki chatted amongst themselves as they made their way back to the bus for another long ride back home, disappointment in some voices while others were still fired up from the match. Coach was already on the bus, telling the boys to wash up and hurry out.
Ginjima stopped short, calling to the rest of the team.
“...Wait,” he muttered, eyes narrowing toward the tree line across the street. “Did you see that? Someone was standin’ there. Tall. Behind the tree.”
The others groaned. Akagi scoffed, shoving him forward. “Yer seein’ ghosts, man. Nobody cares enough to stalk a bunch of teenagers from Hyogo. Where in Tokyo!”
“Yeah,” Atsumu added, sharp from loss. “Ain’t nobody followin’ us around. Don’t flatter yourself.”
The laughter that followed was thin, brittle.
But Osamu’s blood ran cold. His grip on the crutches locked until his knuckles went white. He could feel it, the same gaze that had been crawling over his skin for weeks. The shadows seemed thicker, heavier, too close.
His chest tightened. His ankle throbbed like it knew. All of a sudden, his left crutch slipped from under him and white hot pain flared up his leg. He hissed and jerked it back up.
Atsumu reached for him instinctively. “Samu, hey - ”
Osamu twisted away, too fast, too sharp. “Don’t,” he snapped, voice raw.
The group brushed it off, already drifting down the street with their usual noise.
But Kita lingered. His gaze settled on Osamu for one steady moment, cool and sharp as a blade. He didn’t speak, but the weight of it said everything.
Osamu looked away first, limping after the others, his chest aching with a terror he couldn’t put into words. His gaze fell to his feet, one wrapped and aching, the other carrying the weight of two.
And in the shadows by the trees, the night seemed to watch him back.
–
The house was quieter than usual when they got home. Their parents were still out late with work, leaving the Miya twins to fend for themselves after the exhausting day. Atsumu kicked his shoes off with a grunt, muttering something about showering first, while Osamu dragged himself up the stairs with a limp and a muttered curse every time his ankle jolted wrong.
His room was suffocatingly familiar when he shut the door behind him - the same posters on the walls, the same books and papers piled haphazardly on his desk, the same crutches leaning by the chair. But instead of comfort, it felt fragile, like a shell that could crack open at any moment.
When Osamu pushed open his bedroom door, the first thing he noticed was the desk. He hadn’t even had the chance to turn on the lights yet.
Something white sat on top of it, perfectly centered, like it had been waiting for him.
He froze. His chest went hollow. No. No, not here. Not again.
Another note.
The edges were crisp. The paper clean.
His pulse slammed in his ears as he crossed the room, passing the note and going straight for the window. Shaking hands came up to brush the curtains back, pushing back the blinds and there -
The latch was still locked.
Osamu took a shaky step back from the window, letting the curtains fall like the ones on a performance. The moonlight filtered in through the blinds anyways, casting a blue glow across his room. Osamu looked back at the note sitting innocently on his table, on top of his textbooks and notes. As if it didn’t want Osamu to overlook it.
He reached for it, slowly, like it would fight back, biting and scratching.
You looked so helpless and alive cheering for your team. Would you look at me like that? :)
The smiley face curved at the end, mocking him.
The air left his lungs in a sharp rush. His stomach turned over. His vision swam.
“...Samu?”
Osamu jolted, crumpling the note in his fist so fast it bit into his palm. He spun halfway around, panic crawling up his throat. Atsumu stood in the doorway, hair messy from running his hands through it, eyes sharp, still in his uniform.
“...What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Osamu snapped too quickly. He shoved the paper toward his pocket, but his crutches wobbled against the desk and the note slipped, tumbling to the floor with a soft flutter.
Atsumu’s eyes locked on it.
Osamu lunged, but his injured ankle screamed and he stumbled. Atsumu moved faster, snatching the paper up before Osamu could stop him.
There was no mistaking the handwriting. No mistaking the words.
Atsumu’s face twisted - confusion, anger, disbelief all crashing into one expression. “What the fuck is this?” His voice was low, almost hoarse. He looked down at Osamu who couldn’t find the strength to look back or to get up off the ground.
Osamu’s throat closed. He wanted to deny it, to lie, to laugh it off. But Atsumu’s eyes were already on him - sharp, furious, protective in the way only a twin could be.
“What. The fuck. Is this?” Atsumu demanded. He shook the note once, the paper rattling. “Samu, who the hell is writing you this creepy ass shit?”
Osamu opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His vision blurred at the edges, his hands trembling so hard braced against his lap.
For the first time in weeks, he felt completely exposed not to some stranger hiding in the trees but to his own brother, to Tsumu.
And he didn’t know which was scarier.
“It’s…it’s nothin’. Just get out of my business, Tsumu.”
“Nothin’?” The elder twin flushed an angry red, frustrated at the way his brother was acting. “How is this nothing?” His voice was rising, ragged. “How long’s this been happenin’?!”
“I- ” Osamu’s breath shuddered.
“Samu, please. Just talk to me.”
He forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes for the barest second before they dropped away again, shame cutting deeper than fear. The face that stared back was so unlike his own in that moment, he almost didn’t recognize it. “They just- just keep showin’ up. It’s been…weeks.” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop it.”
Atsumu’s whole face twisted, like the words physically hurt to hear. “Weeks? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? Is that why you’ve been acting all weird? Samu, what the fuck!”
“I didn’t want you to look at me like this!” The words ripped out of Osamu before he could stop them, cutting deep. “I thought I could handle it. They were just notes, nothing more. I thought it was nothing…”
His voice broke, the rest swallowed by the lump in his throat.
Atsumu staggered a step back, like the confession hit harder than a spike to the chest. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, the silence so heavy it pressed against their ears.
“...Do you know who?”
Osamu shook his head.
Atsumu’s jaw clenched. “Are there more? Do you have them?”
Osamu moved to protest, to deny again and again. Just like he had been for weeks. But when he finally, really looked into his brother’s eyes for the first time in days he only felt tired. The fight had gone from him.
“...The drawer.”
Atsumu stepped forward, tearing the drawer open and slamming the handful of notes onto the desk with enough force to scatter a few to the floor. His hands were shaking, but his eyes burned. The room was silent as he picked through the notes, his gaze lingering on the photo stashed among them.
Osamu leaned his back against the wall, under the window that he had been obsessed with over and over and over again. He pulled his legs up to his chest and buried his head in his arms, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. Which didn’t really succeed considering he was still a six foot tall athlete - but damnit he tried.
“Samu…What the hell is this?”
Osamu didn’t respond back, flinching horribly when Atsumu crouched in front of him.
“Osamu…please.”
That finally broke him. The younger twin let out a sob, wrenched out of him before he could stop it, jagged and painful, echoing off the walls of the too-small room. He tried to muffle it in his arms, but once the first sob broke free, the others followed like a flood bursting through cracks he’d held together too long.
Atsumu froze at first. His heart hammered in his chest, the sight of his brother crumpled against the wall like that knocking the air right out of him. Samu never cried. Not like this.
“Hey, hey…” Atsumu’s voice was low now, frantic but careful, like he was trying to coax a wounded animal. He set the notes aside. Despite how his mind screamed at him to interrogate to rip the truth out of his twin, his hand hovered before finally gripping Osamu’s shoulder.
Osamu flinched again, but Atsumu didn’t let go.
“Don’t hide from me,” Atsumu whispered, leaning closer. His own throat was tight, his eyes stinging. “Come on, Samu, you’re gonna be ok.”
Osamu’s shoulders shook harder. His voice a whimper. “I can’t - I can’t do this anymore, ‘Tsumu. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like they’re there. Watchin’. Waitin’. Even here. Even home. I can’t breathe, can’t sleep, can’t think - ”
His words dissolved into another sob.
Atsumu swallowed hard, his chest aching like someone had driven a fist straight through it. He wrapped both arms around Osamu, ignoring the awkward angle, ignoring the dampness soaking into his shirt. He pulled his twin in tight, like he could shield him from the whole damn world.
It took a few seconds but Osamu finally uncurled and hugged his brother back just as fiercely. They had a lot to discuss, but for now, this was enough.
It had to be.