Chapter Text
Osamu is nothing if not self-preservational.
You have to be, growing up around someone like Atsumu, who is brash and egocentric and who will swallow you up whole if you let them. He has always put himself first, above his brother, above his own twin.
Well, not always, but almost. Since they were eleven years old, at least. Since Atsumu had come home, raving about Sakusa Kiyoomi with that fire in his eyes that wasn't entirely anger. Since the beginning of the separation between the two of them.
Later in life, when it was at its worst, Suna would refer to this whole situation as the "Great Split," as he allowed Osamu to complain about it to him for hours while Atsumu was out.
That was years in the making, though.
It all began at eleven years old.
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"I swear, 'Samu, he's staring at me!" Atsumu had elbowed him, the sharp point of his limb aching against his already busted-up ribs, the area tender from their recent fight. He clenches his teeth, gripping the area as he turns around. He regrets wasting his time, though, because it's obvious Atsumu's just making crap up as usual. Sakusa Kiyoomi isn't looking anywhere near them.
"It's all that ice going to your head," Osamu smirks, just trying to rile his brother up as he paws a heavy hand at the ice pack he holds to his eye. It works, he can tell, as Atsumu holds back rough words and instead, much to Osamu's dismay, settles for another jab of that bony elbow into the tender spot.
"Ow, you jerk!" Osamu groans, and Atsumu mimics him, raising his voice a few octaves.
Once they fall silent, Osamu doesn't miss the way that Atsumu immediately forgets about him, though, in favor of staring at Sakusa. It makes the beginnings of a childish jealously twist in his gut.
He ignores it, though, curling in on himself as he allows the chill of the ice to soothe his various wounds. Atsumu has always done this, found something more important than Osamu to focus on, and Osamu supposes he should learn find something like that, too.
These are thoughts far too wizened for a boy of only eleven years old, Osamu knows, but one of them has to do the thinking— and it sure as hell isn't going to be Atsumu.
He doesn't find anything more important than Atsumu for a long time. Atsumu, his brother— who, despite it all, is his life. At least, until he gets new friends, who treat him like more than Atsumu's brother. Who give him a chance to be different, to get away from the black void of consumption that is Atsumu. Who make him feel like he's better than Atsumu because he has the guts to change, and his scrub of a brother doesn't.
And then, after that, it takes a long time to find something more important than those friends.
It takes until high school, when he meets Suna Rintarou.
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"Your accent's weird, 'Samu." Nobunaga had crossed his arms, face tilted downward with one of those frowns that never boded well for anyone— Osamu especially. He was the "leader" of their little group, the meanest to enemies and the most respected by friends.
"I'm from Kansai," Osamu had explained, biting his lip.
"I don't care what it is, it's stupid." Nobu snapped, eyes narrowing slightly. It was funny, really, how much respect this pudgy kid demanded from the rest of them when he wasn't any older— and certainly no smarter. Pushing all that aside, Osamu curled his fingers into his palms. Nobu and the group were his friends, only looking out for his best interests. He was practically convinced by then, the extra push coming when one of the other boys, with a smirk that could be played off as fond, had murmured under his breath. "Besides, you sound and look and act just like your damn brother. Don't you wanna be any different?" Osamu knew, deep down, that they were just playing at his weaknesses. That the other boys knew the idea of being just like his brother was his area of greatest disgust, and that he would do anything to avoid it.
All his damn life, all he's wanted is to escape that goddamn shadow Atsumu casts over everything.
It was only made all the more infuriating by the fact that he was better than Atsumu, in every damn way. He'd show them all just how great he was.
If his accent was weird, it was gone. If his hair was ugly, he'd dye it. If someone thinks he's too noisy, he'd learn to be quiet. It was easy once he got started— molding and measuring the size of his personality to fit what everyone else wanted. It was the only thing that made him feel sane next to his crazy-ass brother.
He began this process at eleven years old. He thinks he lost his soul long before that, anyway.
Now, at fifteen, he was staring down another rookie in the club who made him sick with all the things he had just begun to leave behind.
"Osamu, right?" Suna Rintarou had charm, in the way you can only be born with. He had an infectious smile and bangs that fell into his eyes like shifting water. He made Osamu want to be his very worst self just to prove even someone unshakable can be scared off.
So far, it hadn't been successful. Osamu hadn't learned how be the person that scared people off yet. He hadn't even learned how to be himself again.
"Yeah. You're Sunarin?"
"Yeah."
"How can I help you?"
"You can't." Sunarin smiles, his eyes crinkling up in the corners enough to convince Osamu it was real. Osamu furrows his brows in a physical manifestation of the confusion he feels like an ache in his soul. It's a new kind, the kind that makes him interested to know more about everything.
It's been a while since he was so hungry.
"Then what're you hanging around me for? Creep." Osamu frowns, the expression not holding as Sunarin continues to smile that damn smile that feels like a floodlight on his delicate sensibilities.
"You shouldn't always be so willing to help everyone," Suna muses, eyelids dipping low in that way that makes Osamu feel entirely too seen.
Osamu snorts. "So, you're picking a fight with me because I'm nice?" He shrugs off that stupid look. He barely knows this guy.
"You aren't nice, Osamu, you're pretending to be." Who does this guy think he is? Osamu's fingers curl inwards, trying to hide themselves away in clammy palms that moisten themselves at the mere whisper of truth. It is only made more sickening by the fact that he's so monotone about it, about everything— his raspy, low voice is universally applicable to every situation when it comes to pissing Osamu the fuck off.
The worst part about it is that Osamu is terrified this is how others see him.
Disinterested. Disengaged.
"Do you harass every stranger you meet?" Osamu snips, tongue lashing out to defend himself before he has a chance to think.
"Even if I did, I'd only manage to talk about half as much as I bet you want to."
Osamu snorts. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He can't manage to wrap his head around this guy. He talks like he knows everything about Osamu, and it terrifies him because he believes it. Suna Rintarou, from the scant information Osamu has gathered, has no need for bluffing. The honest truths he does know are terrifying enough. Paired with his razor-sharp intellect, it's a mental slaughterhouse— and Osamu is the next victim.
"You're too quiet." Sunarin muses. "I can almost taste everything you tamp down. Have you ever thought of saying everything you think out loud?" Osamu makes an aborted noise in the back of his throat, torn between the feelings of simultaneously wanting to laugh and cry. It's a feeling he would get used to, being around Sunarin. He isn't sure what makes him angrier; the sharpness in which Sunarin observes him, or that fact that he insists on shoving every bit of it back into Osamu's face, making him see the cracked pieces of his own soul.
"Look at this," he's almost saying. "Look how easily you shatter."
It makes him sick, and he hasn't even known the guy a full week.
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"Your accent's weird," Suna murmurs, on a night a few months later.
Osamu freezes. His breathing feels stuttered in his lungs, but he keeps his eyes on his textbook. This feeling is familiar, far too familiar. The feeling of simultaneously wanting to both run for the hills and give up every piece of himself the other person hates.
"What're you talking about?" Osamu risks a glance at Suna, not finding a single thing on the blank expanse of Sunarin's expression.
"You and your brother talk differently. Did you grow up apart?"
"What? No." Osamu does the thing he does best— plays the fool. He hopes desperately that Sunarin will give it up, will see his attempts to change the conversation, but he knows Suna never falls for shit like that.
It's been a month since that day in the clubroom, and he feels like he knows everything and nothing about the enigma that is Suna Rintarou. He's never felt more seen, to the very bottom of his soul, and it makes him insecure. Suna makes him insecure— everything about him. The way he stares at Osamu like he can see every sickly thought behind his eyes, like he can see the gentle way Osamu's spirit shatters every time they lock eyes.
Does Suna see everything he hates about himself, too?
Suna makes a low noise in his throat— almost a scoff, a derisive noise that makes Osamu feel cornered. "So why don't you have the same accent? It's abnormal— everyone here speaks the same way." He says it with that same flat, dissecting tone he uses for questions, but his eyes say that he knows something more. Tell me all your secrets, his eyes seem to say— but at the same time, they whisper that I know them all, anyways. Osamu bites the inside of his cheek as he shifts.
"No, I didn't grow up away from Atsumu. It's just my voice, okay?' Suna makes a low, contemplative noise at this, his eyes on his textbook, but Osamu knows he's listening intently. He always is.
"Really." His voice is flat. It's not a question— it's a demand. A demand for the truth, and nothing but the truth.
The one thing Osamu is the worst at giving. Instead, he deflects like he always does, in the way that always seems to work on everyone else but never on Sunarin. "What about you? You're all worried about my accent when yours is a far cry from Kansai."
"I grew up in Aichi." Suna looks up at him through eyes that make him feel like the glass of a window, like he's looking straight through him to see some sort of view on the other side.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
And then the silence comes, sitting stiff and heavy in between them as Osamu tries to avoid the uncomfortable weight and Suna does everything in his power to make it all the heavier by simply existing. He allows the weight to press him down, though, the suppressive feeling of it almost nostalgic as he shuts down— his failsafe mechanism to protect all the vulnerable pieces of himself. He swallows, Sunarin's eyes burning his skin like a branding poker on a horse's flank. It's a look that lives in Osamu's head for that next hour, and during the silent walk home. Suna waves at him as though nothing's wrong when he slips inside, bidding him a goodnight that pangs inside Osamu's heart because he doesn't seem angry at Osamu's continued silence— doesn't seem to be much of anything.
It makes him feel safe, which is a dangerous thing to feel, even now. The foundation of the walls that he's carefully curated over all these years is beginning to shift, threatening to bring them all down at the slightest slip-up. Who would he be without the facade? He's in high school, but those stupid primary school remarks follow him and define who he is like a sickly, vindictive shadow destined to make him crash and burn. He's gotten to the point where this specific narrative has gotten repetitive, so he's turned the blame inwards— where it always belonged. He's the reason he's like this; the reason he hates his brother and his brother hates him.
He's the reason Suna has to break down all these damn walls just to have a conversation. The worst part about this is that he will never be brave enough to fix these issues with himself; this is the difference between a human and a coward.
Cowardice will always be his first choice.
So he curls up under his sheets, tugging them over his head to hide from the monster that lies below him and the ones that tear apart his head, and cries the tears of a coward— too scared to let the moonlight shine off his tear-tracked face because that pearlescence makes it all too real.
He will forever conceal himself; it doesn't matter whether someone is watching or not. Osamu hates himself enough that the mere risk of discovery activates the defensive reflex of cowardice that he uses to glue the shattered pieces of his soul back together every time it cracks.
They burn, the tears.
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Osamu wonders if he can see them, the tear-lines.
The way Suna is looking at him today makes it feel like a spotlight it is shining on him, hot on his face as he squints in an attempt to see past the glare.
It makes him feel like a puzzle that the other man is desperate to solve, and he is surprised to find that he likes the feeling of the eyes on him.
"Hey, 'Samu?" Suna is glancing at him, a sideways look as they pack up for lunch.
"Hm?" Osamu pulls out his bento, setting it down next to his chopsticks. Sunarin waits for him to settle down in his seat, eyes glued to his face as though he's devoting him to memory. It makes Osamu shiver a little, goosebumps rising on his arms. "Stop staring at me like I'm gonna run away, I ain't going anywhere."
Suna doesn't laugh, just murmurs his thanks in time with Osamu and tucks into his food. Osamu is confused, pausing for a moment before picking up his chopsticks when Suna shows no inclinations of adding to his earlier words. He mirrors the other man's actions, feeling those debilitating eyes on him in a way that makes scares him, makes him feel like he might be in over his head in a game he never agreed to playing.
It only makes it feel more so when Suna murmurs, eyes down for once as he picks at his food. "You're beautiful, Osamu."
His breath stutters in his throat and he doesn't know what do with his hands all of a sudden, so he folds them in his lap and stares at Suna. "Really?" He didn't mean to say that, but the words slip past his lips in a way they never have before.
"I wouldn't lie to you." Suna has lost that temporary apprehension, and Osamu feels like he's shaking to the bottom of his soul because this is who Sunarin is, someone who'll never allow Osamu to scare him off. He swallows, backs of his eyes prickling. Sunarin looks sad, too, and Osamu wonders if it's because he knows that all Osamu wants to do is run away and never come back.
He's never responded well to fear, and they both know it.
Maybe it was growing up with Atsumu, who exploits on every fear he has to come out ahead. "Come look at this spider," his brother had murmured when they were seven years old, holding it in his hands. It was a hideous thing, with a bulbous body and long, long legs. It took up the whole space of Atsumu's small palm, and then some. Osamu had screamed, running for the house when Atsumu mimicked throwing it at him. He had clutched at his mother's skirt, too old to be crying like he was but unable to help it, as she berated Atsumu. The glare his brother sent him made his blood run cold, but he was tame for a few hours after that, laughing and treating Osamu to the usual annoying dialogue. Osamu had only put up with it because he was thanking the gods for the gift of not getting his ass beaten. They went to bed that night on good enough terms, Atsumu having wished Osamu a cheery goodnight.
He had never cried as hard or screamed as loud as he did when he found that huntsman spider under his pillow. He refused to sleep for two days, sitting on the floor of their shared room every night until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. Atsumu thought this was hilarious and had only laughed harder when Osamu had awoken with a start the third morning, in terror of discovering the spider somewhere near him.
This wasn't the first time Atsumu did something like that, and even at seven years old he knew it certainly wouldn't be the last. Atsumu saw him as the best entertainment, and he always knew how to get Osamu to put on a show.
So at least he has something to blame for the way he stares at his hands, begging the bell to ring as Suna pins him down with those knife-sharp eyes. He hopes Sunarin can't hear his heart beating against his ribcage in a violent rhythm of destructive intent.
"Are you okay, Osamu?" Of course he would notice. Osamu might not wear his heart on his sleeve now, but he did at one point in time, and it's hard as hell to remove that threads of it that still show. For once, though, he has that sick feeling wanting to be honest— a feeling that never ends well. Despite this he finds himself spewing out words he never wanted to be said, echoing in the empty classroom.
"No, I'm not. I'm really fucking scared, Suna. You scare the shit out of me." He doesn't know why he's crying but the tears started and they refuse to stop, tracing those ugly tracks down his cheeks that he hates so. They don't rack his lungs with sobs or tear at his chest— instead, they simply fall, as gentle and quiet as the rhythm of his words. "And I just want to leave and never come back but you never leave me alone."
Suna's smiling, and it only succeeds in making Osamu's heart kick up into an even more sickening beat that thuds in his ears. He looks so fucking happy to be getting his ass chewed right now, and he feels like a deer in headlights. He's seen Sunarin smile, but never, ever like this. It's only when he falls silent does Suna speak, his eyes still shining with that sickly-bright sheen even though his face has fallen back into the impassive mask hates so damn much. His eyes are those of a predator, zoning in for the kill, and Osamu is the prey he is determined to take down with his own hands.
"What?" Osamu snaps, voice louder than he intended. He's angry, furious that Suna thinks he's going to go down without a fight, and Suna looks like he fucking knows it— like he sees the vexation in the writing of Osamu's soul. Osamu has never felt so hungry for pain, trying to land any hit he can against this impassive asshole. "Scared?"
"No, but you are." Suna wastes no words, shoving every single thing that he feels right back in his fucking face, forcing him to look it all dead in the eyes. He swears that Suna likes seeing him like this, enjoys watching Osamu tear himself apart over and over. It should remind him of Atsumu, but it's different. It hurts, but not in the way that burrows deep and lasts. This is momentary, the pain of having a tooth taken out so that it will feel better after.
He's being patched up instead of ripped farther apart, and he wonders if that was Suna's plan all along— if Sunarin saw him as something that could be fixed instead of something that's simply "broken".
He almost laughs at this, because he never saw Suna as a "glass-half-full" type of guy. It would be funny if he wasn't so bitter, watching Suna's face for signs of weakness that never come. Instead, the other man reaches out a hand that Osamu swears burns as it makes contact with his skin. He holds Osamu like he's something delicate, something easy to break as he smears the fresh tears away. He doesn't apologize, doesn't say anything as Osamu leans in. Suna gathers him in his arms, takes him and all his broken pieces and presses them back together in a firm hug. Osamu breaks a little more, but he does it silently this because the comfort of this is enough to keep him mostly intact, is enough to make it hurt a little less.
Osamu can't tell if Suna wishes to be his making or his undoing. Either way, he isn't sure he has the strength to run any more.
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When he and Atsumu were younger, their mother used to refer to them as one entity. “AtsumuandOsamu, come here,” their mother used to shout in that clanging tone that left no room for questioning. “OsamuandAtsumu, lower your voices,” she would chastise in the presence of company, as though they weren’t acting the best they could when kept in close proximity to each other. They accepted this, even enjoyed it, because they acted like almost the same person back then. They were one, until forces came and disentangled their roots, splitting them until they had no choice but to grow apart. This hit Osamu the hardest and Atsumu not at all, as most things in their shared life tended to.
Their mother, as they aged, began to separate them. No longer were they AtsumuandOsamu, OsamuandAtsumu— no, they had earned the right to be their own people, called by their own separate names.
“Osamu, do the dishes.”
“Make sure to water the plants, Atsumu.”
They weren’t referenced with the other as a subtext anymore, an occurrence that only became more common as they both began to stop being around the other long enough to ever even be referred to in the same sentences. It hurt, ached, but in the way a bruise hurts. It’s purple and sore the first day, and the next, but he began to forget about it as time passed and the wound faded.
And then Osamu unwillingly grew up, little by little, and lost the pieces of himself that mattered. His soul began its hiding process— building up a fog of falsity that would go on to be both his saving grace and his ruination. When he began to think about things like that, his brother began to take a seat on the backburner. He no longer pretended Atsumu was his first priority, and he thinks that was the sign of him truly growing up— when the thing that was once his world became the thing he hated most about it. Suna used to laugh at him for things like this, saying that petty anger seemed to be in their blood, but there was nothing petty about this.
This was the splitting of two worlds that had been impossibly woven together, so much so that this split-apart would define them both.
He still tastes it, sometimes, the bitter pain of longing, but it is a flavor he swallows gratefully.
Now, as they grin at eat other with those identical sixteen-year-old smiles that people always called beautiful but were really just hungry for pain, all of these years come to a head in a way that doesn't feel remotely like the end— just the beginning of something worse than they could've ever imagined.
"You're being selfish, Osamu— you're taking all the shit that I love and turning it against me!" Atsumu is angry, but that's nothing new. He often finds the audacity to take on opinions that make no sense, so often that Osamu thinks it's his way of challenging himself, look, at how me I am, it only gets fucking crazier from here.
Osamu scoffs, a tight sound that only accompanies the bound-up feeling of his whole body.
"I'm being selfish? I'm being selfish? Atsumu, you don't know shit about selflessness. You just come through life expecting everyone to offer themselves up as your doormat— newsflash, that's not how real life fucking works! Which you would know if you pulled your head out of your ass every once in a while in an attempt to even seem grounded."
"See, that's your fucking issue! You can't stand people being themselves around you— you want everyone to give in to the people-pleasing mindset you've always had. You want me to 'seem grounded'? Act like something even remotely close to who you really are first. I would offer to help, but I don't know shit about you anymore!" Atsumu's gritting his teeth, Osamu can see it— and he briefly basks in the anger of the situation. It's been a while since he's been so angry.
It's only made worse by the fact that what Atsumu says is true, so he distracts from it, throwing out spiteful insults that are the most honest he's been in a long time.
"Have you ever," Osamu pauses for a moment— catching his breath as it tries to fly away from him in a whirlwind of rage that seems to be the only thing he and his brother will have permanently in common. "—Ever put me first, in our entire lives?" He knows he's playing a dirty game, using that single, small word to tie them together in a way they've grown too far apart to ever be again. "Our," he says, but what he really means is "We should've been in this together". Atsumu doesn't even notice, though. He never does. Atsumu's shoulders tremble above his clenched fists, and the silence says everything he can't. Atsumu, with his impeccable memory for what matters to him, can't remember a single time he willingly put Osamu first and they both fucking know it. The blatant understanding of this that now hangs in the air tastes like dirt on his tongue— heavy and sodden with vile things that make him gag now that they're brought into the light.
Really, he did this to himself. What did he expect— Atsumu to grovel at his feet, say no, that's not true?
If Osamu knows one thing about Atsumu, it's that he has the dignity to at least stay honest about himself.
"Anything you can do, I can do better," Atsumu says into the heavy, furious silence between them. Osamu can tell he's trying to keep this fight alive, and he can't blame him. It's the most aware he's felt around his brother in a long time, even if he gets that sick feeling that they are falling apart right in front of each other.
They passed the part where they're fighting about something specific— now, they're just dragging each other through the dirt for the hell of it, each trying to play the bigger victim. He knows this, but he still falls right into step with Atsumu's plan because it's a familiar dance, one he's done all his life.
"Do you really mean that, Atsumu?"
"Yes," Atsumu murmurs, unashamed. His pure, blinding confidence in all the he's capable of brings a sour taste into Osamu's mouth, one he never seems to fully be rid of. It's the taste of resentment— to the highest degree.
"All our lives, I don't think I've ever seen that proven. All you actually manage to do better than me is push and push— and you take whatever another person isn't willing to give, simply because you want it and, in the mind of Miya Atsumu, that means you should have it. Doesn't it ever bother you that everyone thinks you're an asshole?"
"Doesn't it bother you that everyone thinks you're a pushover?"
Osamu swallows the bile in his throat— it burns on the way down like a searing brand. "No, it doesn't, because at least I know that being a pushover makes me a fundamentally better person than you."
Atsumu snorts out that derisive noise, low in his core, that always made Osamu want to punch his lights out. "Nah, it just makes you a people-pleaser— and what pleases people isn't always right." Osamu hears the logic in it, but it stings when he hears it from someone who's never worked to make another person happy in his whole damn life.
"And if something doesn't please you, it's never right— where do you think I learned all this shit from? One of us had to turn out halfway decent to keep Ma sane and it was never gonna be you."
Atsumu straightens up at this, tucking the last item away in his school bag. "What, and you care about keeping Ma sane? Were you even around, all this damn time?" Osamu's mouth goes dry as he sees what Atsumu's about to say— it's something they've never talked about, not even when they were little boys and told each other everything. So, he cuts Atsumu off before he can put something out there that neither of them can handle— he's saving them, really.
"Shut up."
"Shut up? That's all you have to say? God, look at you. You're going right back in that fucking shell of yours, it's pathetic! Aren't you ever ashamed of being such an ass kissing doormat, allowing everyone to step on you as they please?" Atsumu's mocking him with that look on his face that screams superiority, and Osamu is tired of it. Really fucking tired of it.
"You want to call me pathetic when all you do is stick to some fucking rich kid like a parasite? You want to call me pathetic when you choose a stranger over your twin brother every opportunity you get?" He knows it's a low blow, going after Kiyoomi, but he can't help himself. He wants to see Atsumu break the same way he's had to break in his brother's place all these years.
Atsumu is stalking towards him now, that posture that always meant there was about to be an all-out brawl. Osamu shifts away from the delicate vase behind him, meeting Atsumu head-on when he dives at him. Osamu's hand finds its way into his brother's hair and pulls, hard enough to release far more than a few bleached strands from their dandruff-infested prison of a scalp.
"It isn't 'picking someone over you' when there was no you to begin with. You are just all the fake shit everyone has told you to be scrambled together into the form of a fucked-up person. I don't know who the fuck you are anymore!" Atsumu seethes, shoving an elbow into Osamu's ribs. It hurts, but not as bad as the words that cut his soul apart— they always do. "And you're such a fucking hypocrite! All you talk about is Suna— Sunarin this, Sunarin that, but you'll never have the balls to just tell him that shit to his face! You have no fucking courage to go after what you want, Osamu, and I have no respect for cowards. You being my brother only makes it more embarrassing."
"Oh, I'm so sorry I'm such an embarrassment to Emperor Miya Atsumu, ruler of Asshole Kingdom, who has never done something to solely benefit another person in his whole—" Osamu is silenced by the strong fist to his jaw that rattles him so hard he swears he sees stars. He lays there for a moment as Atsumu stands, dusting himself off like he's too good for the kitchen floor he's spent his whole life playing on. "You're such a fucking dick, Osamu."
"Likewise. Where do you think I get it from?" Osamu shoots his brother a mocking grimace, groaning as he pulls himself into a sitting position. They didn't fix anything, but they aren't any worse off than they have been for the last five or so years of their lives. He feels satiated, the way someone does when they eat something they know is bad for them and feel full enough to burst right after.
He savors the guilt of it a little, too. At least it means he still feels something.
Atsumu scoffs, shaking his head. He goes to yank open the sliding kitchen door— to make a dramatic exit the way he always does, but he is stopped by a tall, lithe frame blocking his departure— the person Osamu least wants to see while his facades are all broken down.
"Sunarin?"