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He remembers screaming.
He remembers thinking the usual thoughts, anger and reassurance and the distant knowledge that he could go too far this time, this could be the time there's no coming back from this, but he pushes it down like it's second nature. They have a system in those situations, a protocol of sorts, try to get his attention off the one he's most mad at distract and defuse, and tonight it's Atsumu so he has a job to do, rules to follow and then everything will be alright -not fine, but in order, as the order always goes.
He remembers the slow creeping of desperation seeping in, his pleas grow more frantic the longer his brother's face is pushed into the water as he squirms -his heart skipping a beat with the realisation that their system had failed them. He knew, on some level, that no rule would protect them, that there was no method to the rolling tides of violence crashing against them -and that this veneer of normalcy habit had painted over cruelty was only this, a shallow illusion. And yet, after so long of ordinary evil, so long of bad things happening and never being quite bad enough for anything to change, what could he have done but become complacent? How was he meant to expect things to change? Something about physics and maths, being in a train with no windows that goes at constant speed and not moving at all. He was never one for science, but he thinks it'd go like that.
He remembers dragging Atsumu out of the bathtub, the wet gasps as he tried to breathe in, the weak and shallow pulse he held onto like a lifeline. He remembers pushing his father away and locking them in the bathroom, remembers calling the hospital and dissociating, reciting the necessary information like a ventriloquist's puppet as the world caved in. He remembers being ushered into the ambulance, begging for his brother to wake up, for someone to save him, for somebody to do something. He remembers the sound of the heart monitor stopping -and then something rips open his throat, and he only remembers the screaming.
He doesn't understand how the others do it -how Sunarin dances around the topic like a fucking acrobat, how Kita adresses it in serene, unwavering words as if discussing something to someone unknown far away; most of all though, he doesn't understand how Atsumu has the courage -and the insanity- to joke about it. What's there to say, what word could he even find, to describe the most horrifying minute of his life? How could he, as their therapist so uselessly suggested, "take a step back and process it?" There is no word, there is no amount of processing that will make what he went through make any sense -this is a suffering beyond human comprehension, and anyone who thinks it isn't is a fucking moron that never lived through it. So when he tries to talk about this, to even think about it, he can't form words because there's none to remember, only screaming that draws on and echos in every corner of his mind.
And when he finds the letter on the desk, it's like he's in that bathroom all over again, locking the door and in the ambulance, and he shatters all over again until there's only the screaming.
*****
The letter goes like this:
"Dear Kita-san,
I hope this letter doesn't find you, at least for a very long time. When it does, good grief, I kind of hope it finds you a little bit sad -just a little bit, because I hope I matter enough to the people I love that they'd spare a tear or two. Maybe that's a cruel and selfish dream, to be worth mourning, but I'm terrified of the idea that I could die again and my life would only have impacted one person -one who never had the choice but to love and depend on me, as I love and depend on him for everything I am.
Speaking of which, I am going to be a little more cruel and selfish, because if you're reading this I am dead and I've heard the dead are owed some leniency, or at least it's good etiquette to give it. That's probably the case, at least for those who died a violent death -Kami, I hope it was peaceful this time. I hope at least I didn't suffer much, and that I was lucky enough to go suddenly, without time to realise, or slipping away in my sleep. Do I count as a murder victim, if I have been murdered once? In any case, please hear my selfish request: take care of Osamu. I know this is too much to ask of you, that he'll be broken in ways I can't imagine because when I close my eyes and try to picture a world without him it hurts so much I feel like I can't breathe; please take care of him even so. You're calm and responsible and we respect and admire you, so perhaps if it's you there is hope that in time, he'll be okay. You've been the closest thing to a role model we've ever had (well, along with Aran, but I'm unsure if he saw us as anything but rowdy annoyances). Please check on him when I can't do it anymore, make sure he is loved and supported and always knows how amazing he was -and perhaps I'm asking for too much, it's too heavy a weight for a burden you never consented to dragging along but please, please, I beg you on all that matters and on my restless soul, please do not let him follow me.
Even as I write these words, I realise it's foolish to assume you wouldn't honour them; I know you love my brother at least as much as you love me, and you are kind to a fault, no matter how steady. I know you will do as I ask, as unreasonable a demand as it is, and for that I owe you my eternal gratitude, and my apology. I have not much to give, and it goes without saying Osamu will get most of what I have. At least, please have this assurance of my love and respect for you. You were the wisest person I have ever met and I am sorry that, even when I am gone, I am still causing such grief. Please pass this melodramatic declaration to the foxes if you can, and tell them you guys were the most delightful, funny, kind and inspiring bunch of bastards I have ever seen.
You have my full trust, as I know you enough not to fear that you might abuse it. All my affairs are in order, and there is relief in knowing, from now on, I can rest.
My sincere condolences,
Miya Atsumu, your friend."
Osamu shrivels the letter in his fist and throws up on the ground. Kita and Atsumu shudder under the desperate screaming, and when they burst into the room, he's sobbing so hard he's laughing.
*****
“…eathe. Ya hafta breathe, Osamu.”
Breathe? Osamu is supposed to breathe? He whines, taking note of the constricting pain in his chest -a burning, sizzling metal clutch crushing his ribcage over his organs. He tries to dig it out, nails clawing at his skin, but fingers quickly wrap around his own, tight enough to stop him but not hard enough to hurt.
“Come on, please, ya gotta breathe, kay?” a voice pierces, familiar like the beating of his heart -it his own, and it’s not, that biting Miya drawl rolling off a different mouth -Atsumu.
“ ‘s gonna be okay, it’s alright.” A different one, steady and soothing, a softness he knows as a promise of comfort. “Come on, it’s okay, just like I’m doin’, in and out, kay? In… And out… That’s it very good, yer good, ‘s fine…”
“Tsumu.”
“I’m here, Samu. ‘m right here.” His brother’s voice is unusually soft-spoken, a whisper in his ear, and he shifts to snuggle against him. Atsumu holds onto him almost desperately, head buried in the crook of his neck, and the rhythm of his hot breath on his skin is a tide he follows to steady his own breath. He shivers, tension thawing as the warmth floods between their two bodies like a wave, fingers creeping up to thumbing the veins at the base of his wrists. Only then, in the beating of that pulse synchronized with his own, does he find true reassurance that his brother is alive.
“Tsumu. Holy shit Tsumu, yer alive. Thought ya died.”
“’s okay. ‘m so sorry Samu, I never meant… ‘s over now, ‘t’s okay. I survived.”
“Ya survived.”
“I did, I did, Kami I’m so sorry…”
“Yer not supposed t’ leave me alone. ‘s Samu and Tsumu, not just Samu, that’s not right. Ye’re not allowed to die again.”
“I know, I know, ‘m not leaving for a very long time, god I’m so sorry…”
Fingers thread carefully into his hair, playing and massaging his scalp with an elegance and care that have him melt in the comfort of that hand -Kita, that’s right, Kita is here too.
“’m sorry, Kita-san.”
“Ye have nothin’, absolutely nothin’, to be sorry for, ya hear?”
“Ye didn’t ask fer all our drama…”
“Yes I did, the moment I offered for ya guys to stay here. I want yer drama, hear that? The drama, the cryin’, the fightin’, all of it. I wanna know when ye’re sufferin’ so that I can help and support ya the best I can. I don’t want -that year of knowin’ somethin’ was wrong with y’all, but not knowin’ exactly what, havin’ no idea what to do except fer worryin -that’s so much worse than a little cryin. I don’t want you guys to feel like ya can’t come to me ever again, kay? ‘m here fer ya.”
“But… But why?”
It doesn’t make sense; it doesn’t, because Tsumu is the one who’s meant to take care of him, and he’s meant to take care of Tsumu, and they’re not even nice or polite and then Kita is so, so good… He hums, the feather-like touch of his finger-pads massaging his temples, with a kindness that they’ve never deserved nor ever dared to hope for.
“Does there need to be a reason?”
He frowns, because of course there’s a reason, nobody does anything nice for free; no for bad apples, screwed-up kids like them.
“How about that then: I care for you guys. I love y’all, ‘nd I hate that ye’re hurtin’, and I want to do the best I can to make sure yer life sucks less and less, because y’all deserved so much more and I want ya to have it all.”
“I don’… I don’t think I get it”, he confesses, and Atsumu shakes his head in agreement from where he’s snuggled against him.
“That’s okay”, Kita murmurs, in that certain voice of his that could make Osamu believe anything. “Ya don’t have to get it. Ya just have to let me care for ya and then one day, ye’ll understand.”
He sighs, content to let Kita take the lead, and shuffles tighter into his brother’s grasp. Someday soon, things will get better; someday he’ll be chasing his dreams, exploring his freedom, enjoying life with his brother and his best friends and his food, playing beach-volleyball by the sea, arm-wrestling for the last mochi, molding onigiri in the kitchen of his restaurant while whistling along to the newest pop songs; and someday soon, he’ll understand.
It's a disturbing thing, to be alive and free, having grown with his fear like a dull aching limb. It’s a kind of vertigo that takes getting used to, reworking his footwork, walking on scar tissue; but the twins have fought Death and they’ve won; of course they can do it.
The war is over. All that’s left to do is laying weapons down.