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They were running. It felt like they had been for a while.
Mid-August provided sweltering hot weather, and they only had thin shirts on their backs and their tattered jeans to cool them. Atsumu could feel sweat pooling on the creases of his forehead and dripping down the sides, along his temples. The cool slide of it accompanies the cold terror swishing in his stomach—who knew when they were going to turn a corner and run headfirst into their demise?
In front of him was Kiyoomi with the bag of weapons slung over his shoulder. The weight barely held him back, he kept moving forward with vigour.
To Atsumu’s immediate left was Osamu, who was panting like all the oxygen on earth was running out, but he was keeping up through long strides and sheer willpower.
Until suddenly he wasn’t. He collapsed to the ground so quickly that Atsumu didn’t register the sudden absence beside him until the heavy thud of his body on the stone bricks reverberated around the alley they were passing through. He must’ve tripped, Atsumu concluded, ignoring the gnawing fear in his chest. It’s pretty rocky around here.
Atsumu turns on his foot, immediately halting. He hears Kiyoomi do the same behind him—it’s hard to ignore a noise that loud, especially in the deafening silence of the barren city. Everyone else carries on forward, unaware of the both metaphorical and physical mass weighing down their chances of getting the fuck out of there in time.
When Atsumu really looks at Osamu, he can see him heaving with every breath. Odd, considering he’s been a fairly fit guy his whole life. The frustrating part, however, is how Osamu just won’t move. He lies there, almost motionless save for the rising and falling of his back.
“‘Samu! What the fuck are you doing? Get up!”
But he wouldn’t get up. He didn’t look like he could get up. Osamu lifts his head off the ground, turns over to his side, and tries to push himself up. His arms tremble under his weight and give out, and his head knocks against the concrete. He flops onto his back. He doesn’t look like he plans on trying again anytime soon.
Atsumu cringes and turns back to Kiyoomi. “Keep going. Keep fuckin’ going, Omi. I’m gonna help him.”
“No the fuck you’re not.” Osamu tosses feebly. His voice is wheezing, and Atsumu’s blood turns icy. He sounds sick.
Atsumu crosses the alleyway and crouches beside Osamu, who is—shit—paler than he’s ever been, his skin a greyish hue. His eyes have started purpling underneath, and the corner of his mouth is splattered with a tiny bit of blood. Atsumu, for the first time in a few weeks, begins to panic. It grips even tighter at his heart when the sounds of groans grab his attention, and when he snaps his focus up to the source, he sees a jumble of bodies ambling in their direction.
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you getting up?” Atsumu snaps, grappling at his shoulders, seizing fistfuls of his cotton t-shirt and pulling. It’s soaked through with sweat. “C’mon, we gotta go.”
Osamu claws weakly at Atsumu’s hands, trying desperately to push them away. “‘Tsumu, stop!” he cries, and then croaks out a garbled, “‘Tsumu, I can’t.”
Atsumu’s expression twists from frustration to shock and confusion—a combination that winds him immediately, as he searches Osamu’s face for answers. His face is dripping with sweat, his breathing has been reduced to shallow pants and his eyelids are fluttering closed, like he can’t open them anymore.
“Wha—are you sick? Did you get fuckin’ heatstroke? The fuck’s wrong with you?”
With shaking hands, Osamu pulls at the leg of his pants until the cuff rides up his ankle. Red indents litter his skin in the outlines of teeth, crusted over with a little bit of yellow. Pus.
Once it clicks in Atsumu’s mind, the panic spreads through his entire body. He thinks he could throw up, right here, right now. His brother was bitten. His brother was bitten.
“What the fuck? When did you get that?” he snarls, his usual drawl slipping more and more with every syllable. “‘Samu, when the fuck did y—”
“Last night.” Osamu sobs. He looks so small and afraid and he’s still clutching onto Atsumu’s wrists like a lifeline, and Atsumu is hit with a whirlwind of emotions. Fear swirls through him, followed the harsh graze of devastation, because fucking shit, what could they possibly do about this now? The last thing that clocks him right in the gut is guilt, because he failed to protect his brother, and now he’s bitten. “I’m sorry, ‘Tsumu. I’m so sorry.”
And now, he had the audacity to apologise?
“Did you get bitten on purpose?”
“No!” Osamu sputters, horrified. “Why the fuck would I—”
“Then why are you sorry? Why didn’t you fuckin’ say something when it happened?” Osamu becomes a blurry figure through the tears gathering on his lash line.
He can’t breathe—he always thought it was awful to watch characters in survival shows lose their loved ones, but he didn’t realise how much it stung until he was at the receiving end of the pain. It was becoming physical, and he was hunching over from pain in his stomach, stabbing in his chest, and throbbing in his skull. He can’t fucking breathe. He heaves over his brother, not knowing what to do. The dead are closer. They’re so much closer that Atsumu can clearly make out the dragging of their feet amongst their moaning. They’re running out of time.
“Atsumu, get him up!” Kiyoomi hasn’t moved from his spot a few metres behind them. His voice momentarily startles Atsumu from his panic. “What’s going on?”
“He was fucking bitten, Omi. We can’t leave him.”
“You have to. I’m gonna turn. You know you have to do it.” Osamu’s usual airy tone disappears, his voice dead serious.
Atsumu feels like he’s been suckerpunched.
“I’m not fucking doing that. No.”
“You have to. I don’t wanna become one of them,” Osamu all but whimpers, and Osamu never whimpers, so Atsumu recoils with a glimmer in his eyes where shame seems to reside. Shame for who though, is the question—shame for himself, for not seeing the signs, for not taking better care of his own flesh and blood, for allowing it all to happen? Or shame for Osamu, who didn’t speak up, who let himself get hurt, who is asking his brother to kill him? Neither of them can tell, it seems.
“Atsumu…” Kiyoomi presses lightly, as a warning. The dead are even closer.
“I can’t put you down, I can’t.” Atsumu ignores him and chokes on a sob, allowing tears to fall onto Osamu’s neck. They melt into his skin with the sweat. “‘Samu, I can’t fucking do that.”
Osamu points to the pistol resting in the loop of Kiyoomi’s pants, then stares up at Atsumu. “Use that. It’ll be over quickly. Do you want me to suffer instead? It’ll be more painful for both of us if you let me become one of them.”
“No, I’m not allowing you to give up so eas—”
“Atsumu.”
No nickname. No nonsense. No bullshit. He means this.
“I can’t,” Atsumu is openly weeping now. “What else can I do?”
Osamu’s face crumples at the sight. “Nothing. You gotta do it, right now.”
With that, it finally sinks into Atsumu’s bones, along with heavy dread: he really does have to do this. It’s not a nightmare. This is real.
He desperately clings onto Osamu and pulls him upwards into an awkward embrace, dripping tears and snot onto his neck. His skin is cold, almost akin to a corpse, and his breathing is ragged and gasping in Atsumu’s ear. It sounds like the worst goodbye.
“I love you. Don’t think for a moment that I wasn’t happy,” Osamu rasps. Atsumu coughs out a sob. “But you’ll keep going and you’ll be happy too, okay? You were right all along.”
He’s never sounded more sincere. It isn’t his tone of voice, nor the choice of words. It isn’t because he’s on his deathbed.
It’s because Atsumu promised to live a happier life, and here he was, watching his brother fade away. Supposedly fulfilling the promise he’s not sure he wants to carry through with anymore.
“I can’t be happy without you,” Atsumu whispers, pressing his forehead to Osamu’s. He’s on a funny angle so that they’re criss-crossed, but the relieved exhale that fans against the side of his cheek tells him that this is comforting Osamu, even in his last moments. “You’re my best friend, I love you more than anyone I’ve ever known. I don’t want you to go. I can’t be happier, I ca—”
“‘Tsumu.” Osamu curls a hand around the back of Atsumu’s head, who lifts it to look into his eyes. “You have to be happier somehow. Maybe not fully, yeah? But you can. Sakusa-kun makes you happy. Don’t look at me like that, I know he does. Stay with him, protect him. And—and tell Rin I love him, yeah? Make sure you let him know.”
“I will. I love you.” A fresh wave of tears well in his eyes at the notion of having to tell this to the man his brother loved for years, absolutely knowing he feels the same back. And the fact that he wasn’t aware that Osamu was currently dying in his arms—it pricks at his heart painfully.
Osamu chuckles, a weak thing in Atsumu’s ear. “I love you the most. I’m never really leaving. You’re stuck with me forever. I’ll haunt ya.”
Atsumu chuckles, holding him gently until his breaths start to sound shallower and his eyes are fully closed. He’s fading out of this, he thinks, a little numbly. Good. He won’t be so afraid when I do it.
The pistol appears over his shoulder. When he looks up, Kiyoomi is standing over him with singular tear tracks down each eye. Shit. He witnessed the whole thing. “Get it over with, Atsumu.”
He sighs, shaky and sore, and takes the gun. With that, he steps back, seven times. He notices that the dead are a mere twenty or so metres away, but still cripplingly slow.
With trembling hands, he holds firm on the base of the weapon, cocks it, and points it towards Osamu. He hears a shuddering breath from Kiyoomi behind him. He has seen Kiyoomi cry one other time before, but it hasn’t happened since the outbreak. This sucks.
“I’m sorry, ‘Samu.” Atsumu croaks. It would be humiliating, considering how many octaves his voice rose, in any other situation. “I love you. I’m sorry.”
The next few moments were a blur; all Atsumu remembers is pulling the trigger, pressing his hands against his ears as he cried, and cried, and cried. He remembers Kiyoomi pulling him from the paved bricks, he remembers running, but not knowing where he was going.
He remembers the sinking, agonizing realisation that this was permanent. Osamu was dead, and there was nothing he could do to bring him back.
~
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi repeats for the fourth time, to no avail. “We have fruit. You need to eat something.”
Atsumu doesn’t answer. His stomach felt strained and throat was still burning from spewing all the contents of his stomach, just after the adrenaline wore off and they were in relative safety. His state was close to catatonia—gaze fixed to the floor of the truck they were travelling in, limbs unmoving, but tears streaming down his eyes steadily. It’s been two and a half hours.
“Hey, Atsumu.” Kiyoomi sighs, pressing his back against the corrugated metal and mimicking Atsumu’s position. Knees up to chest, arms wrapped around them. Something to make him feel less like he’s suffering all on his own. “It’s not your fault that he’d gotten bitten, okay? You couldn’t control that.”
Atsumu says nothing, and keeps staring intently at the ground. Kiyoomi thinks for a moment.
“If it makes any inkling of a difference,” he begins, glancing at Atsumu in his peripheral. “I’m not leaving anytime soon. You’ll have me for as long as possible. I don’t intend on going anywhere.”
“Omi…” Atsumu sobs, a quiet thing, drops his head onto Kiyoomi’s shoulder and weeps. No one around them bats an eye. Everyone knows he needs it.
“It’s okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m here. You’re okay. You’re not alone. Atsumu? You got that?”
Atsumu nods against his shoulder. Kiyoomi, in a moment of emotion, wraps his arm around Atsumu’s shoulders and holds him close. It might ground him, he figures.
After Atsumu eventually cries himself into an exhausted slumber, Kiyoomi lets a few tears of his own slip down his cheeks.
If anyone asks, though, it never happened for any reason apart from the adrenaline wearing off. That’s all.
They all had a pretty bad day, after all.
~
That night, sleep doesn’t come easily for Atsumu. At all. Hours are spent in a haze—his eyes yearn to close, to lose itself to the slumber that usually threatens to overtake, but it never comes. He lies there, cold and aching all over, listening to the soft breathing of the group around him. The night is quieter than usual. No one’s joking around or passing around a bottle of rum they scavenged from a vacant liquor store (seriously—how was there that much alcohol left eight months into the apocalypse? You’d think most people would’ve downed bottles in order to deal with it all, somehow). The warehouse is dead quiet.
Kiyoomi’s futon sits parallel to Atsumu’s. Kiyoomi faces Atsumu, whose face contorts into an expression so pained that Kiyoomi feels it in his chest—his bottom lip quivers, his brows furrow in the middle of his forehead and his eyes swim with tears.
“Atsumu…”
“I’m okay, Omi. Promise,” he whispers, but his voice shakes tremendously. He is the epitome of everything that okay isn’t. “I just feel… Scared. I guess. I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. You’re not alone, though. You don’t have to be scared alone,” Kiyoomi mumbles back. This time, courage wins over the hurt in his heart, and he reaches his hand out to Atsumu’s hand, resting on the cold concrete between them. He notices his fingers are clammy in the crevices when he goes to grip Atsumu’s hand, but the way he holds on tight and doesn’t pull away tells Kiyoomi that he needed this. It puts him at ease, even just temporarily, knowing that he can help Atsumu somehow. Even if he can’t bring his brother back for him.
(He’d do that without second thought, given the chance. He’d do anything to see the Atsumu he knew before again.)
Kiyoomi doesn’t sleep well that night either, or the next four nights after that, but it’s worth it because whenever he grabs Atsumu’s hand at night, his breathing evens out and he falters off into a light, yet well-needed sleep.
~
On the fifth night, Atsumu dreams.
The sky is cotton-candy pink, and the grass is greener than it’s ever been. He stands on a hill, overlooking fields of bountiful crops below him.
Oh. He’s in Hyogo. He’s home.
When he looks down at his arms, his skin is free of grime and grazes, and he smells cleaner than he has in months. His clothes are completely put together. His eyes don’t sting anymore. He feels at ease.
But he’s alone.
The dream feels realer than any dream he’s had in a long time—those in the past were usually filled with mutilated bodies, screams of the living and the pungent odour of blood and guts. This one feels like a cinematic reel come to life, all with vivid colours and a sense of nostalgia lingering somewhere in the breeze.
Suddenly, a rustle in the grass behind him breaks him out of his trance. When he turns, a face stares right back at him. Like a mirror. Except, he knows this face better than his own.
“‘Samu,” he breathes out. The smile that graces his face is involuntary, and mimicked by the man himself.
“‘Tsumu,” Osamu responds, equally in awe. It feels like it’s been years since Atsumu last heard that voice. Even in the short time since he passed, it was starting to feel like he was forgetting it. “You’re here.”
“I guess I am.” Atsumu chuckles despite himself. He knows it’s a dream, but he allows himself to bask in the feeling of familiarity, of comfort, of finally feeling at home. The next thing he thinks to say is, “I miss you so goddamn much.”
He looks at Osamu, who looks ahead, amongst the rolling hills, just inhaling the strong scent of mowed grass. It all overwhelms Atsumu’s senses in somehow the best way—all these things that they grew up with in their previously normal life that quickly deteriorated into distant memories. The apocalypse really distorted life as they once knew it, but finally feeling everything that used to put him so at ease was like a breath of fresh air. The past week alone was more painful to endure than the entirety of the past eight months had been.
Osamu forgoes answering and instead smiles. There’s the hint of a grimace underneath. “How’s everything with Sakusa-kun?”
“I mean,” Atsumu sighs, closing his eyes against the breeze and letting the tension leave his body with every exhale. “Omi-kun can’t replace you, ‘Samu. He’s a fairly decent substitute, though. Probably woulda done something real stupid and got myself hurt or killed without him to keep me in line.”
Atsumu turns to meet Osamu’s narrowed eyes and raised brow. “You’d be fine on your own, ‘Tsumu. You know you would be. You’re stronger and braver and more resilient than you care to admit.”
He thinks back to the past twenty-something years of his life; his childhood and being the brother who plastered courage on every corner of his being, comforted a sobbing Osamu whenever either of them got hurt (seriously—Atsumu skinned his knee and Osamu cried? He truly was the baby of the two of them), reminding him not to be afraid, bouncing back immediately whenever he felt bad because he was technically the older brother. He had to put on a brave face for the sake of them both.
Atsumu carried on with his somewhat collected demeanour all throughout middle school and high school, and even into adulthood—even if his emotions ran rampant the older he got, and Osamu became more subdued. Now, he thinks he’s completely overtaken the role of afraid, vulnerable brother. Rightfully so, maybe. A lot happened over time.
“I reckon that’s you, ‘Samu. You’ve always been the one who was scared but got over it. I was just the bratty little shit who always hid everything I felt. You were pretty open. You become stronger over time. I’m just weak now.”
The silence stretches on for a moment longer than what Atsumu would consider normal for the two of them—their banter was always a back-and-forth rally with very little room for a single breath, back when it was common between them. None of their spats ever really carried a burden along with the words, because there was always a way to come back from it.
This Osamu isn’t the living, breathing version that Atsumu longs to still have by his side, but it still feels like everything he says carries weight. Like if he says what he needs to say, he’ll get the closure he needs to be able to carry on. Without him.
“Atsumu,” Osamu begins, turning to face him properly. “You’re not gonna believe me, but whatever, you better listen. You know I always looked up to you. You know this.”
“Wha--”
“Come on, really? You’re not that fuckin’ dense. I’ve been like...what’s the word? I’ve been—emulating! Emulating everything I grew up knowing you were, you know? That’s kinda how I got through these past few months.”
“‘Samu…” Atsumu can feel tears welling up in his eyes, even though this is a dream. They’re hot and salty and they sting a little in the corners of his eyes when he blinks. Everything about this feels so raw, and so real, it’s almost like everything is back in place again. No chips or strains on their relationship, like they haven’t been ripped apart by Death himself.
“I admired you after the outbreak, you know,” Osamu continues, unaware of his simultaneous tearing and mending of Atsumu’s heart. “You were so tough, and you didn’t give up, and you had so much… Passion? Determination? I don’t know, you just wanted us all to survive and get somewhere so bad and I remembered thinking ‘holy shit, I’m so glad this is my brother, I’m so glad he’s still by my side after everything’. Even up until the very end. You didn’t wanna let me die. You were gonna try and keep us going.”
Atsumu reaches up to thumb away the fat tears gathering on his lashes and sniffles. This dream-Osamu can’t just be his imagination making a big, extraordinarily realistic fantasy up. There’s a part of Atsumu that believes that yeah, Osamu is still there, somewhere, as a part of him. Always. You can’t really get rid of that part of you—that fundamental part.
“I miss you. Stupid ‘Samu.”
Osamu snorts, and immediately moves forward to bring Atsumu into a hug. It’s warm, and Osamu smells real and like himself, even though he’s not, but it doesn’t matter when there’s remnants of him still lingering in Atsumu’s memories.
“I know. But hey, how’s this—” he says, with so much excitement that you’d think he was talking about something he’s crazily passionate about. His business, maybe. It was the same tone of voice he used for business opportunities. “I’m gonna make sure you survive this shit. I’m gonna be like…. Fuck, I don’t know! A guardian angel! Something like that! You’re gonna be fine. You have Sakusa-kun and you’ll find Rin and you’re gonna make it to the end and they’re gonna find a cure and it’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Understand?”
Atsumu takes a deep breath, just to loosen the leftover tension, and then nods. Just once. He understands, obviously. That was part of their bond.
“Love you. Dumbass. You’re gonna be fine, you know it. Stupid ‘Tsumu, crying over me?” Osamu teases, reaching up and ruffling Atsumu’s hair.
“Shut up! I hate not having you around. Love you too. Gross.” He grumbles, but he’s not really annoyed. He feels relieved, if anything. “Can we just be, like, normal for a while? Act like nothing bad ever happened? Just until this is over.”
With that, Osamu lowers himself onto the ground, pats the grassy patch beside him, and smiles up at Atsumu. He’s frowning through it from the glare of the sun, and it looks so fucking funny, but the intention is gentle and kind and Atsumu can’t help but feel fond. He misses his stupid, admirable brother. So much.
“Alright,” Osamu utters, content. “Let’s do that then.”