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Osamu is pretty sure that his brother has finally snapped.
He thinks this because it is cleaning day in the Miya household, and Atsumu is actually participating without complaint. He thinks this because this is Atsumu “why should I make my bed in the morning if I’m just going to sleep in it again tonight?” Miya. This is Atsumu “I shouldn’t need to shower if I just walked home in the pouring rain” Miya. This is Atsumu “it’s my bed, Ma, I can eat the rice crackers in it if I want to” Miya.
Osamu can recall with disturbing clarity all of the times that Atsumu had put up a fuss about cleaning. He can remember the tantrums when they were six or seven, and the way that Atsumu had worked himself into tears about having to put his clothes into piles of dirty and clean rather than tossing them all over the room. He can remember being eight, and Atsumu complaining while they cleaned their bedroom together, annoying Osamu so much that they got in a fight and their mother put them in different rooms, effectively ending the cleaning. He can remember how an eleven year old Atsumu would always find some way to be out of the house by the time that the cleaning started, whether at the park playing volleyball with Aran, or having a sleepover with Suna in an avoidance tactic that worked all too well.
Even as they got older, Atsumu hated cleaning, avoiding it at all costs. Their room, even now, is in a perpetual state of distress. There are clothes all over the floor, and Osamu couldn’t sit down at Atsumu’s desk without also sitting on a pile of books. The desk itself is covered in knick knacks that absolutely no one would ever need, and there are so many papers floating around that Osamu couldn’t pinpoint what were doodles from third grade and what was the math worksheet due the next day.
No, Atsumu has never voluntarily cleaned anything— Osamu is deeply and unfortunately very, very aware of this, having shared a room with him for his entire life— and now he’s cleaning the bathroom as if a clean bathroom will guarantee them a spot at Nationals. No, he’s cleaning the bathroom like it will guarantee them a win at Nationals.
“What are you doing?” Osamu asks, frowning at Atsumu. He’s kneeling on the shower floor with a sponge in hand, scrubbing at the drain with a vigor that he’s never put into anything but his serves. “You’re going overboard.”
Atsumu looks up at him, a desperate look on his face. “I’m just cleaning. Ma told me to clean the bathroom, so—”
“Yeah, but you’re making me look bad,” Osamu grumbles. “You’re putting in way too much effort. The shower floor was fine.”
“You should put in more effort,” Atsumu snaps. “The shower floor was not fine, and besides, your job is the living room, and you’re over here mocking me instead of actually working. Go finish your job.”
Osamu rolls his eyes. “I’m already finished. Vacuumed the rug and everything.”
“Did you clean the windows?” Atsumu asks. He drops the sponge onto the floor in front of him, rubbing his palms against his thighs and then flexing his fingers. He’s squinting at Osamu like he’s trying to read his mind, trying to figure out what exactly he had done to the living room and if it was up to his suddenly high standards. “And dust the television?”
“Why would I do that?” Osamu raises his eyebrows. Yeah, Atsumu has finally lost it. “I’ve never done that before and no one has cared.”
“Because it has to be clean,” Atsumu says, a flash of anger in his words. “If the windows aren’t fucking sparkling then it’s not clean.”
Osamu groans, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s fine, Tsumu, Ma isn’t going to care if the windows are sparkling or whatever. You can see out of them and that’s the only thing that really matters. She doesn’t care otherwise.”
“Well, I care,” Atsumu says.
“When have I ever cared what you think?” Osamu says, dropping his head to glare at Atsumu again. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Atsumu groans, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes and then dragging his hands down his face. For someone who has suddenly gotten very invested in the cleanliness of the shower floor, he’s not being particularly careful with getting the germs from said shower floor onto his face. “I’m just being clean. You should be grateful, since you’re always complaining about me leaving hair in the shower.”
“Hair in the drain,” Osamu says slowly, like Atsumu isn’t going to comprehend it if he talks any faster, “is very different from scrubbing the floor past clean and into new.”
Atsumu looks down at the shower floor. “It looks clean enough to be new?”
“Yeah,” Osamu says. “Not that it matters. You’re putting way too much work into it.”
“If it looks new, it’s good enough,” Atsumu decides. He stands up, stumbling slightly as he steps out of the shower and onto the bathmat. “Fuck, my leg’s asleep.”
Osamu rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no shit. Could’ve called that one.”
“Well, you didn’t.”
Osamu sighs, then turns to leave the bathroom. “Stop being so OCD about it, we’re just supposed to be tidying it.”
“Fuck you,” Atsumu says sharply. “Using a mental illness as an insult is really offensive to a lot of people, and it’s cruel to people who actually have it. OCD isn’t just being clean and organized. Saying stuff like that stigmatizes an actual illness and prevents real discussion, and OCD isn’t a fucking casual adjective you can just use like that anyways—”
“Okay!” Osamu cuts in, breaking off what is clearly a practiced and pre-prepared rant. “I won’t say it again, fuck. What’s gotten into you?”
Atsumu groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, and then opening them again. “It’s just not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to make fun of anyone,” Osamu tells him. “It’s just a saying, everyone says it all the time. Probably picked it up from Suna or someone.”
“It’s a shitty saying,” is all that Atsumu says. Then he shoves past Osamu and out into the hallway. “Tell Suna or someone they shouldn’t say it again. And go dust the fuckin’ television.”
Osamu rolls his eyes, but watches Atsumu step out into the hallway. “I’m not dusting.”
“Go dust,” Atsumu orders, everything in him tense and angry, threatening to snap at any moment.
Osamu can see the anxiety knotted in his shoulders, in the way he’s carrying himself, in the sound of his voice. He knows his brother as well as Atsumu knows himself, and it’s obvious that something is stressing him out. But Atsumu has never been stressed about actually cleaning before; if anything, Atsumu gets stressed out by the prospect of having to clean.
“I’m not dusting,” Osamu says again, just to be difficult.
He doesn’t particularly care if Atsumu wants him to dust. It’s not like their mother has ever cared if they dusted before, and Osamu only ever cleans just enough to get away with it. Atsumu is usually the same: clothes get shoved into closed closet doors rather than open ones, toothbrushes are put in the cup rather than scattered on the sink top, but nothing is actually scrubbed. Not like this.
Osamu continues, “You dust if you care so much.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Atsumu stalks off to the closet where miscellaneous unused cleaning items are stored, opening the door with more force than could possibly have been necessary. There’s the sound of Atsumu rummaging through the closet, looking for something to dust with, every movement filled with a violent frustration. Osamu watches him from the doorway of the bathroom, half-concerned and half-entertained by Atsumu’s sudden change in cleanliness. Maybe he can manipulate Atsumu into cleaning their room without his help.
“Why are you suddenly so invested in this?” Osamu asks, because he, much like his brother, has never been able to leave anything alone. “It really doesn’t matter if the television is dusted. We can still watch it if the top has a few cobwebs.”
Atsumu slams the closet door shut. “It has cobwebs on it?”
Osamu smirks. “Go see for yourself.”
“Fuck you,” Atsumu mutters. “I will.”
He grips a duster in his left hand as if it’s a weapon, and Osamu is briefly afraid that Atsumu is going to hit him with it. But Atsumu just marches past him, shoving into his shoulder with enough force that it was definitely on purpose, and makes his way to the living room.
Osamu follows him, his steps slower and lazier. Now he’s just getting entertained by this. Atsumu has snapped, but at least Osamu will get a clean television out of it. He knows that neither he nor his mother care about dust— cleaning day is just for organization, really— but if Atsumu cares, Osamu isn’t going to stop him. It’s just that it’s weird.
“It doesn’t have cobwebs,” Atsumu says loudly, not looking behind him as Osamu walks into the room.
Osamu shrugs. “Guess not. Why does it matter?”
“Because I have to prioritize the worst things over things like non-existent cobwebs,” Atsumu explains, almost viciously. “I need to clean everything and there’s no time.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Cleaning!” Atsumu snaps.
It’s like he’s a rabid dog biting at Osamu, clearly getting more and more defensive with every question that Osamu asks. There’s no getting any information out of him like this, Osamu figures, not while he’s brandishing his duster like a sword and glaring at the television like a dragon he has to kill. Osamu rolls his eyes.
Bored of watching Atsumu dust, he wanders off into the second bathroom, where his mother is tidying up the medicine cabinet. Even she’s putting less effort into cleaning than Atsumu is— Osamu can tell that she hasn’t scrubbed the toilet down as Atsumu appeared to have done— and she’s the one who forces them to organize the house every other Thursday.
“Is Atsumu being weird?” Osamu asks, peeking his head into the bathroom.
She turns around, frowning. A strand of hair has fallen away from her bun and into his nose. She blows it back with a puff of air. “He seemed fine to me.”
“He’s cleaning,” Osamu says. Sometimes he wonders if their mother knows them at all. “That’s weird.”
“I did tell him to.” She gives him a pointed look. “We’re all supposed to be cleaning.”
Osamu glances behind him, towards where he can hear Atsumu stomping around the living room, probably double checking every corner that Osamu has vacuumed. “I’m taking a break. And Atsumu is apparently redoing everything I just did anyway.”
She gives him another look, one that clearly says, why are you making your brother do your chores?
“He wanted to!” Osamu protests. “That’s what’s weird!”
“Go clean the kitchen,” she tells him, turning back to the medicine cabinet.
Osamu doesn’t move. “Atsumu is being weird, though. It’s annoying. I don’t want to be around him.”
She makes a humming noise, not quite paying attention to him. Osamu watches her take out a bottle of Ibuprofen, frowning as she reads the label, and he sighs. She’s never been good at keeping her attention on one thing at a time.
“These are all expired,” she mutters. She tosses the bottle into the trash, where Osamu can see at least three other pill bottles cluttered amongst the other trash she had found. “It’s a good thing that he’s cleaning. I’m not going to question it. He might stop if I do.”
“Sure,” Osamu says, “but it’s weird. He’s being weird.”
She turns to smirk at him, looking all too much like Atsumu for Osamu to smile back. “It’s nice that you’re concerned for him.”
“Whatever,” he grumbles.
He’s not going to admit to being concerned. He’s just weirded out. Maybe Atsumu has been kidnapped and replaced by an alien. Or maybe he’s actually lost his mind. He turns to leave the bathroom, ready to get started on the kitchen, which he wanted to get done himself anyways, so no one— Atsumu— messes up his careful organization of pots and pans and spices, when his mother hums again.
It’s the hum of someone who knows something that he doesn’t, and it makes Osamu stop. She says, casually, “Maybe it’s because of that boy that’s coming over tomorrow.”
Osamu spins around. He stares at his mom. “What boy?”
She has her back to him again, looking at the medicine cabinet. She has Neosporin in her hand, this time, and she studies the label for a moment before tossing it into the trash. “The one he met at that training camp. He’s coming over tomorrow. Maybe Atsumu is trying to impress him.”
“What?” Osamu asks, the information not quite processing. “Who?”
She shrugs. “It’s just a guess. He’s the one we met when we went to pick Atsumu up from the train station, remember? I’m forgetting his name. He had black hair? He was wearing a mask? Tall?”
“All volleyball players are tall,” Osamu says. It’s not entirely true, but it’s true enough. “And I didn’t go with you to pick him up then. Who is he?”
She looks at him over her shoulder, a small smile on his face. “No idea. Atsumu just asked if he could come over this weekend, and I just said yes. It’s good that your brother is making friends, and I’m sure he’s perfectly sweet.”
“No one who likes Atsumu is sweet,” Osamu mutters. “Is he staying here?”
She nods. “In the guest room. I told Atsumu to get it ready today.”
“How long is he staying?”
“Friday and Saturday,” she tells him. “Apparently he has early morning training on Monday mornings, so he’s leaving Sunday afternoon. You volleyball players have ridiculous schedules, you know. Always busy.”
Osamu would have liked to know that there would be a stranger in their house for the weekend prior to literally the day before, but it’s not like anyone ever tells him things. They just kind of happen. His mother will have a friend over sometimes, Atsumu and Osamu only finding out when they come home from school and that friend is already there. Or Atsumu will invite a boy from training camp to stay the weekend, and Osamu will only find out because Atsumu is cleaning.
Osamu looks at his mother, meeting her gaze, and, with probably too much determination in his voice, says, “I think he’s lost it.”
“He hasn’t lost it,” she says, turning around again. “You’re being dramatic, Osamu. Just go clean the kitchen.”
Osamu is pretty sure that he’s not being dramatic, but he turns to walk away anyway. Instead of going to the kitchen, though, he makes his way to the guest bedroom. It hasn’t been used since their grandmother last visited the year before to celebrate the New Year. It’s definitely covered in dust and the sheets probably haven’t been changed since then. If he’s being honest, it’s more of a storage room than a bedroom.
When he gets there, Atsumu has already started making his way through cleaning it. He’s come through like a hurricane, but rather than destroying the room as he usually might, he’s started taking a sponge to every hard surface. Even besides the shining, still partially wet surfaces, Atsumu has pulled all of the furniture to the center of the room, making it impossible to walk into. He’s cleaning the cobwebs behind where the bureau had been, his tongue half sticking out of his mouth in concentration.
“Is this because your friend is coming?” Osamu says loudly, calling out from the doorway to where Atsumu is, across the room. “Are you ashamed of the way our house looks? You gonna repaint the walls next?”
Atsumu looks back at him like a deer caught in headlights. “‘M not ashamed.”
“Don’t lie,” Osamu scoffs. Atsumu is biting the inside of his cheek, the way he always does when he gets nervous. “You know, if your friend doesn’t have a problem with you, he’s not gonna have a problem with the house of all things.”
Atsumu licks his lips, looking down at his hands. They’re red from the scrubbing. Osamu swallows— yeah, his brother has finally snapped, and it’s because he’s trying to impress a boy. Dumbass.
“You’re going overboard,” Osamu continues. “If he’s judging our family, he’s probably not a good friend anyway. I don’t want anyone like that around Ma.”
“It’s not that he’s judging,” Atsumu mutters. Then, “Okay, he’s probably judging.”
Osamu wrinkles his nose. He’s happy that Atsumu is making friends— that’s never been something Atsumu was very good at— but he’s not liking the sound of this one in particular. He’s making them clean. “Then he’s a shitty friend.”
“I don’t need your approval,” Atsumu says dryly. “You just don’t know him.”
“Do you?” Osamu asks, raising his eyebrows. “If you met him at the training camp, you’ve known him for, like, a month.”
Atsumu glares at him. “We’ve been texting. And we’ve met up a few times. Just because this is the first time you’re meeting him doesn’t mean I don’t know him. I have a life outside of you, you know.”
“No, you don’t,” Osamu says, mostly as a reflex rather than out of truth. They’re on the same volleyball team, and they share mostly all the same friends, but they do have lives outside of each other. Contrary to popular belief, they’re not actually interchangeable.
“I do,” Atsumu says, glaring.
“Whatever,” Osamu mutters. Then, louder, “Does this mean you’ll clean our bedroom for me?”
Atsumu’s eyes widen. “Fuck, the bedroom.”
Osamu sighs. “I’ll do my half after I finish with the kitchen.”
“You won’t do it right,” Atsumu tells him, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck, this is more work than I thought it would be.”
“You don’t have to do this.” Osamu looks around the room at all of the misplaced furniture and the perfectly made bed and the distinct lack of cobwebs in the corner and the windows that you can practically see sparkle. Atsumu has snapped, but at least the guest room looks nice for this boy. Not that Osamu cares. It’s not his friend. “If he knows you at all, he probably already knows you’re a slob.”
“I’m not a slob,” Atsumu says defensively.
Osamu scoffs. “Your clothes are literally covering the entire floor of the bedroom.”
“Fuck,” Atsumu whispers. “He’s gonna hate it here.”
“So you are ashamed, huh?” Osamu says. It’s not really a question. His cheeks burn, even though he hasn’t met this mysterious friend who is going to be judging their house. “Look, Tsumu, get over yourself, it’s our house and—”
Atsumu glares at him, and for the first time, that glare shuts him up. Osamu stares, mouth open to insult him, and then he closes it. Atsumu sighs, then, his glare slipping away as his shoulders slump. “I’m not ashamed of us. He just likes things clean, and I want him to be comfortable. That’s not shame, that’s good friendship. Or something.”
“How the fuck does he get along with you if he likes things clean?”
“I have no idea,” Atsumu admits, sounding way too insecure for Osamu’s comfort. Atsumu can be annoying and egotistical, but when he finds something to be insecure about, he doesn’t know how to let it go. Then, more confidently, Atsumu says, “But I’m trying to keep him around, so the house has to be clean.”
Osamu sighs again. Who would have thought that Atsumu’s inevitable breakdown— because it was inevitable, really— would result in so much sighing? He studies Atsumu for another minute, eyes running over the way that Atsumu’s shoulders have dropped, the way that he’s staring at the floor he had been scrubbing, like it’s personally offended him.
Then it occurs to him: “Is he the reason you were so worried about me making fun of OCD?”
Atsumu looks up. The deer caught in headlights look is kind of growing on Osamu; he wants to see this look more often. It’s satisfying, in a way. But then Atsumu’s expression drops and Osamu feels just a little guilty for enjoying his discomfort.
“Don’t tell him I told you,” Atsumu says quietly. “But yeah. OCD and mysophobia, I think he called it. He’s… not good with germs and dust and stuff. And this house is full of them.”
“Ah,” Osamu says. He’s not sure what else to say. A lot of things are making sense now. He licks his lips, watching the way Atsumu looks so defeated by the cobwebs in the corners of the guest room. “I’m gonna go get started on the kitchen.”
Atsumu swallows, looking up at him. “Thanks, Samu.”
“This is for your friend’s sake,” Osamu says dryly, “not you.”
“He has a name, you know,” Atsumu says. He’s smirking, and yeah, Atsumu is going to hold this stupid act of affection over him forever. “Kiyoomi Sakusa.”
Osamu rolls his eyes. “Tell me all about your embarrassing crush after you’ve finished scrubbing.”
Atsumu freezes. “It’s not a crush.”
“You sure about that, Tsumu? Because you’re acting like…” Osamu trails off, watching Atsumu’s face rotate through a series of emotions: panic, nervousness, confidence, fear, anticipation, steadiness.
Oh, Osamu thinks, I’ve hit a nerve.
Atsumu and Osamu can argue and insult each other and push and shove and punch each other, but there are boundaries that they don’t break. They each know the other as well as they know themselves, and they know when to stop. They know which insults are not to be used. They know which lines are not to be crossed.
This, Osamu realizes, is a new line. He hasn’t ever really considered Atsumu being gay, but it makes sense, now that he thinks about it. It makes sense, too, that Atsumu wouldn’t want to be teased like this, not if it means something.
Atsumu looks him in the eye and takes a shallow breath. “Would it be okay? If it was a crush?”
Osamu gapes at him for a moment. Then, “Yes, you fucking— yeah, of course it would be okay, dumbass. You think I would judge you for that? The fuck do you think I am?”
“I dunno,” Atsumu says, exhaling. He closes his eyes for a moment, just breathing.
Osamu watches him for a moment— he thinks, briefly, about trying to navigate through the furniture to hug him; that’s what people do when their siblings come out, right?
Then Atsumu opens his eyes and grins. Osamu decides, no— a hug isn’t who the two of them are. Osamu will just stick to loving him in every word but those. He’ll support Atsumu in the way that the two of them do: with actions more than words, with subtle words more than hugs, with making up after arguments without explicit apologies.
“You can, you know,” Osamu says awkwardly. “Tell me about him, sometime.”
“I will,” Atsumu says, still grinning. “You won’t be able to get me to shut up.”
Osamu snorts. “Great.” Then, louder, “I’m gonna go clean the kitchen. And I’ll make sure to scrub the counters.”
Atsumu nods, and just as Osamu turns to leave the guest room and start cleaning, Atsumu calls out, “Samu— thank you.”
Osamu shrugs, and he knows that Atsumu understands. They’ve never needed spoken words to love each other. He makes his way to the kitchen, where he’ll scrub the counters until his hands hurt; where he’ll scrape the burnt bread out of the toaster oven; where he’ll clean out the pantry to make room for whatever foods he’ll be buying for Kiyoomi Sakusa to eat while he’s here; where he’ll replace the water filter in the refrigerator; and where he’ll make sure that Atsumu gets his boy.
Atsumu will make fun of him for it later, and when he does, Osamu won’t know what the fuck Kiyoomi Sakusa sees in Atsumu, but at least Atsumu will be happy. Maybe his brother hasn’t snapped. He just has a crush. Though, Osamu thinks, maybe that’s the same thing.
Osamu goes to the kitchen, thinking about Atsumu and Kiyoomi Sakusa and all of the things in between, and he starts cleaning.