#samu

the gym smells like varnish, sweat, and destiny wearing a cheap wig.

inarizaki after practice is a zoo that learned how to jump serve. shoes squeal. someone yells about lost tape. the echo turns everything into a rumor. to you, the whole place is grayscale soup, shadows stacking on shadows, sound doing most of the heavy lifting. people forget colorblindness doesn’t mean blurry. it just means the world decided to be dramatic and took away the highlighters.

you’re clutching your phone like it owes you money.

today is the day. the big day. the day you tell yourself in the mirror, out loud, that you’re not going to die from a confession. your heart, meanwhile, is beating like it’s trying to qualify for nationals without you.

osamu miya is the problem. the solution. the entire syllabus.

you’ve rehearsed. you’ve practiced in the shower. you’ve practiced while walking. you’ve practiced while eating rice and nearly choked because your brain went, what if he laughs. what if he says thanks like a customer. what if he thinks you’re joking. what if—

no. no spiraling. that’s why you’re here. atsumu will help. atsumu always has opinions, even when nobody asked. especially then.

you spot him across the court. same height, same build, same posture that says twin. hair? irrelevant. your eyes offer you two identical silhouettes and say good luck.

you jog over, heart in your throat, brain switching to emergency mode.

“atsumu,” you say, too loud, too urgent, grabbing his sleeve because if you don’t anchor yourself you might float into the ceiling. “i need help. like. now-help.”

the twin looks down at your hand, then your face. there’s a pause. a suspicious pause.

you barrel on before the universe can stop you.

“i need help confessing to osamu.”

silence drops like someone unplugged the gym.

somewhere, a volleyball thumps once and rolls away, abandoned.

the twin in front of you blinks.

once.

twice.

you don’t notice. you’re already pacing in a tight circle, words spilling like you shook a vending machine too hard. “i mean i know it’s dumb, and i know i shouldn’t ask you because you’re his brother and that’s probably illegal in some countries, but i can’t do this alone. my chest feels like there’s a marching band in it. and he’s so— he’s just— he looks at me like i’m something he already decided on, and that’s terrifying, and i keep thinking i should say something casual but then my mouth wants to say something unhinged like please marry me or please never leave, and those are not first-confession words, right?”

you finally stop and look up.

the twin’s mouth is doing something strange. not smiling. not frowning. something feral-adjacent. like a fox just realized the henhouse door is open.

“ya want advice,” he says slowly, voice softer than you expected, “on how to confess. to osamu.”

“yes,” you say, nodding hard. “please. you’re my last hope. don’t tell him i’m asking you this. i will simply pass away.”

another pause.

he lifts your hand off his sleeve very gently. like it matters. like it’s fragile. he doesn’t let go immediately. just adjusts your grip so your fingers are curled around his wrist instead, thumb brushing bone.

“ya sure about this,” he asks.

“yes.”

“real sure.”

“yes!”

“ya can’t tell twins apart today?”

you squint. “i never can. not unless you stand next to each other. you know this.”

he exhales. a laugh tries to escape and gets swallowed whole.

“alright,” he says. “i’ll help.”

relief floods you so hard your knees wobble. you squeeze his wrist without thinking. “thank you. thank you. okay. okay. what do i say. do i compliment him first? is that weird? i like his hands. is it creepy to say i like his hands. they’re just— they look like they know what they’re doing.”

his grip tightens.

“hands’re good,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges. “means ya noticed.”

“i notice everything,” you say miserably. “that’s the problem.”

he tilts his head, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved but wants to admire anyway.

“tell him the truth,” he says. “simple. honest. don’t dress it up too much. he ain’t the type that needs fireworks.”

“but i feel like fireworks,” you whisper.

something dark and pleased flickers across his expression.

“then say that,” he murmurs. “say bein’ around him makes things loud in your chest. say ya chose him. people like bein’ chosen.”

you nod, absorbing it like gospel. “okay. okay. and then what if he says he doesn’t feel the same.”

the gym feels colder.

he steps closer. your toes nearly touch. he smells like soap and sweat and something warm and grounding. food, maybe. comfort.

“he won’t,” he says, too sure.

you laugh weakly. “you don’t know that.”

he leans down so his forehead almost touches yours.

“i do,” he says. “trust me.”

your heart stutters. you swallow.

“okay,” you breathe. “okay. i’m gonna do it. i’ll go find him.”

he doesn’t move.

you look up. “uh. are you gonna—”

“no need,” he says. “he’s right here.”

the words take a second to land. they slide around your brain like marbles.

then click.

your stomach drops through the floor.

slowly, painfully, you look at his face again. really look. the curve of his mouth. the steadiness in his eyes. the way he’s holding you like he already knows where you fit.

“wait,” you say. “wait. you’re—”

“osamu,” he finishes for you, smiling now. “hey.”

the gym comes back in a rush. sound crashes in. blood roars in your ears.

you make a strangled noise that might be a scream trying to become a word.

“i— i thought you were— i’m so sorry— i didn’t—”

he chuckles, low and fond, and cups your cheek before you can combust. his thumb brushes under your eye, grounding, steady.

“it’s alright,” he says. “kinda perfect, actually.”

“i just asked you how to confess to yourself,” you whisper, mortified.

“ya did.”

“that’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“nah,” he says. “most romantic.”

you stare at him.

he waits. patient. like he’s been waiting a long time.

your heart decides to be brave without consulting you.

“okay,” you say, voice shaking but clear. “fine. i’ll continue.”

you take a breath so deep it feels like it scrapes your ribs.

“i like you,” you say. “i like you a lot. being around you feels like my life gets turned up. like everything’s louder and better and scarier. i think about you when i shouldn’t. i choose you even when i don’t mean to. and i’m scared, but i don’t want to be quiet about it anymore.”

the gym is silent again.

osamu’s face goes very still.

then his hands slide to your waist, firm, certain, like there was never another option.

“good,” he says softly. “i was hopin’ ya’d say that.”

you blink. “you were?”

“been hopin’,” he admits. “for a while.”

he leans in, forehead resting against yours, breath warm. “i was already yours. ya just caught up.”

your laugh comes out wet and shaky. “that’s not fair.”

“never said i played fair,” he murmurs.

he kisses you then. slow. careful. like he’s savoring something he cooked himself. the world narrows to the press of his mouth, the way his thumb traces your jaw, the way his other hand anchors you like you might drift away if he lets go.

when he pulls back, your legs feel like suggestions.

“so,” he says, eyes bright. “we’re confessin’, yeah?”

you nod, dazed. “yeah.”

“good.” he brushes his nose against yours. “i’m keepin’ ya.”

there’s something in his tone. something possessive and warm, like a blanket that also locks the door.

you should be nervous.

you just feel safe.

later, when the gym empties and the lights dim, osamu walks you out, fingers laced with yours like it’s obvious. like it’s always been this way. at the door, atsumu squints at you, then at his brother, then groans.

“seriously,” atsumu says. “i leave for five minutes.”

osamu grins and pulls you closer.

“she got the better twin,” he says.

you laugh, leaning into him, grayscale world suddenly feeling very full.

and somewhere deep in his chest, something settles, satisfied, already planning a future where you never have to tell twins apart again because you’ll always know where you belong.

n: now, do not mind that things sound a lil dark, idk what came over me to add some possessive tones in there.

samu’s taglist 1/2

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @briestrom94 @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @asyaacia @rabbitcola @s1lly-bon @miilsa @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @pelicanpizza @han0vyc @george-russell-defender @meikstv @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @eri0-0 @fiannee @methiart @wensurr @alyriaschoenheit @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita @griffincorn @poeticsorcery @snowstormsandavalanches @starzlytoetsie @ceramic-raven @nekoffie @littlemissfix-itfic

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !