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Osamu had always been bad at handling other people’s breakdowns. He never knew what to say or how to help. Half of the time, he didn’t see what was so upsetting in the first place.
But this time it was Atsumu.
It was Atsumu’s dead phone sending Osamu to voicemail and sending his heart tripping with worry. It was Atsumu answering the door five minutes late with indigo bags under his eyes and week-old grease splitting his hair.
It was Atsumu’s cried-out eyes and scratchy voice when he denied losing weight even as his shirt hung limp over his protruding collar bones.
And Osamu was still useless.
At least that was how he felt when Atsumu said he didn’t need help, that there was nothing Osamu could possibly do to make Hinata’s death any more bearable.
Osamu let himself in with the key he’d demanded after the third time he’d tried knocking had been met with a stubborn refusal to open the door. Osamu knew Atsumu had probably heard the knocks and buried his head under a pillow. He didn’t blame him--he’d yelled at his brother last time, after all.
Osamu had been right in what he’d said, but the delivery could have used some improvement. He knew.
He fisted his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. At least it looked like Atsumu was eating again, judging by the boxes on boxes of takeout littering the counter.
The whole place stank like body odor and moldy food. The living room window shades were drawn, leaving the whole place looking like a damp basement instead of the normally-bright place Osamu was used to.
Somewhere in his room, Atsumu was probably pretending to be dead. Osamu wished he were the type of person who could slip in with easy comforts and assurances, but he wasn’t. His comfort ran more along the lines of, “Everyone dies eventually, and they probably just cease existing, so the only one sad is you,” but he’d learned that didn’t help anyone, usually. It probably wouldn’t even help Osamu.
Osamu shook his head like he could literally wipe the thoughts from his head.
Atsumu’s door stayed shut as Osamu got to work. Atsumu didn’t have a vacuum, Osamu realized, which made him side-eye the floor. But he had trash bags and disinfectant spray, so Osamu tackled one surface at a time.
The coffee table had a series of dark rings on the glass, and Osamu sucked his teeth and was grateful Atsumu hadn’t bought a wood one. There were dishes piled on it, most with scraps of food that had long turned slimy. Osamu put on gloves and didn’t have to try too hard to avoid focusing on the chip in the corner that he knew Hinata had made with an excited plate-drop.
The kitchen island was arguably worse, with plates and boxes alternating in stacks. Osamu had to stop halfway through to take out the garbage and replace the bag. Between two plates, he found a trail of tiny ants that led into the sink and down the drain. Osamu remembered a late night visit from Atsumu, face flushed with fury, still mad about a fight he’d had with Hinata about whether or not Atsumu was allowed to kill spiders in the apartment.
A week later he’d learned that Hinata--and the spiders--had won the argument, to Atsumu’s frustration.
Osamu swallowed thickly and collected the teeny ants on a sponge. He poured some disinfectant straight down the disposal, hoping it would kill the colony down there. It probably wouldn’t. Tiny ants were nigh-indestructible. It was easy to kill one; harder to take them out completely.
The last counter, by the fridge, wasn’t so bad. It had a collection of plastic takeout bags that Osamu bundled up and stored under the sink.
There, lonely on the counter, was a broken mug, and Osamu realized why Atsumu seemed to have avoided the entire counter. It had been a birthday present; a picture of Hinata and Atsumu grinning so wide their cheeks could split wrapped around the ceramic. They were giving each other bunny ears.
Osamu remembered the night the picture was taken. Bokuto had been the one behind the camera, and had bullied Akaashi into an identical picture moments later. Osamu was surprised for a moment that Atsumu had kept it through the breakup. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. He, of all people, should know just how big Atsumu’s heart actually was under all those defenses.
The handle was broken off, but the cup was intact. Peering inside, Osamu saw coffee stains but no coffee. He rinsed the cup. He dried it. His thumb swept away a bead of water to uncover Hinata’s glowing smile.
He put the cup away. He tossed the handle.
Osamu sprayed some air freshener, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t do much to ease the smell. It would take time, and fresh air. He opened the windows.
It helped that he’d cleaned all the mold that had been building bridges between dirty plates.
Osamu stepped back. The apartment was clean now, as clean as he could get it, and empty.
Atsumu’s door stayed closed. Osamu left.
When Osamu got home, Suna opened the door before he knocked. His impassive gaze was soft, even if only Osamu would have been able to tell.
“How is he?” Suna asked. His voice was soft, like he knew Osamu felt too much like Atsumu’s mug on the counter; one more push away from shattering.
“Dunno.”
Suna chewed his lip. Osamu was too tired to stop him, even though his bottom lip was too chapped now for him to chew it without bleeding.
“Shit, still?”
Osamu nodded. Suna frowned and tugged him into the apartment. He pushed him gently across the carpet to the bedroom, pulled his shirt off, and tipped him into the bed. Osamu went, and somewhere in the back of his head he wished Suna would just pilot him around until Atsumu was back to his normal self and Osamu could breathe again.
Once they were lying down, Osamu’s breath finally hitched. He breathed out slowly. Hinata was dead, everyone dies, there was nothing to be done about it. His breath caught again.
Suna was warm against him. Osamu rolled closer, ducking so his ear was pressed to Suna’s chest where his heart beat strongly inside his ribs. Again, again. Again. It could stop. Everyone’s would, eventually.
Suna’s arm came slow around him, giving him time to duck out from under it. Osamu didn’t. He liked the barrier Suna’s arm made between him and the rest of the world, however temporary.
Osamu thought of Atsumu the last time he’d seen him. The gauntness, the pallor, the grown-out roots. He remembered the venom in his voice when he fought back, after Osamu told him it was time to start getting over it. He hadn’t meant it like that. He hadn’t. He remembered the tears clinging to his brother’s cheeks, the ones that threatened to spill from his own as well.
“He,” Osamu started, already beginning to choke, “he said he’d be the happier one.” His voice broke on the last word, face finally crumpling with all the weight of the last few weeks. Suna didn’t say anything, but he pulled Osamu tighter in his arms and held him, as though he could keep the pieces together long enough for Osamu to find the glue that could somehow make the broken bits whole again.
“He was supposed to be the happier one,” he cried, mouth muffled against Suna’s heart. The next part was a whisper, “Not me.”