Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thick, dark chunks of wet hair fell free to the ground as Osamu snipped. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, exactly. But he’d seen the ladies at the hair cutting place do this a zillion times, so how hard could it be?

His brother — patient for once in their short, chaotic lives — hummed along to the distant sound of music in the kitchen. Osamu would have to get used to that word — aniki thick in his throat as his brother’s eyes sparkled.

“I don’t think this is right.” Osamu mumbled. His fingers were getting sore, hands starting to get a little too big for safety scissors. Plus, they were so dull it took him several snips before a chunk fell away. “It’s weird.”

“It’s prob’ly better than I woulda done.” His brother said.

“True, but it ain’t gonna look good.” Osamu cringed as a slightly too large bit of hair came off. “Ya shoulda just told mom.”

“No!” His brother said a little too loud and forceful, earning them a shouted warning from downstairs not to fight. “Ya wouldn’t understand.”

Osamu sighed.

Of course he doesn’t. But he wants to.

“She’s gonna find out either way, aho.” Osamu brushed some dried hair off his brother’s shoulder. “What are ya gonna tell her when dinner’s ready?”

The silence in their shared bedroom was deafening. His brother fidgeted, fingernails picking at the side seam of his jeans.

"Ya didn't think that far ahead?"

"...I didn't think that far ahead." 

Suddenly, his head whipped around to face Osamu — a mischievous grin plastered on his lips. Osamu frantically fumbled with the scissors to avoid stabbing his brother in the cheek.

"Careful, aho. I coulda taken yer eye out."

"I'll just blame it on you! Sayin' ya wanted to try cuttin' hair." He nodded, eyes brightening from his genius idea. "Mom don't gotta find out yet."

Osamu bonked him on the head with his fist, earning a sharp ow for his trouble. "Yer not throwin' me under the bus, shit for brains. You owe me for cuttin' yer hair."

"Fine." His brother grumbled.

"How do ya want yer bangs?" Osamu grabbed a lock between his fingers, smoothing it out as he pulled. His brother always had thick, straight bangs their mother was eternally jealous of. 

"Same as yers." His brother nodded. "But maybe flip 'em so they know I'm…"

A wrinkle formed between his brother's eyebrows, a frown on his lips. Osamu stayed quiet as he snipped away, patiently waiting for his brother to figure out what was bothering him.

"Osamu. What do I do?"

Osamu sighed. "About what?"

He nibbled at his lower lip, hands fidgeting once more. "My name. I don't wanna be…"

"Then change it." Osamu continued cutting, feeling a brief flash of pride in how the bangs looked. 

"But… Granny picked our names." 

"Since when have you cared?" 

"I dunno." He glowered up at Osamu, the expression softened by a faint wet shine. "Ya have no idea how I feel… not at all. What… what if I tell them and they… d... don't—"

Osamu set the scissors on his desk and plopped down in his chair. Fat tears welled in the corners of his brother's eyes, tracking down his cheeks as he sobbed. He sat there watching, patient and calm.

"Look atcha." Osamu sighed as his brother wiped a long trail of snot on his sleeve, the crying finally coming to an end. "What kinda big brother are ya? Cryin' in front of yer little bro."

His brother sniffled before grinning, puffy eyes crinkling. "Yer a jerk, Osamu."

"Sure am." Osamu brushed a tear away with his thumb. "Look, it don't matter what anyone else thinks about ya. I got yer back."

"...Thanks."

"Now." Osamu clapped his hands on his knees. "Ya need a name. I asked Granny once 'n' she said she liked the characters in our names. That's why she picked 'em."

"So… yer sayin'..."

"Mhm." Osamu nodded. "We just gotta pick a name with the same kanji. Easy. Happy Granny."

At least, Osamu hoped. It'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't scared too. But he had to be strong for his brother.

"What're my options?" His face had brightened up despite his reddened eyes.

"Do I look like some kinda name expert?" Osamu kicked his brother in the shin.

"Ya said it was easy!" A fist slammed into Osamu's thigh. Run of the mill behavior. "I figured ya had some ideas already."

"Shut up." Osamu grumbled. "Well, what about Yuki?"

"Too close!" He scrunched his nose. "And too girly!"

"Iku?"

"No."

"Tasuku."

"Ehhhhhh…" He pondered it for a long moment before, "No."

"Susumu."

"No! Osamu yer terrible at this." He grumbled. He had a point, but Osamu was trying his best. Nothing in his incredibly short life had prepared him for having to rechristen his twin with a brand new name.

"I don't see ya thinkin' of any ideas." Osamu noticed a single long strand of hair he'd somehow missed. His brother sat patiently as he grabbed the scissors from the desk and snipped it away. "What about Atsumu?"

"Atsumu." His brother's closed lips moved around like he was swishing mouthwash. "Aa. Tsu. Mu. Atsumu.” He blinked several times before, "Miya Atsumu. Atsumu and Osamu. Atsumu."

Osamu watched his brother chatter away like a broken record. Testing the syllables and sounds. Slipping the name into hypothetical sentences. Adding honorifics and cracking a smile every time he spoke. Atsumu-kun, Atsumu-san, Atsumu-senpai, Atsumu-sama. Who in their right mind would call his brother anything-sama was beyond Osamu.

"Atsumu." He rose to his feet, seemingly ready to stomp downstairs and inform their unsuspecting parents at that very moment. "My name is Atsumu."

"That's great." Osamu spoke, voice dry and bored. He was happy for his brother — for Atsumu — sure. But now that this problem was sorted, his worry shifted to their parents. "What are ya gonna tell Mom?"

"I guess..." The right side of Atsumu's cheek hollowed as he bit at the flesh with his molars, a bad habit of his. Of theirs. "The truth?"

"We gotta expect the worst." Osamu's lips flattened into a grimace.

"You've got my back?" Atsumu's voice was small but hopeful.

"Always."

They slipped downstairs, two brothers for the very first time. Fighting together in the hardest travail of their short lives. Worse than all their previous hardships — failed math quizzes, skinned knees, missed new episodes of Naruto — combined.

Atsumu cried to their mother's gentle soft coo of oh, sweetie, what happened? — balling his tiny, little fists as he wailed. All pretenses of a brave and strong confession left upstairs in their shared bedroom.

Their mother cried. Which made Atsumu cry harder. Which made her cry harder still. A never-ending ouroboros of mom and son — combined to form a blubbering mess of boa constrictor hugs and snot and I love you so much.

Their father sat at the table, eyes focused on the paperback in his hands and lips mouthing Atsumu over and over again like an enchantment.

Osamu didn't cry.

Not even when his mother whacked him on the head with a rolled up napkin, scolding him for cutting his brother’s hair. Or as she flipped open the phone book to find a salon to fix the mess Osamu made, lamenting what on Earth she’d tell the hair lady.

Your brother, she had said. His hair.

Maybe Osamu cried.

A little bit.

Maybe.

Granny was never what one could call traditional. 

While many of their friends' grandmas were already old and grey, Granny Miya was still young and kicking. She'd had her sons — twins, too, as was the bloodline's curse — fresh out of high school. Married and then promptly divorced Grandpa Miya, bolted off to Japan, and passed their sons across the Pacific like footballs every six months.

She lived out in the countryside in a house she built herself — an eccentric mishmash of architectural styles and interior designs. For a while, neighbors complained about the house, but Granny Miya just responded by planting more trees around it.

These days she spent most of her days wiping the veranda floor with her buddies at mahjong, reading (and writing) trashy romance novels, and whipping up the best damn pork Osamu has ever tasted.

But some aspects of her culture were incredibly important to her, however.

Osamu remembered seeing her smile as he and Atsumu practiced their calligraphy. Her giggle as they messed up the characters and the firm grip of her hand on theirs as she guided their brush.

She'd taken it upon herself to give her sons strong, meaningful names — bearing the kanjis of gallant and brave. Told them to never let the American kids at the playground call them Isaac and Ian when they were Isamu and Isao.

Osamu obviously hadn't been there the day his parents came to her asking for name ideas, but it was easy to imagine the look of pride on her face.

"Yer grandkids have somethin' they wanna say to ya." Their mom said, her sons' hands clasped tightly in her grip. Reassurance for her nerves as much as Atsumu and Osamu's.

It'd been half a year since that evening in the kitchen and even longer since they last saw their grandma. Their parents purposefully avoided visiting her — either declined altogether or left their sons with a sitter for the evening.

The idea was wanting Atsumu to feel comfortable being himself before complicating things with the extended family.

Osamu really missed his grandma. 

But part of being the younger brother meant not always getting what you wanted.

Granny Miya blinked as she took in the sight of her grandsons. Gaze flicking from one brother to the other as if she couldn't recognize them. Maybe she didn't.

Atsumu glanced his way, looking for some sort of sign or encouragement. Osamu nodded, watching his brother's face relax.

He visibly steeled himself, free hand clenched, as he spoke to their grandma. "Um, Granny. My name's Atsumu. I'm a boy."

Another blink, her face unreadable.

She set the bowl of marinade she'd been whisking down on the counter and glided over to the sink to wash her hands. Tears misted the corner of Atsumu's eyes the longer it took her to respond. Osamu wondered if he'd have to deal with his brother's tears for the rest of his life.

After wiping off her hands, she stepped out of the kitchen. He felt himself tremble, as if he was the one admitting his truth, not Atsumu.

She kneeled, outstretching her arms — a safe harbor. The tension in the room evaporated as Atsumu buried his face in the crook of her neck, arms squeezing him tight. Osamu nibbled at his lip, half in jealousy and half in anticipation.

"Y'know." She said as she finally pulled back. Both her hands rested on Atsumu's shoulders. "Twins run in the family. Yer dad has a twin. My little brothers are twins, as were three sets of my cousins."

There was a squeeze to his hand. He glanced up to see his mom, a gentle smile on her lips. He understood.

Everything’s okay.

"Ya know what was strange about all those twins?" Granny wiped at Atsumu's cheek. "All boys."

"Oh," was all Atsumu could muster.

"Fate is a funny thing sometimes, but in the end it takes ya right where ya need to be." Granny smiled. “Atsumu’s a fine name. A strong name.”

Atsumu nodded, expression a strange blend of teary, happy, and baffled. All snot and smiles and shocked eyes. He looked stupid, in Osamu's professional opinion.

"How'd ya think of it?"

"O-Osamu did!" Atsumu half-shouted, immediately snapping his mouth shut afterwards.

Granny met his eye — a distinct sparkle glittering in the amber — and smiled. "C'mere, baby."

With a wave of her hand, Osamu rushed forward. She scooped them both into a hug, squeezing them to oblivion.

"Yer a good brother, Osamu-chan." She pinched at his cheek, grinning wildly as he scrunched his nose. Her gaze shifted between them as she spoke. "Listen to me, both of ya. The world's a big scary place, but yer lucky to have yer brother. No matter how much ya fight, ya gotta take care of one another. Promise me that?"

"Yes, Granny." They spoke in unison, nodding.

"Good boys." She planted a kiss to each of their cheeks, the sensation lingering as she rose to her feet. "Now, who wants to help Granny make dinner?"

They both perked up — Osamu ready to chop vegetables and mix seasonings and Atsumu eager to sip a soda and steal bits of food — all tears and volatile emotions set aside.

Osamu was ten years old when he learned what hunger meant.

He and his brother found love in the form of fingers curling around a ball of synthetic leather. The squeak of brand-new shoes on the shiny court floor. The overexaggerated eye-rolls of an older boy.

It was break time between the endless, thrilling drills and practice games. A chance for them to recoup their energy and terrorize their new friend.

“Aran-kun, yer so cooooool.” Atsumu whined, dramatically flopping his back against the gym floor and splaying his arms wide. Osamu’s eyes followed the motion before lingering at the mismatched fabric poking out above his brother’s shoes. They were Osamu’s socks. 

“Me?” Aran laughed, twinges of incredulity clear. Osamu liked his laugh. It was warm and inviting, boyish and kind. Even when he was laughing at their overwhelming stupidity.

Which… to be fair… was most of the times he laughed.

“Yeah! Yer so tall and fast and strong and cool.” Atsumu’s eyes were closed, surely fantasizing over his ideal self. There was a hint of worry in his voice that Osamu was sure Aran couldn’t notice. Will I ever be that way, it said, deafeningly loud to Osamu.

“It’s just ‘cause I’m a year older than ya. I’m goin’ to middle school next year.” Aran fished an orange slice from the tupperware sitting between them. “Yer both gonna be tall and fast and strong someday.”

Osamu snorted. He wondered if Aran’s exclusion of cool was on purpose.

Atsumu jerked up from his starfish in an instant. His entire face wore an emotion unfamiliar to Osamu, a true rarity. He blinked as he took in Atsumu’s features — eyes that gleamed with a spark of flame, teeth in his smile sharp and feral. “Ya really think so?”

Ah. That’s why.

“Yeah, ‘course.” The affirmation meant more to Atsumu than Aran would ever possibly know. Osamu stole himself a smile before tucking an orange slice between his lips.

Atsumu gripped Aran’s shoulder, making the older boy nearly drop his orange peel. The glow in Atsumu’s brown eyes were intense. “Aran-kun. I’m gonna beat you someday.”

Aran laughed that kind boyish laugh as Atsumu’s determined shounen protagonist aura intensified. 

“Me and Samu.” Osamu’s head wobbled like a bobblehead as Atsumu pulled him into a tight headlock. He didn’t sign up for this nonsense. He just wanted to eat his oranges. “We’re gonna beat you. Together.”

Another kind laugh, paired with a patient smile. “Sure, whatever ya say.”

“All of Japan.” Atsumu released him, letting him slump back against the wall. “We’re gonna be the best damn volleyball players ever. Right, Samu?”

“Ya gotta learn how to actually hit the ball first, aho.” Osamu mumbled, plucking out large white seeds from his orange slice and flinging them into the tupperware. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Yer no better!” Atsumu hissed between his teeth before tackling him to the floor. Osamu’s eyes drifted to the slice he’d dropped. One alligator, two alligator, three alligator, four alligator, five alligator. Too late to eat it now. “Ya say ya wanna spike but ya missed all of the balls I set!”

His gaze flicked from his wasted food to his brother’s face. A sick grin curled across his lips as he spoke, “Maybe it’s ‘cause ya suck at setting. Ever consider that?”

Fists gripped at his collar, knocking the back of his skull against the gym floor as Atsumu shook. Between flashes of pain, Osamu stared up at his brother’s flaming eyes and the incandescent glow of the gym lights beyond. It burned.

“Trash recognizes trash.” Atsumu hissed.

For the first time in a long time — since before his brother became his brother — Osamu couldn’t recognize himself in Atsumu’s expression.

Who are you?

In a way, he could understand. Volleyball was fun. They were good at it, the best they knew in their grade. Maybe even better than anyone they knew, even Aran-kun. He’d love to keep playing with Atsumu as long as they could. Middle school was just around the corner, and he was eager to make first string.

But volleyball was just fun.

Osamu clenched his teeth as his brother continued to spout obscenities. Enough of this. He wrapped his arms around Atsumu’s upper body, pushed up with his feet, and gator rolled, flipping his brother over. 

“Samu!” He yelped as Osamu shoved a firm forearm to his chest and pinned him to the gym floor. He was stronger, unyielding as Atsumu thrashed and seethed and grabbed at his skin.

The glow in his brother’s irises wasn’t fun. 

Rather, hunger. Ravenous desire to prove himself. He had far different stakes in this.

That much was clear.

Osamu pulled his fist back, ready to finish the fight.

Atsumu stared back in defiance — teeth curved into a gruesome grin — daring him to do it.

A hand met Osamu’s shoulder, startling him. In one fell motion, their gazes shifted from each other to face Aran. “Can ya morons give it a rest? Shut up and eat yer damn orange slices.”

He laughed that kind, kind laugh.

Osamu dropped his fist, released his brother, and rolled away.

Atsumu broke into a wild laugh, the fire in his eyes simmering to a gentle warmth. “Aran-kun, yer still so cool.” His brows drew together and he let his voice dip as low as he could manage. “‘ Shut up and eat yer damn orange slices.’ Ugh! So cool~!”

Aran sighed — half exasperation, half humor — and leaned back on his palms. “Why do y’all gotta fight all the time? Everybody’s starin’.”

“Let them.” Osamu mumbled, picking at the dry skin along his nails. He was used to their eyes by now. Just being a twin was spectacle enough for most kids they encountered.

Atsumu passed an orange slice to Osamu before nibbling a bit of juicy flesh himself. “Mom said it’s our love language. I dunno what that means.”

Osamu nodded.

“Yer a couple of freaks.” Aran said, entirely no bite to his voice. Rather, fondness.

A final feral glint of golden fire shone in Atsumu’s eyes. “Sure are.”

Pride.

Hunger.

Hunger was no longer the feeling in his gut at 3 AM. No longer the twitch of his nose as he tried to identify a delicious smell’s origin. No longer the gentle motion of his granny’s hands as she taught him how to cut vegetables.

Hunger was Atsumu’s desperate fight to prove himself. To show to the world that he belongs in it. That he deserves to own it.

It was eat or be eaten.

And Osamu was painfully aware of one thing:

He might just get devoured in the process.

Osamu sighed into his palm as he leaned against it, pencil tapping against the sturdy wood of his cousins' table. What should have been a fun vacation had become a slog fest of studying and long boring days inside.

In the distance, he heard the shouts of his brother and his cousins playing soccer in the garden. 

A gentle hand brushed against his shoulder as a tall glass of lemonade was placed on the table. He glanced up to see his Aunt Malia. 

"You seem stressed." She spoke slowly, letting Osamu process her words. "Do you need help?"

Osamu frowned at his English workbook. It felt like a sick joke. You two should bring yer books along to study with yer cousins, his mom had innocently suggested. He and Atsumu were starting middle school once they returned to Japan and their parents were not so subtly pushing them to study harder.

But that was before Osamu slipped and fell while rock climbing along the shore, effectively ruining his spring vacation.

"No, I'm… just bored." Osamu responded, slumping back in the chair. His aunt gave him two sad pats on the shoulder. 

A sudden, terrible tingle ran along his skin — his new normal. Groaning, Osamu shoved his pencil beneath his cast and itched. This was humiliating.

"You don't have to do homework, you know." She sent him a gentle smile before sliding into another seat. "Our home is your home, Osamu. Do whatever you'd like."

He stared at the workbook for a long moment — its current page bearing an English lesson about the history of baseball. "I want to play outside."

Aunt Malia sighed, a look dripping with pity crossing her face. "Osamu…"

He was being unfairly difficult, he realized. His aunt and uncle had already done so much for him in the last week and a half since they arrived. They'd driven him to the hospital as he iron gripped his aunt's hand. Navigated insurance and paperwork and all the other things Osamu didn't understand. Helped translate the jumble of unrecognizable English medical jargon coming out of the staff's mouths. Even arranged with the hospital to find an orthopedic doctor back in Hyogo to take the cast off when the time came.

"I know." Osamu closed the workbook. "Sorry, Auntie."

"Why don't you watch some TV or maybe read?" Aunt Malia said. "Kai has some books in Japanese. They're probably a little childish but..."

He'd seen the books while playing a board game in his cousins' room. They were all titles he'd maturely classify as baby books — Goodnight Moon, Dr. Seuss, The Very Hungry Caterpillar — not exactly in his realm of interest.

"TV sounds great." Osamu said, nibbling at the inside of his cheek. He watched two movies and approximately four hours of Cartoon Network yesterday, but he didn’t need to remind her of that.

His aunt smiled, rising to her feet to grab the remote on the kitchen island. He never quite understood the American concept of having a television in the kitchen, but he wasn’t about to complain. The living room seemed so painfully far away.

Osamu’s attention flicked from the television to the kitchen and back again as his aunt washed rice. The motion of her hand swirling through the bowl was mesmerizing, a relaxed smile on her face. After a final rinse, she left it to soak on the counter before disappearing into her office. 

“What are you cooking, Auntie?” He asked as she returned an episode later.

“Lunch. Musubi.” Aunt Malia poured the rice into a strainer to let it drain. Oh? Osamu perked up, his stomach growling at the mention of rice balls. “Your uncle will be home soon.”

"Can I help?"

She looked conflicted.

"Please?"

With a sigh, she waved him over. He gripped at his crutches to push himself upwards and hobble into the kitchen. 

"Be careful, honey." She said, gesturing for him to tuck himself in the corner and lean against the countertop. She fished into a cabinet and passed him a couple of cans of spam. "Cut us some slices, enough for all six of us."

As she got to work cooking the rice, Osamu relished in the snap of metal on wood as he drove the knife through the meat. There was comfort to be found in the clasp of his fingers on the handle. 

"You're good at that." Aunt Malia chirped as she blended up something in a small bowl. Vinegar, oil, soy sauce, sesame seeds, honey. "Do you like to cook?"

He didn't have a solid answer. He always liked helping cut vegetables and fruits. But whether that was enjoyment in the art of cooking or in the art of being a preteen holding a sharp object, Osamu wasn't sure.

So, he settled for an easy answer instead: "Yes."

His aunt smiled as she switched on another burner on the stovetop. "I've never been very good at it. Your uncle is the real mastermind around here." She giggled. "Still, there's something so meaningful about it all."

"Meaningful?"

"Well… if you think about it, isn't food the meaning of life?"

Osamu blinked. He always liked food. Really liked food. But the meaning of life?

"I see that look." She laughed again as he passed her the cutting board full of sliced spam. "We need it to live, do we not?"

He nodded.

"But food is also about connections. Between everything." His aunt poured a spiral of oil into a skillet then picked up the spam with a pair of tongs, setting them down to fry. She fished some vegetables from the fridge — vibrant tomatoes, fresh cucumbers, large carrots — and passed them to Osamu. "Could you chop those up, hon? Your uncle likes salad with lunch."

He got to work as she continued cooking the meat. "I think it's easy for us to see it here in the islands. My ancestors were here first, but then came all sorts of folks from lots of places."

Osamu listened carefully as he chopped a tomato, sneaking slices into his mouth. Perfectly textured, perfectly sweet.

"When people move, they bring with them their culture and therefore, their food." A timer went off, signalling the rice was finished. She transferred the pot to another burner to let it continue to steam. "It's how we got musubi. Spam from the war and onigiri from Japanese immigrants. Ingredients from our past connected to form our future."

She flipped the spam with her tongs. They'd already taken on a sear and filled the kitchen with a sweet and savory scent. "But connections don't have to be as grand as cultural fusions forged over decades. They can be as simple as a meal shared between family. A tupperware of fresh cookies brought to a neighbor. Surprising your co-workers with a pizza day."

"Oh." Osamu mumbled into the cutting board. "I never thought of it that way."

Aunt Malia beamed, plucking the fried spam off the skillet and placing them on a plate. "Why don't you sit back down? I don't want you to get tired out."

"But—" He started to protest, but — as if on cue — a twinge of pain reverberated up his leg.

"We can form the musubi at the table." She said, gently pushing his shoulder and huffing out a soft laugh. "I know that's what you really wanted to help with."

He hobbled back to the table — anticipation buzzing in his fingertips — ready to hold the warm rice. Press it, mold it, shape it. 

Connecting the grains together. Connecting the rice, spam, nori. Connecting warmth to his stomach, his body, his soul. Connecting smiles to the faces of his family. Connecting pride to his aunt's heart. Connecting peace to a household, however momentary.

"Auntie?" She glanced up from her spot across the dinner table, a grain of rice sticking to her cheek. "Can I help you and Uncle Isao cook more?"

Connections.

She smiled.

"Of course."

Osamu laid the gauntlet at the age of thirteen. 

A simple declaration that made his brother roll his eyes and shrug his shoulders.

I'm gonna be a nice guy.

Atsumu, in his never ending race to seemingly unattainable perfection, unleashed a reign of terror throughout middle school. A vicious competitive streak and a haughty attitude paired with deeply furrowed brows and a fanged sneer. Scrub growled out between clenched teeth. 

He’d overheard people talking smack about his brother for years. Fleeting conversations between teammates, rivals, camp goers. In cafeterias, in bathroom stalls, in supply closets. 

A tiny tyrant. An arrogant jerk. A pompous asshole.

They’d stammer and wave their hands if he emerged from his hiding spot, trying to pass off their comments as a joke. It was always mildly amusing to Osamu. Perhaps they thought he’d snitch to Atsumu. Perhaps they thought Osamu would beat them up.

But, Osamu didn’t really disagree. Atsumu fucking sucked.

“Tsumu, the other guys don’t like you.” Osamu mumbled into his bento, swallowing the last of his tamagoyaki.

Atsumu paused his chewing for a moment to stare at Osamu impassively, as if he’d just informed him of the weather. “...So?” A couple of grains of rice tumbled from his mouth, disappearing beneath the lunch table.

“Ya don’t care?” Osamu set his chopsticks down and leaned on his palm. “Like… not at all?”

“No.” Atsumu took a long sip of his milk carton, scrunching his nose at the taste. “Why should I?”

“I dunno. Don’t ya want like… friends or somethin?”

Atsumu spat out a cackle. “With these losers? No way. ‘Sides, I got you.”

Osamu sighed into his palm. “I’m yer brother, not yer friend.”

“Yer both aho.” Atsumu kicked him hard under the table, the rubber bottom of his slides crashing into his shin. “We got Aran-kun, too.”

“I guess.” They never really hung out with Aran outside of training camps or the occasional run in at 7-Eleven. Plus, he was in high school now and didn’t go to camp anymore. “They say the nastiest shit about ya, though.”

“Aww.” Atsumu pouted. “Is widdle Chamoo upset that the buwwies are wude to his big bwuver?”

This time it was Osamu’s turn to utterly obliterate Atsumu’s shin with his foot. 

“Why should I care?” Atsumu grinned. “They don’t hate me for anything that actually matters. It’s all just ‘cause I’m better than them and I know it. If they wanna hate me for that, then whatever.”

It dawned on Osamu that throughout all the complaints he’d heard about Atsumu, it was always his personality or his skills. They didn’t make fun of him for being trans. Most of them probably didn’t even know. Atsumu passed easily — especially with his brash personality and a technically-fraternal-yet-seemingly-identical twin.

Osamu huffed out a tiny laugh before stuffing half an onigiri in his mouth. "I'm never gonna be like you. I'm gonna be a nice guy."

"Close yer damn mouth, pig." Atsumu's nose crinkled. "And please. You? Nice? Ya punched me in the nose last week ‘cause I won Monopoly."

"Ya cheated."

"Did not."

"Did too!" 

"Did not!"

"Atsumu."

"Okay." Atsumu took a massive bite of his own onigiri, corners of his cheeks quirked as he chewed. A flash of pride welled in Osamu's chest. He'd made their bentos last night. "But still, yer always so mean to me."

Atsumu might be a piece of shit. But at the end of that day that was his brother. His tiny tyrant. His arrogant jerk. His pompous asshole.

"Yeah, I wanna be nice to people. But!" Osamu took another big bite for emphasis, purposefully taking a long time to chew to piss Atsumu off. "You ain't a person. Yer a fuckin' nightmare."

"Yer just jealous ‘cause I'm better at volleyball. That's why I'm the setter."

"I don't wanna be a setter, dumbshit. If I did, I'd blow ya out of the water."

"Prove it." Atsumu's teeth clenched.

"I don't gotta prove shit to ya." Osamu grinned. "Yer a hypocrite with yer cool if they wanna hate me blah blah blah. Yer soooo mad ‘cause I think I'm better, yer just like those so called losers."

"Pfft. Coward."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

As their pointless bickering fizzled out into nothing but shin kicks and silent mouths stuffed with food, Osamu remembered a promise.

We gotta expect the worst.

Atsumu wanted to take over the world. He'd fashioned any weaknesses, any hesitations into blades stronger than steel. All in order to carve his way to the top of the food chain and don a crown made of his own blood, sweat, and tears.

He trained endlessly — accompanied by the smack of the ball on his fingertips, the wall, the ceiling above his bunk. It was more familiar to Osamu than the beat of his own heart.

You've got my back?

So be it.

He made his promise.

If Atsumu was the king, then Osamu would be his executioner. Help his brother forge his path, fight to the top, and cut down those who stood in their way.

Always.

And if need be, it'll be Osamu to swing the axe and sever that pride-ridden head.

No one else.

Contrary to popular belief, it hadn’t been Atsumu’s idea.

It started with a confession. 

They were first years at Inarizaki by then. The handsome and famed Miya twins, known a little too much by the spark of their eyes and the curve of their jaws, and not their skills in the sport that defined them.

It was the lingering moment between the ending of class and the beginning of lunch. Students milled around the room, chatting about where and what they wanted to eat. 

In no rush to get up just yet, Osamu scratched at his jaw, nose scrunching as he felt the telltale burst of a pimple beneath his fingernail. Gross.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up from his desk, aimlessly kicked at the sleeping Suna's chair, and left for the bathroom. Few things were as sacred to him as food, and he wasn't about to defile it with… whatever the hell is in the tiny white specks that appeared on his nose and jaw. He didn't know. Maybe they talked about it in health class. He never paid attention.

As he ambled down the hallway, Osamu heard a gentle voice, low and just a tiny bit scratchy.

"Miya-san?"

He paused, turning to face the source. A girl, almost princely with short dark hair, a pair of round glasses, and a charming smile on her lips. He recognized her vaguely, but couldn’t quite place why. Maybe she was in Atsumu’s class… or Kosaku’s? She looked smart, but in a low key kind of way, so probably Kosaku’s.

No, wait.

He imagined her without the glasses and came to the sudden realization. She was on the girls soccer team. A… midfielder… maybe? Osamu saw her during the sports festival last month and a few times outside the volleyball gym kicking around in the grass with a handful of her teammates.

Blinking his way out of his thoughts, he met her eye to see a single eyebrow raised and a tilted half-smirk on her lips. A look that said, earth to Miya-san, are ya in there?

To his relief, she didn’t voice that question.

"I wanted to talk to ya for a moment, is that alright?" She pushed away from the wall with practiced ease.

"Yeah, sure. I'm headin' to the bathroom if ya wanna walk with me." Osamu said with a lazy nod, continuing his trek down the hallway.

"I know we've only talked a few times…" The girl started as she joined him, matching his long strides easily. He noticed she was as tall as he was. "But, I think yer a real cool guy."

"Thanks?" He shoved his hands into his blazer pockets. After he responded, he came to the sudden realization he has never talked to this girl before in his life. He wasn't even sure what her name was. “You seem cool, too.”

In the corner of his vision, he could see her tilt her face in his direction before bursting into a sardonic laugh. He wasn’t quite sure what the joke was. “See? Yer hilarious. Anyway, what I was meanin’ to ask ya…”

Osamu stayed silent as she paused, trying to find the right words.

“I was just wonderin’ if… maybe ya wanted to go on a date?” She flashed him a grin. “It doesn’t have to be a romantic date necessarily. I’d just like to get t’know ya better, Miya-san.”

Oh.

He chewed at his lip as his brain swirled. He wasn’t too keen on dating, her or anyone else. At least not until he was less busy with volleyball and schoolwork. But, she did seem pretty cool, it might be nice to become friends with her.

“Ya don’t gotta be so formal with me.” He said with a laugh. “No one calls me Miya-kun much less Miya-san. Just Osamu’s fine.”

She stopped walking suddenly. As Osamu turned around to face her, she pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead. “Oh my god, I’m so stupid.”

“Huh?”

“Holy shit. I’m sorry, Osamu-kun.” She groaned. “I thought you were Atsumu-kun.”

Penny dropped.

“This is so embarrassin’! Yer real cool too, Osamu, I promise but… I just… have… a crush on Atsumu.”

Osamu wasn’t hurt, not entirely. The loud, brash, confident aura of Atsumu was infinitely more appealing than that of quiet, moody Osamu. He had his own brand of girl that liked him more than Atsumu, but it was true that most preferred his twin.

What really hurt was knowing that Atsumu would never live this incident down if he found out. Especially since it meant that the two were seemingly perfectly identical to one another, which had been Atsumu’s goal since he first came out.

He wasn’t sure he could put up with that level of ego.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Osamu said, honestly. He just prayed to the heavens that she wouldn’t tell Atsumu what happened. “Enjoy yer lunch.”

“Uh…” She ran her fingers through her bangs anxiously before giving him a polite wave. “Yeah, I’ll… uh... see ya ‘round, Osamu.”

After practice that evening, Osamu took a detour home. Skipped out on his favorite konbini’s meat buns to pop into a beauty shop. Armed himself with several plastic bags filled with products recommended to him by the cashier. 

That was all of his allowance for the month, but he hoped it was worth it.

"Tell me again why I'm here."

Suna Rintarou, in all his spindly glory, laid sprawled out on Osamu’s bottom bunk. His head leaned back against the end of the bed, green eyes staring at the wooden slats beneath Atsumu’s mattress.

“‘Cause yer my friend?”

Suna tilted his head to face Osamu, expression impassive. “Uh huh.”

“Ya didn’t have to come over, y’know.” Osamu said, pulling the plastic bags he’d bought a few nights ago out of their hiding spot. “But I distinctly remember you walkin’ past yer host family’s place and walkin’ home with me and Tsumu instead.”

Suna groaned. 

“Gottem.” Osamu grinned, earning himself another groan. 

“But no, really, why?” Suna straightened himself out, sitting up at the edge of the bunk. “Clearly you didn’t just invite me over for a sleepover.” He gestured at the obvious lack of a futon on the floor between the bed and the twins’ desks.

“I… wanted your opinion on somethin’.” Osamu fiddled with a bit of plastic. “And yer help.”

"I'm listening." Suna's gaze was steady on his own. It was always a little unnerving, since Suna was normally so obnoxiously inattentive.

"I'm thinkin' of dyein' my hair." Osamu started pulling out some of the bottles and boxes, placing them on his desk in a row. Bleaches and conditioners and half the colors that were on sale.

"What the hell is all this?" Suna pushed off the bed. "Thinking of? You bought the whole damn beauty store."

Osamu bit at the inside of his cheek, maybe he was a little too overeager. "It's whatever, I'll return anythin' we don't use."

"Why do you want to dye your hair?" Suna fingered at a dark lock in Osamu's bangs, twirling it around his knuckle. "It's a nice color." Despite the compliment, Suna's voice was low and emotionless. "Suits you."

"Yer gonna think I'm stupid." Osamu mumbled, watching Suna through his bangs.

"Already think that. Carry on." Suna unwound the hair from his finger and stepped back to analyze the contents of the desk. He poked and prodded at different products like some sort of disinterested cat pondering which one to unceremoniously knock off the desk.

“I had a girl ask me out.” Osamu slumped into his desk chair, giving a half-hearted spin.

“Nice.” Suna’s voice remained flat, face expressionless as he read the back of a box of vibrant red hair dye. “Who was it?”

“Uh…” Osamu wracked his brain the best he could. Atsumu had told him her name before because… Aran is friends with her older brother…? There was a vague memory somewhere in his head of her introducing herself to him during a sports meeting. What was it… “It was uh… Haruhi?”

“Haruhi.” Suna said, setting the box of hair dye down. “Who the hell is Haruhi?”

“Y’know! The prince girl in our grade. Short hair… tall… on the soccer team. That Haruhi.”

Suna tilted his head, eyes drooping heavily and lips curving in judgement. “Osamu. There is not a single girl on the soccer team named Haruhi.” He slipped past Osamu to half-sit half-fling himself into Atsumu’s desk chair. Their knees bumped together as he rocked the chair back and forth. “You’re thinking of Ouran, idiot.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t even know the damn girl’s name. You’re a terrible boyfriend.”

"About that…"

Suna slumped deep into the chair, chin drooping lower than his knees and hands dangling just above the floor. "You said no. To Horikawa-chan. Are you insane?"

Osamu looked away, scratching at the crease of his nose sheepishly. "It wasn't me she wanted to ask out…"

Suna was silent for a long moment before guffawing out a short horrendous laugh that sounded like the albatrosses in Osaka Bay. "Holy fuck! She thought you were Atsumu!" He keeled over in the chair, slapping his knee.

Osamu took the opportunity to kick him in the shin with his bare foot. Asshole. 

"So, I—" 

"So, you wanna dye your hair to make it easier to tell the difference between you." Suna recovered from his ugly laughter, the corners of his lips twitching from their suppressed grin. "That's hilarious. I'm in."

"What."

"I'll help."

"Oh."

Suna slid the desk chair over, pushing Osamu slightly out of the way for better access. "Let's see… bleach… developer… good." He bagged a few of the products and discarded them on Atsumu's desk. "Don't need those." He mumbled.

Osamu watched in amazement as Suna quickly scanned and sorted the products until all that was left was a row of colors. "How d'ya know so much 'bout this?"

A sliver of pink tongue poked between Suna's lips before flashing a tiny grin. "Used to do it myself. Always pissed off my parents, which was half the thrill of it."

Osamu's eyes drifted to Suna's hair, messy and the color of melted chocolate. He couldn't imagine it in any other shade.

"After they quote unquote forbade me from dyeing my hair, I turned around and gave my sister an ombre." Suna grinned. "Should've seen the look on my mom's face."

It was nice, hearing Suna talk about himself. Osamu listened carefully to the stories, not knowing when he'll get the chance to hear his friend speak so openly again. 

"Anyway…" Suna's attention shifted to the dye. "Let's pick a color."

"What'd'ya think?" Osamu said as Suna leaned close into his space to reach for one. 

"I think you could pull this off." Suna held a box of purple dye, the contents rattling as he showed it to Osamu. "However… too unnatural. They'd make you dye it back immediately. Gotta slip under the radar."

"What? Like you and yer eyeliner?"

Suna tossed the purple and a few other unnatural shades into another plastic bag before meeting Osamu's eye. The liner around his eyes had smudged after a long day of school and practice. It still looked good, all things considered. "Yeah, if I just wear brown liner to school, they'll think it's natural." He tapped at his temple, a tiny grin on his lips. "I'm smart like that."

He held up a bottle with a picture of a blonde woman on it next to Osamu's face, expression twisted in scrutiny before dropping to mild interest. "Blonde would look good on you." The bottle was flung away and Osamu's brows scrunched as it rolled under Atsumu's desk. "Doesn't match your energy, though."

They carried on this song and dance of Suna ho-ing and humming as he compared the swatches to Osamu's skin, eyes, the position of the sun in the evening sky, whatever other arbitrary bullshit he was considering. That is, until Suna picked up a shimmery lavender box.

"Starlight Purple." Suna said, green eyes quickly analyzing the box. "This is just fucking grey. Why are these names always so extra?"

"Well?" Osamu asked, watching the miniscule movements in Suna's face. He held the box up, the packaging cool against his skin. 

"This one." Suna slammed it on the desk, the box slightly crinkling. "This is the one."

"Alright." Osamu said with a nod. "Tell me what I gotta do."

"Take your shirt off."

"Eh?!" Osamu half-shouted. "My shirt?"

Suna wasn't amused. "If you want to destroy your practice shirt with bleach, that's your business but..."

"Fine." He said with a groan, peeling off his shirt and flinging it into oblivion. "Let's do—"

"Do what?"

A voice from the hallway.

Shit.

The door swung open, heralding the face of one Miya Atsumu looking baffled at the scene before him. Osamu’s skin burned as Atsumu's brows furrowed in confusion at the sight of his shirtless chest and Suna in front of him, leaning in close. He had no idea what conclusions his brother was jumping to, but he dreaded that all too familiar voice.

"Now, now." Atsumu said with a vicious grin, eyes shifting to the abandoned bottle of blonde dye under his desk. He leaned to pick it up, eyes scanning the labels. "What have we here?"

Suna rolled his eyes before turning to face Atsumu. "I'm not dyeing your hair too."

"No." Atsumu's grin widened to show his canines, wiggling the bottle between two fingers. "Samu will."

Ugh. 

Osamu didn't know when it was.

Maybe it was the day he burnt pancakes in the kitchen as his uncle laughed, ruffling his hair. Maybe it was the day he first made the dashi for his father’s signature butajiru, a flash of pride glimmering in golden eyes. Maybe it was the day Kita-san ate a slice of Osamu’s castella for his birthday, fond words silently spoken through the curve of his lips. Maybe it was the day Suna ate an entire bento Osamu had brought for him, slouching back in his chair with a satisfied groan and a ghost of a smile.

Maybe it was the day Osamu was born and he was just a little too late to realize, like most things in his life.

Maybe it was today.

Osamu was unaware of what happened until practice. 

Atsumu had been whisked away to the teachers lounge in the middle of Japanese lit and received a half an hour long debrief. All sorts of this is what paperwork we need from your parents, yes the Olympics Committee knows your gender, yes this is an invitation for the boys camp and not the girls camp, this is how you will be expected to behave. 

He was ecstatic. Half-near bouncing off the walls ready to gloat in everyone's face. He rambled off in Osamu's ear about everything, minus the sensitive details about him being trans and the committee being okay with that. 

Never knew who would overhear. Atsumu slipped under the radar easily — he was hardly the only Inarizaki player to slink off to the bathroom stalls to change — and they preferred to keep it that way.

As Atsumu wandered off to sling an arm around Gin's neck and boast, Osamu found himself sitting against the gym wall. His eyes flickered around the room from Kita-san and Aran's polite conversation with the coaches to a group of first years bumping a ball around.

He cared about all of these people — his teammates, his friends. He cared about Riseki's serve practice. He cared about Gin's mission to find a girlfriend. He cared about Oomimi's TOEFL test prep.

But he found himself feeling so terribly alone. Like they were all on the other side of a glass wall — untouchable.

He absent-mindedly rolled a volleyball around, feeling the cold synthetic leather against his fingertips, as he stared up at the gym lights.

"Wow." A familiar voice said, entirely zero enthusiasm in his scratchy cadence. "You look even more miserable than usual."

"That's real rich, comin' from you." Osamu muttered, not giving Suna a lick of eye contact.

"Scooch over, asshole." Suna leaned next to him, pulling his knees up close to his chest. In the corner of his eye, he could see him tilt his head upwards to stare at the same blinding lights. "You trying to speedrun lifelong eye damage or something?"

"Or something." 

Suna was quiet for a long time, though Osamu didn't much mind it. A silent, heavy comfortable presence.

“You okay?” He finally mumbled, barely loud enough for Osamu to hear. He was sure he imagined it until he felt the faintest brush of fingers against his arm. 

In the distance he could hear an Atsumu cackle and a Gin squawk, the two of them pelting each other with volleyballs in Kita-san’s blindspot. Osamu watched them for a long moment, as their abuse shifted from dodgeball to play wrestling. It was cut short by Kita’s special Miya Bullshit radar, their captain whirling around bearing an unholy stare.

Atsumu slapped Gin on the ass before scampering off to bother Kosaku instead.

He recalled the idiot middle schooler who didn’t care about friends. How far he’s come.

Osamu pushed the volleyball away, watching it spin along the shiny wooden floor.

How far they’ve both come.

“Don’t think too hard, you might break something.” Suna elbowed him in the ribs — hard enough to make him sway but gentle enough to not hurt. “You’re allowed to not be okay. You know that, right?”

“I dunno what there is to be not okay about.” Osamu spoke, not quite sure if he was making sense but Suna never seemed to care. If Kita-san had a Miya Bullshit radar, then Suna had a Miya dictionary.

“You don’t need a reason.” Suna leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms. “But, I think you have one. Don’t force it, though. You’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t think I’m jealous.” 

Suna was silent, as he always seemed to be when he mulled over a tough thought. His expression was blank, irises flicking as they analyzed. Finally, he tilted his head and raised a single eyebrow. “Do you wish you were?”

“What? Jealous?”

Suna nodded. 

"Maybe." Osamu tucked his knees close to his chest, eyes drifting to Atsumu showing their first year setter a trick. Suna's gaze shifted as well, a palpable silence as they watched. "We've both been workin' hard, but he deserves it. Not me."

"Why not you?"

"Well, I—"

"No." Suna pressed a long finger firmly against Osamu's lips as he tried to speak. "Skip the bullshit."

"Volleyball is fun." 

"And?"

"To Atsumu, it's not fun. It's everything."

Suna made the tiniest of ahs as if he somehow understood Atsumu's drive.

"When we were little, he said he wanted us to be the best volleyball players in the world." Osamu fiddled with the elastic of his sock, not quite sure what to do with his hands as he laid bare his soul. "I wanted that, too. I'm not sure anymore."

"What do you want?"

That was the golden question, wasn't it?

"I'm not sure I know how to want things." He'd always been the dutiful younger brother, following Atsumu to hell and back no matter how much they bickered and fought. Patching up cuts, chopping off hair, texting answers to quizzes. 

How much of his life was even his own?

"That's stupid." Suna said, with a tiny grin not quite fanged enough to be rude. "Dig a little deeper. What. Do. You. Want?"

"I—"

"Stop and think." Suna bumped him with his shoulder. "You don't have to have all the answers immediately."

Osamu mulled over his thoughts as the gym slowly emptied. Teammates off to their academies and family dinners and stacks of homework and relaxing Friday nights. He and Atsumu usually were the last to leave, except for Kita. Sometimes Suna lingered, though Osamu just assumed it was for company. 

Gin marked his departure with a triumphant half bow and a proclamation he was off on a date. Kosaku and Atsumu squawked like indignant hens, demanding details as Gin grinned. Osamu wasn't sure if it was a lie or not. He wasn't sure he cared.

Akagi frantically ran out — crushing the heels of his outside shoes as he toed them on — shouting after Gin. Oomimi followed at normal speed with a tired, patient smile and a tiny eye roll.

"I don't wanna play volleyball." Osamu said, the words heavy in his mouth. At Suna's curious eyebrow raise he quickly added, "I… I mean professionally."

"But Atsumu doesn't know."

"No." Osamu's eyes followed a group of first years chattering loudly about meat buns and tomorrow night's Cerezo Osaka game. "I didn't know myself until now."

"Well." Suna clapped his hands on his thighs. "You're welcome." A sly grin. 

Osamu punched him on the shoulder, too light to hurt. "Ya didn't do shit."

"What do you meaaaaaan?" Suna punched him back, a little harder. "I was the catalyst to your existential crisis. Surely that deserves some praise."

"Asshole." Osamu found himself laughing as they batted at each other — all crooked grins and sharp elbows. Suna pulled him into a headlock — breath hitching in his throat as a flicked finger met his forehead.

"Osamu. Suna." Kita's voice came from across the gym, not even turning around. They stole a grin and a silent discussion of the eyes surely in the back of Kita's head. "Behave."

"All in good fun, Kita-senpai." Suna spoke sickly sweet, eyes curved in mischief. His voice dropped to a low whisper. "Osamu, I think you need to talk to Atsumu."

Atsumu and Kosaku were bopping a ball back and forth as they chatted, too far for Osamu to make out their conversation.

"About quittin' volleyball?" Osamu sneered. He didn't need to fight with Atsumu right now. "No way."

"That's not what I mean." Suna wrapped his arm around Osamu's shoulders, the warmth comforting. "Just… how you feel about camp. The rest can wait."

He was right. The rest can wait.

"I'm off. I promised my host family I'd actually eat with them tonight." Suna pushed himself upwards before offering Osamu a hand. "No Friday night takoyaki for me." He sighed dramatically as he hauled Osamu up.

"You'll live. Later, Sunarin." Osamu patted his friend on the back before he too disappeared into the night.

Kosaku was refilling an old pocari sweat bottle with water from the fountain, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Kita and Aran had gone into the locker room. Which left Atsumu open — spiking serves on his own.

"Tsumu." 

His brother hit a ball as hard as he possibly could manage before turning. A small frown had settled on his lips — a strange sight to behold. A look that said why are ya not upset? more than it said haha! I beat ya.

Oh, Atsumu. If only you realized.

"Congrats."

Osamu was never too good at keeping secrets from his brother.

Not that he ever needed to. 

What was his business was Atsumu's business. And unfortunately, what was Atsumu's business always ended up being his as well.

Failed tests and missed homework. Stolen jackets and broken toys. Personal worries and deep anxieties.

You've got my back?

They might've fought over those truths when they surfaced, but there was always something relieving about having someone know. Someone to help, advise, and support you.

Always.

Osamu wasn't so sure that was an option anymore.

"Kita-saaan." Suna's voice rang out near his left ear, knocking him back to reality. "He's brooding again."

Suna was perched without a care in the world on Aran's kitchen counter, his socked feet swinging back and forth to the tune of some American oldies music. Occasionally, it went far enough to whack into Osamu's arm or flank — on purpose, no doubt as Suna absolutely loved pissing him off.

“Leave him be, Suna.” Kita called from the living room, somewhere beyond Osamu’s gaze. There was the occasional clatter and rustle as Kita and Aran cleaned up the house. The majority of the Inarizaki team would be clustered in that very living room in a few hours. “It’s gotta be hard for him.”

Does Kita-san know?

“If I remember correctly,” Aran said as he passed through the kitchen to fetch the vacuum out of the closet. “This is the longest Osamu’s been without Atsumu. It’s bound to be a little weird.”

“Exactly.” Kita responded.

Ah.

They weren’t wrong. 

The longest Osamu was without Atsumu was back in elementary school during the skating rink birthday party meets three day weekend sleepover their friend Mimiko-chan hosted in second grade. Atsumu left school right at the bell that Friday and didn’t come home until Monday night.

Osamu and his boy cooties were strictly prohibited even though he was closer to Mimiko than Atsumu was back then.

He wasn’t still bitter about that.

Especially since Atsumu was technically kinda sorta a boy too then, even if he hadn't realized it yet.

Not bitter at all…

"Aww." Suna crowed in a mocking tone, leaning in close to Osamu's face. "It's hard being terribly codependent, isn't it?"

"Suna." Kita warned.

"It's fine, Kita-san." Osamu said, pushing Suna's face away with his palm. Suna’s tongue ghosted against his skin and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid making a sound. Kita must remain unaware of their foolishness. "He's just jokin’ around."

"I'm an angel." Suna said, throwing a kick Osamu's way and connecting to his ribcage. He sputtered out before slapping his hands over his mouth. Suna shot him a haughty grin. “Promise.”

“Hey, Sunarin.” Osamu elbowed his friend in the hip to get his attention over the loud drone of Aran’s vacuum cleaner. Kita couldn’t hear them. It was time for his ultimate attack. “Who won the Kentucky Derby?”

“The what now?” Suna half-yelled, cupping his ear with his palm.

“The Kentucky Derby!”

“I don’t fucki—” 

“Charley horse!” Osamu slammed his fist into Suna’s thigh at top speed. His friend choked out a miserable strangled sound, eyes scrunching shut and body keeling to one side. He didn’t last much longer on the counter before he slipped off, his feet meeting the floor.

Once he regained his composure, Suna’s eyes flashed with anger. In an instant, he was pushed against the door of the refrigerator, fists gripping the collar of Osamu’s sweater. “I won’t let you win.” Suna hissed, his face just mere centimeters from Osamu’s. 

This was a game to them, something they did as friends. As teenage boys with no scrap of emotional intelligence to express their affection for each in genuine ways other than teases and play fights. Osamu opened his mouth to respond, feeling his eyes drift from Suna’s fiery eyes to his sneered lips. His cheeks flushed hot for a moment, wondering when this stopped feeling like a game.

“Now, what the hell are y’all doin’?” Aran and Kita stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking like disappointed parents finding the kids misbehaving. Osamu wasn’t sure that was so far from the truth.

Suna shot him a gentle smile before releasing his collar, all the tension evaporating in an instant. He looked away, facing their senpai. “Just cheering up Osamu.” He brushed wrinkles out of Osamu’s sweater, as if he hadn’t been the one who created them. “Poor thing misses his bwuver.” A flash of dull pain radiated from Osamu’s cheek as Suna pinched it, wiggling it around before letting it drop again. 

Kita stared at them impassively for ten long, painful seconds before lifting his wrist and staring at his watch. “It is 5:59 PM. The team is due to arrive at 6:15, which realistically speakin’ means they’ll get here at 6:30.” His arm dropped. “Osamu is meant to be cookin' while you…" He pointed at Suna who visibly blanched. "Are not even really supposed to be here yet. Either help or stay out of the way."

"Ehhhh. Sorry, Kita-san." Suna met Osamu's eye one last time before slinking off towards the living room.  

"Mhm. Sorry, Kita-san." Osamu echoed. He got back to work slicing the last of the peppers to go into the vat of sauce simmering on the stove.

It only took about ten minutes of solitude in the kitchen before he heard the scrape of wood on stone tile. He looked away from his pot of boiling pasta to see Aran and Suna sitting at the table, both tapping away at their phones.

"It smells great, Osamu." Aran said. "New recipe?"

"Not really." Osamu closed the lid of the saucepot before flipping on the oven's preheat. "Just put enough garlic in it to kill a vampire. Suna, stay away."

Suna curled his lip to reveal his totally average human canines, not looking up from his phone. "The disrespect we creatures of the night receive on this team is ridiculous."

"Haha." Aran said dryly. His phone pinged suddenly and he let out a sigh.

"Who is it, Aran-kun?" Osamu slumped into the chair next to Suna, batting at his friend's foot with his own. He had a moment to breathe before it was time to stir the different pots on the stove.

"Atsumu." Aran read the message and set the phone face down on the table. "He's been buggin' me nonstop since he left."

Suna snorted, as if he was in on some joke Osamu was oblivious to. Knowing Suna that was probably the case.

"Really?" Atsumu texted him good morning and good night but he was essentially a dead man during the day. They hadn’t had a genuine conversation since Monday. He’d assumed his brother didn’t have his phone on him at the training center and was too tired to talk the rest of the time. But it was barely 6 PM and here he was texting Aran.

Aran blinked at him, expression slightly bewildered. “Did somethin’ happen between you two?”

“No.” Osamu pushed up from the table to go stir the sauce and pasta. He didn’t need to just yet, but it was comfortable, safe. Far more so than being under the keen scrutiny of Aran and Suna. He was glad Kita was still elsewhere in the house, because he’d surely fold under the pressure of his steady gaze. “We’re fine.”

“Mhm.” Suna’s voice had a tinge of mischief to it, not believing Osamu’s lie one bit. His best friend was observant for all the wrong reasons, it seemed. “Maybe it’s just ‘cause Atsumu has a big fat crush on Aran.”

Ehhhh?

Osamu whirled around to face his friends as Aran choked out. His eyes were averted, and he rubbed at the back of his neck, clear embarrassment shining in his expression. "It's just a puppy crush." Aran mumbled once he regained his composure. “I’m like 90% sure he likes Kita, too.”

Suna raised his fist. “Amen to that. Who doesn’t?”

Osamu needed to sit down.

Aran pinched the bridge of his nose as he set his phone down again, shoving it away. “We’re avoidin’ the point here. The twins are fightin'.”

"We're not f—"

"Hmm?"

Oh no.

Kita stood in the doorway of the kitchen, hand on his hip and a keen glint in his eyes. He tilted his chin ever so slightly, as if challenging Osamu. "What happened?"

The oven beeped signalling it was preheated and Osamu thanked whatever gods may be for the split second moment of freedom it offered him. He slid the big tray of garlic bread in before finally facing his terrifying captain.

"We're not fightin'." Osamu said, pressing his back against the cabinet. In the corner of his eye, he saw he had three more minutes until the pasta needed to be drained. He can do this. "We're just not talkin' either…"

Kita folded his arms and leaned against the doorway, silently waiting for an explanation.

"Osamu's quitting volleyball." Suna offered, still tapping away at his screen. "But Atsumu doesn't know that."

"Really?" Aran's eyes went big.

Osamu scratched at his chin, smiling a pathetic grimace. "Not like… now. After high school."

"Good for you." Kita said simply, taking a seat at the table next to Suna. A tiny wave of comfort washed over Osamu at the sound of his senpai's affirmation. "What will you do?"

Suna perked up, interested in this brand-new tidbit of knowledge. Aran regarded him with a gentle tilt of the head, a silent go ahead, there's no judgement here. 

Of all of his teammates to tell, he was glad it was these three. Kita with his steady attention, hard-hitting support, and blunt questions. Aran with his patient understanding and gentle kindness. Suna was a conniving manipulative bastard at his worst, but he was honest and serious when it truly mattered. 

"I was thinkin'... er… food service."

Kita smiled.

"Y'know, Ito-san — ya remember her, right?" Aran started, waiting for Osamu's nod to continue. She was Inarizaki's manager when Aran was a first year, he'd met her once at one of Aran's games. "Her dad owns a cafe. Maybe you could work for him."

"I…" Osamu was interrupted by the sound of an alarm, signalling it was time to drain the pasta. He quickly scooped a bit of water into the simmering sauce before dumping the rest. "Sort of wanted to… make my own way. Open my own restaurant."

"That's a big responsibility." Kita said. "Savin' money, gettin' permits 'n' licenses, managin' employees."

"Taxes." Aran added.

"Taxes." Kita echoed.

"Ooh." Suna put his phone down with a clunk. "What if you accidentally give someone fatal food poisoning and they live their last few days in terrible agony and their family sues you for everything you're worth?"

Aran and Kita both turned their heads to face Suna. Despite being the other way, it was easy for Osamu to imagine the twin looks of disapproval they wore.

"No? Okay." Suna raised his palms in surrender.

"I get that and I'll… figure it all out, y'know?" Osamu cracked open the oven door to check the loaves of garlic bread. "It's partially why I haven't told Tsumu yet. I wanted to have a more solid idea than just 'food service' first."

Kita sighed, donning a pensive expression. "The longer ya put it off, the worst it's gonna get. He's yer brother. He deserves to know."

"I know… I know. But I just need a lil more time."

"What Kita's tryin' to say is, Atsumu's smart. He's prob'ly already realized somethin's wrong, that's why he's not textin' ya." Aran propped his cheek on his fist. "Ya might not have a ‘lil more time.'"

They're right, of course.

"We've got your back, Osamu. We want both of you to be happy." Kita said as the doorbell rang, signalling the end to any further discussion.

"Thanks guys."

There’s a common misconception amongst the highschool volleyball circuit. 

All teams see a golden haloed setter with a brash personality and a temper that burned fiery hot. Some of them remember from middle school when his hunger seemed vast enough to swallow the sun itself. But others still know him only from his appearances at nationals, a monster in a team of monsters. Feral, ready to take down anything standing in his way. 

Many of their perceptions shift when they see his antics with Inarizaki. Balls served straight into his cranium on purpose. Noogies drilled into the dark roots poking through bleached locks. Laughter that echoed throughout the entire Inarizaki cohort at his expense. A fool. Just another stupid teenage boy.

Now, Osamu thought that seemed pretty accurate. He was a stupid teenage boy. They both were.

But Atsumu was frighteningly smart. Somewhere deep down within that overblown block he called a head, there was a sharp brain. He knew how to read a scenario in seconds and fashion a seeming infinite number of solutions. It disappointed him, angered him even, when his spikers underperformed because he had extensive knowledge of their preferences, their quirks, and most of all, their potential. 

Sure, he couldn’t pass his math tests nor can he get to the train station without getting lost, but when it came to volleyball, no one could compare. 

Aran was right when he said that Atsumu had probably already realized something was wrong. He was smart like that. Too smart, for Osamu’s own good.

He’d returned a week ago. 

Frosty.

Not that anyone but Osamu would notice, that is.

Atsumu talked in circles about the players he’d met at the camp. About that goody two shoes Kageyama from bumfuck nowhere who he’d manipulated into a full on existential crisis. About annoying fucking Sakusa and the absolutely hilarious (Atsumu’s words, not Osamu’s) story about a cockroach in his dorm bedroom. Chiitan-kun who is apparently the funniest person in Japan and somehow also Sakusa’s cousin in addition to being one of the scariest liberos in high school. Hoshiumi who remained the most Hoshiumi Hoshiumi who ever Hoshiumied, never to be out-Hoshiumied.

Kosaku and Gin and the first years were riveted by his tales as he parroted them over and over again, making sure to boast about how talented he was and how much of an honor it was to be there. Osamu was ready to punch his lights out from that alone.

But when it came to one-on-ones with Osamu, their conversations were tight, curt. If you could even call them conversations. What are we havin’ for dinner? Can ya turn off the light? Hurry up, I gotta take a piss. Bum me 100 yen, I want some ice cream.

He did his homework on the veranda while Osamu was tucked under the kotatsu. He told Osamu to walk home with Suna since he wanted to practice serving until dinnertime. He would lay in his top bunk and play on his 3DS with his headphones in, shrugging off Osamu’s invites to his Animal Forest village with a disinterested grunt.

There was a storm brewing. Osamu had to be stupid to not see it coming.  

It was an in-house practice game, just a few weeks before their trip to nationals, when Atsumu finally snapped.

Akagi received and sent up a gorgeous ball — the perfect kind of arc that always made Atsumu’s mouth water. Osamu felt the anticipation rise beneath his fingertips, itching to meet his brother’s set. On the other team, Suna and Kita were prepared to block Riseki, so Osamu just knew: this ball was his.

Ball met Atsumu’s fingers as Osamu leapt, ready to hit a set manufactured perfectly to his preferences and skills.

It never came.

“Woaaah, Atsumu-san!” Osamu heard Riseki call as two sets of sneakers met the court. “Ya gotta warn me a lil! I almost didn’t get it!”

Their kouhai stood bearing a huge grin on his face as he stared down at his reddened palm. He continued to chitter away, celebrating with Kosaku and sticking his nose out at the scowling Suna.

“What.” Atsumu said, his voice lower and deeper than Osamu was used to. He whipped around to face him, thick brows furrowed in anger and lips curled in a snarl. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Atsumu, language.” Kita snapped from across the net.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” Osamu shouted back, startling half the gym. Atsumu took three stomping steps and grabbed at the collar of his practice shirt. Up close, he could see the flames of hunger ravaging his twin’s brown eyes. 

“Yeah. You fuckin’ piece of shit.” Atsumu shook him for good measure as he felt his blood boil. Whatever this was about, he was not about to lose, but he needed to find out why before he started swinging. “You’re off.”

“No, the fuck I’m not!” Osamu shoved his brother away, watching him stumble slightly but the feral gaze stayed steady. “Yer mental. I’m playin’ great today.”

“Atsumu. Osamu.” Kita warned. It wouldn’t be long until their captain tore them apart from one another, but Osamu had a feeling the rest of the team had been waiting for this. Even Kita.

"No. Not just that." Atsumu hissed through his teeth. "You've been off since I left. So, again, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Me?!" Osamu gripped at the chunk of muscle between Atsumu's neck and shoulder — hard enough to hurt like hell. To his credit, Atsumu didn't even flinch. "Yer the one who's been ignorin' me for two and a half weeks."

Atsumu had the audacity to squawk indignantly. "Bullshit!"

"No?" Osamu felt a spike of something he could only describe as evil. He pulled Atsumu close. "Then why have ya been textin' yer lil crush all hours of the day but can't even stand to look yer own twin in the eye?"

"'Lil crush?'" Atsumu spit out, brows scrunched in confusion. "What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Aran-kun~!" Suna supplied from across the net, a sly smile curling his lips. Kita swiveled his attention away from the twins to glare at the conniving middle blocker. A couple players snickered. “It’s quite precious.”

"What…?" Atsumu's voice faltered, and his body sagged in Osamu's grip, as if all the fight in him had vanished in an instance. "That's… that's…"

By divine providence, Aran appeared from the bench to pull them apart. Not like he needed to. The shimmer in Atsumu's eyes and the fake expression on his face was enough for Osamu to relent.

His brother was genuinely upset.

Aran escorted Atsumu out, probably to walk him home.

Osamu sighed and met Suna's eye. His friend chewed on his bottom lip, a pained look in his green eyes. Despite his best friend's attitude, he wasn't without sympathy. He knew he'd fucked up.

"Osamu. Suna." Kita called. "Off the court, both of ya. Yer on clean-up duty in the storage room. Yer both goin’ straight home once you finish.”

“Yes, Kita-san.” They mumbled in unison.

“Oh, and...” Kita’s eyes took on their supernatural, spine-tingling glow in the gym lights as he angled his chin upwards. “Figure this out or yer both benched. Atsumu, too. I don’t care if yer starters, if ya can’t get along with yer teammates then yer less than useless.”

Suna choked a little as he nodded.

“Yes, Kita-san.” Osamu scratched the back of his head, ducking slightly.

“Now, go.” Kita motioned his head towards the storage room door. “I don’t wanna hear a single complaint.”

As he and Suna scrubbed the grout around the storage room drain with nasty old toothbrushes, millions of thoughts swirled around his head.

But the overarching theme of them all was one thing:

He needed to talk to his brother.

Luckily, they managed to finish cleaning before the practice game ended so they could slip out relatively without fanfare. Coach Oomi signed their task off as complete and sent them home. 

Osamu pushed their bedroom door open cautiously, not quite knowing what to expect. Everything was the way it was this morning when they’d left. Socks balled up on the floor around the hamper. Homework that would never get finished shoved haphazardly into clear files. Their communal laptop still open on Osamu’s desk though it’d long shut itself off.

Atsumu was perched on his top bunk, back leaning against the wall and his comforter wrapped around him. Only his hands and face were visible — fingers tapping away at his 3DS. 

“Hey.” Osamu said. “Can I come up?”

Atsumu met his eye, stared at him for a heartbeat, then shrugged permission. 

Osamu climbed up and crawled across the mattress. The wooden rail of the bed dug into his back as he leaned, burying a tiny ache in his spine. He glanced his brother’s way to see a pillow tucked behind him. Smart.

It was silent for a long time, punctuated only by the occasional tap of a stylus against the screen and the ambient music of Animal Forest. Neither of them seemed too uncomfortable by the silence — Atsumu was content wandering around his village, and Osamu found his eyes trained on the mini posters plastered to the wall above Atsumu’s desk. One was of Nicollas Romero, donning the navy and yellow of the Brazil national team. The other was of an Italian soccer player Atsumu looked up to, though Osamu didn't quite understand why.

“Sunarin’s sorry, by the way.” Osamu said as his eyes slipped to a purikura strip of the three of them pinned to their bulletin board. In the first image, they were both giving Atsumu bunny ears which looked more like dragon horns. The second had Atsumu batting at Osamu while Suna’s face was stretched into an ugly laugh. 

“He couldn’t tell me himself?” Atsumu didn’t look up from his game as the sound of a villager talking came tinny over the speakers. 

“He figured ya didn’t want to see him. Least not tonight.” Osamu picked at a tiny bit of dry cuticle. “Um… on Sunday… we were thinkin’ of goin’ to the battin’ cages. If ya wanted to come. He’ll probably…”

“Maybe.”

Silence fell again.

“Didja remember to take off yer binder?” Osamu mumbled. 

“I’m not stupid.” Atsumu snorted. “I actually care about my spine bein’ straight unlike you two shrimps.”

“Yer just salty ‘cause we’re both taller than you, even slouching.” 

“It’s not even a whole centimeter!” Atsumu elbowed him playfully.

“It is when I stand up straight.”

“Yeah.” Atsumu paused for a second to catch a fish. Osamu wanted to scare him so he mistimed it but he figured now wasn’t the best time. “But ya sound like a damn glow stick crackin’ every time ya do that.”

It was Osamu’s turn to snort. He wasn’t wrong.

“Tsumu.” Osamu started.

“Don’t.” Atsumu glanced his way for the first time since he’d climbed up there. The skin around his eyes was tinged pink though they no longer shimmered with tears. “It’s not yer fault. Not really.” 

Osamu opened his mouth to argue, but Atsumu continued, “We both fuckin’ suck. But I was ignorin’ you.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been weird. Like yer hidin’ somethin’ from me.” Atsumu sheathed his stylus and set the device down on his lap. “I’m not stupid, y’know.”

“Ya could’ve just asked me, aho. Confronted me instead of givin’ me the cold fuckin’ shoulder.”

Atsumu sighed and leaned his head back against the wall so he faced the ceiling. “I was about to go to camp. Confrontin’ ya would’ve meant a fight. Prob’ly a big one knowin’ our useless asses. The Olympics Committee knows I’m trans. They really didn’t need to see me covered in cuts and bruises.” He glanced Osamu’s way. “They don’t understand you and me.”

"And what about Aran?" Osamu said. "Do ya actually like him?"

Atsumu grimaced. His fingers ran over the buttons of his 3DS, a simple comfort.

"It's really not a big deal if you do, y'know that right?" Osamu bumped him on the shoulder.

"I don't." Atsumu chewed on the inside of his mouth. "Like, you'd be stupid to look at him and not think 'Wow, he's good looking.' But I don't like him like that."

"Yer stupid." Osamu snorted. "What about Kita?"

"Ehhhh?" Atsumu's eyebrows rose comically. "Where'd ya hear that from?"

"Uh… Suna." Osamu scratched at the back of his head, a bit guilty that he was digging his best friend even deeper into Atsumu's shit list. Especially since it was Aran who’d mentioned it in the first place.

"He’s such a hypocrite." Atsumu was hardly upset. Whatever that meant, Osamu didn’t quite understand. "I don't like Kita like that either."

"So what is yer deal with Aran then? Why text him and not me?" 

Atsumu sighed. "Again, I was pissed with you and still am ‘cause I know yer hidin' something." He swatted Osamu's thigh with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "This is gonna sound stupid but I just… I wanted some support."

Osamu knew what he was hinting at. Support that you usually provide.

"Sorry." Osamu said, hoping his genuine feelings filtered through. "Ya know I'm always here for you, Tsumu. Even if we're fightin'."

Atsumu was silent for a long time, fingers fumbling with his 3DS and his own knuckles. "That's what you promised, yeah." He sighed. "I think I just wanted to hear from Aran. Ya probably wouldn't understand but… he's like… my ideal self. Has been since we first met him."

Osamu nodded. Even if he didn't get it, he understood. 

"Aran is just so calm and cool. Fun to rile up and the perfect straight man to our nonsense." Atsumu elbowed him with a half grin on his lips. "When people look at him, they see someone who is strong and capable. Responsible and mature. He's the kinda guy I wanna be someday. The exact kinda guy I'll never be."

"That's ‘cause yer gonna be yerself, Tsumu." Osamu said, watching the subtle movement in Atsumu's expression. Confusion, relief, disbelief, joy. Swirling and swirling through amber eyes. "Ya don't need to be Aran."

Atsumu picked up his 3DS and for a moment Osamu assumed he'd lost him. The conversation was over. But then Atsumu spoke up again as the telltale sound of a net hitting a tree came through the device. “I just remembered that one day we fought at camp.” Osamu raised his brows. They fought at most camps, after all. “Shut up. I told Aran I’d beat him someday. We’d beat him someday. Remember?”

Hunger. Fire. Together.

Of course he remembered, even if the memory was mere scraps by now.

“I’m glad to have you. Ass wipe.” Atsumu muttered under his breath.

Osamu’s throat felt heavy with the weight of his truth. They’d established a strange truce here and revealing his secret now would tear this fragile Atsumu apart. But later meant he’d betray his brother’s trust in him. “Same. Dick for brains.”

“Y’know.” The faint cyclical tune of the save screen played. “I was scared. Earlier, when Suna said what he said. Him tellin’ the whole team I liked dudes. I don’t fuckin’ care what people think about me but… the last thing I need to do is get the shit kicked out of me.”

“I kick the shit out of you weekly.”

Atsumu punched him on the shoulder, hard. “Like hell you do. We’re at least 50-50. And you don’t do it ‘cause yer a fuckin’ raging homophobic teenage shithead.”

“So…” Osamu scratched at his chin, trying to word his stupid and probably obvious question in a way that didn’t make him look like a massive idiot. “Do you actually like guys?”

“No.” Atsumu snapped his 3DS closed and leaned forward to tuck it into the pocket draped over the wooden railing. “I don’t like anybody like that. I don’t think I ever will.”

“Oh.” Osamu had never heard of anything like that, but he didn’t know a lot about the world. He might not be a raging homophobic teenage shithead, but he was definitely a teenage moron. “How can you say such a thing? I mean… wait. That was bad. I think. How do you know?”

“I just… have never really cared about other people in any kind of… lovey dovey gross way. Whenever Gin tells me about his crushes, I just can’t quite understand what the hell he’s talkin’ about.” Atsumu’s eyes drifted closed as he leaned back further. “I searched stuff about it, and I saw a bunch of bullshit from aunties about how I just haven’t met the right person yet. Made my skin crawl readin’ that.”

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive.” Atsumu snorted, earning himself an elbow from Osamu. “Seriously, aho. But what if that’s true? That ya haven’t met the right person yet. Again, I’m just… tryna understand.”

“No, no. I getcha.” Atsumu fished his phone out of his hoodie pocket and ran a finger over the edge. “I thought about it a lot. Like, too much. Way too much. But uh… at camp, one of the players... Sakusa, y’know? He’s the same way. We talked a lil bit about it and basically he told me that it doesn’t matter if it changes in the future. What matters is how I feel now.”

“I…”

“Hey, Samu.” Atsumu faced him, brows scrunched down slightly like something wasn’t adding up. “Yer surprisingly blase about all this.”

“I’ve had to deal with you and yer shit all my life.” Osamu laughed. “What makes this any different?”

“I’ve been tryna figure out what yer secret is.” Atsumu’s eyes narrowed. “And I feel like it’s got somethin’ to do with this. Who ya like.”

This was uncharted territory for both of them. While they’d figured out so much about life together, one thing that never came up was crushes, love, anything like that. Beyond complaints of too many confessions or trying to keep track of Gin’s many mostly failed romantic pursuits. There was an unspoken rule that it was no one’s fucking business how they felt or well… didn’t feel in Atsumu’s case.

But perhaps this was progress. A sign they were finally growin’ up.

Maybe he can’t tell Atsumu about quitting volleyball today.

But soon… perhaps.

“You were bein’ weird before I left for camp…” Atsumu paused, the gears visibly turning in his head as he formulated his sentence. “It’s ‘cause yer datin’ Sunarin, ain’tcha? And ya didn’t want me to know.”

What.

“I saw you two sittin’ there on the day I got the invitation. He asked ya out then, didn’t he? Or maybe it was you… nah. Yer too much of a coward.” Osamu felt his brain bounce around his skull like the DVD pause screen that never quite hit the corners. 

“Tsumu.” Osamu regained control of his frontal lobe just in time to nip this in the bud. “I am absolutely not datin’ Suna.”

“Ah.” Atsumu pondered that for less than a second before supplying perhaps an even worse thought, “But ya want to.”

…

“C’moooooon, Samu.” Atsumu grinned. “Y’all are like a few play fights away from literally makin’ out with each other. Ya can call it bro shit all ya want but that don’t mean it’s true. ‘Cause for the record, I’ve never pinned Gin to the wall nor has he ever pulled my head in his lap.”

Suna’s angry gaze as he caged him against Aran’s refrigerator and the weightlessness in Osamu’s chest at that moment burned in his mind. The way he sought comfort from his friend in a way no one else seemed to be capable of — careful silence and relaxed proximity. Affection doled out in odd ways that felt right, way too right.

The metaphorical toddler in Osamu’s (probably) metaphorical brain put a semi-circle block into the semi-circle hole. Dots connected.

“I’m bisexual.” Osamu blurted out.

“W... alrighty then.” Atsumu tilted his head. “Didja just figure that out?”

“I… no… actually.” Osamu said, truthfully. He’d known it as long as he knew what the word itself meant. A realization about as dramatic as realizing he’d left his drink downstairs in the kitchen or forgot his wallet at home.

Atsumu’s brows scrunched up. “Why’d ya never tell me?”

“It never felt like somethin’ worth sharin’.” Osamu shrugged. “We never talked about shit like that anyway.”

Atsumu blinked at him before bursting out into a laugh, keeling over by the waist and guffawing into his crumpled comforter. “Always followin’ yer big brother’s lead, ain’tcha? I never talked about it ‘cause I didn’t ever like anyone. Damn, yer tellin’ me I’ve been missin’ out on crush stories for years now?”

“You suck.” Osamu said, half-heartedly shoving his brother’s shoulder.

“I bet you wanna suck Su—” Atsumu was cut off by Osamu smacking his hand over his brother’s mouth. Osamu couldn't help but laugh along with his twin, feeling his lungs strain.

And just beyond, the tiniest ache in his heart.

"Wanna go play Black Ops?" Atsumu pulled his hood down to reveal a massive mess of blonde hair. 

"Only if I get to be player one." 

"Not a chance in hell!"

"Race ya for it?"

"Oh, yer on!"

Atsumu barely had the chance to finish his sentence before Osamu scrambled down the ladder. He heard the thrashing of his twin fighting to untangle himself from the comforter as he dashed out their bedroom door.

"Get back here asshole!"

"I'm quittin' volleyball."

The words felt wrong. 

Like that feeling he sometimes got when he became a little too aware of his tongue's existence. Where was it supposed to go again? Was it always that big?

So he said them again.

"Tsumu, I'm quittin' volleyball."

No response. Of course there was no response. Osamu’s brows furrowed as he stared.

“I’m quit—”

“Volleyball. Yeah. I got it the first time, thanks.”

Osamu’s head lolled to the side to see Suna standing in the doorway of his bedroom, one hip leaning against the frame and a bucket of popcorn tucked under his arm. Two cans of soda — a cola for Osamu and a cider for himself — poked out of the pocket of his hoodie, the fabric already slightly damp from condensation.

“Sorry.” Osamu mumbled, righting himself up to perch at the edge of Suna’s bed. A bubble of anxiety pooled in his chest as his friend crossed the room. 

“You’re so jumpy today.” Suna set their snacks on the duvet next to Osamu before spinning on his heel and kneeling in front of his bookcase. “I can’t believe you still haven’t told Atsumu.”

Osamu gnawed at the inside of his lower lip. After their conversation, a truce had settled between the two of them. A delicate truce, but a truce all the same. It was for the best. They had nationals coming up and needed to focus their efforts into claiming their victory. Everyone needed to be on the same page.

Unfortunately, that was also almost a month ago.

They’d already lost.

He could rip off the bandaid at any time now that there were no greater stakes at hand. But he remained hesitant.

“Can ya blame me?” Osamu said, cringing as he bit down a little too hard. The faint, familiar taste of iron licked at his tongue.

“I just think you’re being stupid about all of this.” Osamu heard shuffling as Suna flipped through his collection of DVDs. He paused and shot Osamu a bored look. “Then again, you’re stupid about most things.”

“Thanks Sunarin, yer sincerity is refreshin’.” Osamu bonked him on the shoulder with his socked foot before getting batted away. “I’ll tell him soon. For real this time.”

Suna let out a tiny sound of disbelief before turning back to the bookshelf.

After several more moments of consideration, Suna rotated fully to face him. He wielded three DVD cases between his fingers like a low-budget Wolverine. “Alright, I got a few options. Spider-Man. The uhh… new one, not the old one. Avengers.” He stared at the last choice tucked between his pinkie and ring finger before immediately putting it back. He plucked another DVD off the shelf. “Or X-Men?”

“In a superhero mood?” Osamu popped a single kernel of popcorn into his mouth.

“Auntie keeps buying them for me. It’s either these or we go downstairs to break into her romcom collection.”

“I mean, romcoms aren’t bad. I guess.” Osamu cracked a smile as he spoke. Suna rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine.”

He plucked the three cases from Suna’s fingers to carefully analyze the covers. As he did, Suna crawled up beside him to perch on the edge of the bed, their legs bumping together as he stretched out.

“Wait.” Suna raised his brows as Osamu spoke. “Why am I pickin’? It’s yer birthday.”

Suna sighed before collecting the cases and setting them in a tiny stack on his dresser. “That doesn’t matter to me.” He cracked one of them open and slid the disc into his PS3. “You should know that by now.”

“Maybe not.” Osamu shimmied backwards until his back met the wall and the pillows they’d propped there earlier. He precariously perched his can of cola on the wooden bedpost, praying to whatever gods may be he wouldn’t accidentally elbow it over. “But I tricked ya into pickin’ what ya really wanted to watch.”

“You bastard.” Suna said, entirely zero inflection in his voice. He joined Osamu by the wall, controller in one hand and cider can in the other. The PS3 menu screen went black before a blue glow and an alien’s voice took over.

“Predictable.” Osamu muttered, earning himself a flick to the arm. “Shoulda known.”

Suna nestled in closer — their arms brushed together and the heavy comfort of a head met his shoulder. “Mmm. Haven’t seen the other two yet.” He cracked open the can of cider to take a sip before tucking it between his thighs. “Feel like I might fall asleep, don’t wanna miss anything.”

“It’s only 8.” Osamu took a handful of popcorn and shoved every last kernel into his mouth unceremoniously. “How are ya already that tired?”

Suna was quiet for a long moment as his eyes remained fixed on the scene unfolding on his TV. “I’m not. You just make me sleepy.” They flicked his way, narrowing slightly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the words never came.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Osamu asked, a flutter in his chest as Suna adjusted his position. Closer. So painfully close.

Suna let out a huff of a laugh that vibrated through Osamu’s skin. “Shut up and eat your damn popcorn.” To punctuate his statement, he shoved his own hand in the bucket and scooped out a heaping mouthful.

“Damn, Rin, don’t eat it all.” 

“You already ate like half my cake. On my birthday. Don’t be stingy.”

“Thought ya didn’t care about things like that?”

“Cake is cake, Osamu!” Suna’s eyes crinkled as he laughed.

They returned their focus on the movie — silence intermingling with dramatic quotes and stupid comments about the dub acting. They'd become fully entangled in Suna's duvet and each other, sharing warmth on the chilly January night. Fingers ran slowly and carefully through his hair as he laid his head on Suna's stomach, tugging out knots and zigzagging through his undercut.

Suna said he makes him sleepy? Hardly. Osamu felt like he was the one to conk out any moment.

Suna pushed back his bangs until they slipped through the grooves of his fingers and settled back over his forehead.

"I like your hair." Suna's voice was soft, barely heard over the loud action scene on the television.

"Yer the one who picked it." Osamu adjusted his position, so he was flat on his back, head tilted towards the screen. 

"I don't mean the color." Suna's forefinger ran along the dark sides, leaving little rows tingling beneath his skin. "All of it. The cut."

"It's just a two block." Osamu glanced Suna's way to see his eyes were still trained on the movie, despite his ministrations.

"I know, it's still nice." Suna flicked him on the ear, nail hitting flat and painless. Just a tiny, little flash of I'm here. "I've only had my hair that short once."

"That dedicated to the curtain bangs meet slept-with-wet-hair look?"

"Yeah, I like my middle part." Suna's fingers ran through Osamu's bangs, parting them in the middle and smoothing them out before mussing them back up. “Plus, my hair would get too cowlicky at the back if it was short. Even worse than it is now.”

“Do ya got any pics of yer hair that short? I gotta see how stupid ya looked.”

Suna laughed, slightly forced. “Ahhah… perhaps not. It was first grade of junior high. I was extremely careful to eradicate any and all evidence I existed back then.”

“Pizza face?”

A resigned sigh. “Pizza face. Combined with a terrible haircut and an early growth spurt. I was the tallest…” Suna’s fingers paused, half buried in silver locks. “Nevermind.”

Osamu tilted his head towards Suna, who bore a strange sad expression on his face. His eyes drifted down from the screen to meet Osamu’s, brows pulling together ever so slightly. He continued to play with Osamu’s hair though the movement had slowed down. His other hand was twirling the drawstring of his Inarizaki hoodie, over and over and over. Mesmerizing.

“What?” Suna spoke softly, his mouth slightly open and eyes searching Osamu’s face. Brown bangs had been tucked behind Suna’s ears but several strands had escaped and hung freely. The ends had begun to curl up as they always did when Suna had a bedhead. An absolute disaster.

“Y…” Osamu started, not quite sure where he was going with this. Or maybe he was sure, just afraid at how easy some truths slipped across the tongue compared to others. “I… I think yer pretty.”

Suna’s expression didn’t budge. His eyes blinked slowly before he spoke, “Thanks. Never call me that again.”

Oh. Something sank in Osamu’s stomach as he felt the weight of Suna’s words wash over him. 

He was so stupid.

He was already going to lose his brother sooner than later, he didn’t need to lose his closest friend too.

“Sorry.” He prayed that it was enough of a balm to pacify Suna. He tilted his head away back to the TV, hoping to hide the embarrassment setting his cheeks ablaze.

A brush of fingers met his shoulder then jaw, twisting his face backwards once more. Suna had tilted his head in such a way that he could look down the bridge of his nose at Osamu. “I said thanks, did I not?” Suna’s voice was low. “I just despise that word.”

Osamu blinked. “Fine.” His voice was muffled from the press of Suna’s grip against his cheeks and jaw. “I think yer handsome. Or maybe hot.” Suna’s fingers loosened so he could speak normally, still lingering along his skin. “What is it the grannies say? Sharp. Ya look sharp.”

Suna brushed the pad of his thumb over Osamu’s lips before cupping his jaw. Something flickered in his jade eyes. “I like sharp.”

The thunder of his heart echoed the movie behind him. He wasn’t even sure what scene it was anymore. He no longer cared.

A dull ache akin to hunger flashed in his chest as Suna's hand trailed down from his jaw. Fingers curled into his shirt, thumb resting in the hollow of his throat.

He felt his brain go a mile a minute as he tried to take stock of the situation. Suna's steady gaze and the natural downward tilt of his lips. The weight of Suna's hand and arm on his chest. Suna's fingers in his hair. Was he reading this right?

Osamu wondered why Suna wasn't making the first move — before realizing Suna can't because of his position. Fuck, he had to do this.

How do you kiss again…? He’s never done it before. Maybe…

"For someone with no brain, you think too much." Suna whispered. “What are you so scared of?”

You. Of ruining this. Of…

Osamu adjusted his position, uncomfortably pushing up on his arm to cross the distance. Suna’s hand found the back of his head, pulling him closer. Sharp eyes narrowed in on Osamu’s gaze before drifting downwards to his lips.

His eyes fluttered closed as Suna met him. The push and pull of lips, the brush of eyelashes against sensitive skin, the bump of noses as they adjusted positions, the ghost of a tongue he wasn’t quite ready to allow in.

“H-h.” Osamu exhaled as they broke free, both stealing a moment to shift into a more comfortable position. “Happy birthday, Rin.”

Suna pulled in Osamu’s face by the jaw, bringing him close once more. He pressed a kiss — this one far softer — to Osamu’s forehead. “Thanks.” Eyes crinkled as he grinned. “You got me just what I wanted.”

“Can…” Osamu started, feeling his eyes drift down again.

Suna answered by hauling Osamu into his lap and kissing him again. Slow, careful, tongues firmly in their respective mouths. The nerves, the apprehension pooling in his throat appreciated it. 

Maybe this was a mistake.

But he wanted to kiss Suna.

He began to trail his hands from Suna's shoulders down, cresting over his collarbones through the fabric of his sweatshirt. A sudden grip found his wrists and Suna pulled back. The trail of saliva beckoned Osamu to chase, but Suna sent him a warning glance.

"Don't." Suna pushed Osamu's hands back up. "Shoulders and arms, only." His forehead met Osamu's chest as he sighed. "Sorry."

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Osamu breathed over and over, sinking his fingers into cowlicked brown locks. “Boundaries. Important.”

What about yer own?

Yer really gonna do this now?

Osamu's chest felt tight, painfully so. He shouldn't be doing this. Not when the weight of his truth dragged him down. He had to tell—

Suna lifted his head, green eyes hazy and dreamlike as they met Osamu's. He’s… he’s…

Osamu pressed forward, meeting Suna’s lips again. Firmly in their spot on his shoulders, Osamu let his thumbs roam — exploring Suna’s neck and jawline and cheeks. Fingers tangled into his undercut and brushed along Osamu’s ribcage. He exhaled a stuttered breath — lungs too busy fighting for air — before experimentally brushing his tongue along the crease of Suna’s mouth.

The grip on his hair tilted him sideways before Suna let him in, pressing him close. This was weird. Osamu giggled into Suna’s mouth at the bizarre feeling of tongue on tongue. All the same, Suna still moved with all the urgency of a man on a beach vacation. Gentle, careful, movement swelling and falling like waves. Warmth bubbled in his chest, snaking around the constrictions.

Aho.

Yer selfish. Horrible. Why are you doing this?

How could you? How could you? How could you? How could you?

A terrible brother and now a terrible friend. He’s never gonna wanna talk to you again.

Too much of a coward to tell Atsumu. 

Yer gonna break Suna’s heart.

Useless.

“Osamu.”

Awful. Awful. Awful. Awful.

“Osamu.”

You don’t deserve—

“Osamu.”

He opened his eyes to see maroon stained with dark splotches. His chest was enveloped with warmth as two arms had pulled him close. A hand ran through his hair, slow and repetitive. He realized he was crying — fat tears running down his cheeks.

“Hey, shh.” Suna’s voice was soft, far more gentle than he’d ever heard before. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

"I'm sorry." Osamu whispered into Suna's hoodie. The sounds of the action movie had stopped, replaced by a faint hum buzzing through Suna's lips. 

"Boundaries. Important." Suna said, echoing Osamu's words from earlier.

"I can't do this." Osamu hated how his voice sounded, scratchy and heavy. "It's selfish."

"You're allowed to be happy, Osamu." Suna squeezed him, rocking their upper bodies from side to side. "But it's not a big deal."

"But you—"

"Osamu. We kissed." Suna laughed softly, the feeling reverberating into Osamu's skin. "That's it. It's not a marriage proposal. Just a kiss."

"But—"

Suna loosened his grip and tilted Osamu's face up with one hand. "I get it. You're a sweet, painfully monogamous idiot who just had his first kiss and is freaking out about it." Suna pinched his cheek. "I like you and I'm pretty sure you like me. But this doesn't have to be anything more than a kiss between friends if you're not ready for that yet."

Osamu nodded, swallowing a piece of his nerves.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Suna's touch was gentle along his undereye as he wiped away a tear.

"It's… all just the same shit ya know already." Osamu sniffled, feeling his voice shake. "The lyin' to Tsumu. Why do I deserve… when… he…"

Suna pulled him close again, gently pressing Osamu’s face into his tear-stained sweatshirt. "You're both individuals, Osamu. One day you're both going to have to accept that." A warm hand brushed his bangs away. "He relies on you too much, and you hide behind him too much."

"But he's—"

"Your brother. Osamu, I know. But you both need to learn how to stand tall on your own." Suna pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Osamu's head. "Telling him you're quitting is the first step on the right path, for you both."

"Is it the right time?" Osamu choked out.

"The right time was a month and a half ago. The next best is as soon as you can." Suna's voice was steady as he spoke. “You know what I think, Osamu? All this self doubt about you being selfish… you’re right. You are selfish.”

Osamu waited. Knowing the words would bring him comfort, not just pain. Suna was always tricky that way. A stab in the gut right where you needed it.

“It’s selfish of you to carry on this charade in front of Atsumu. He’s still dreaming of a future of you two going pro together. Probably not even dreaming anymore. He’s planning.” Suna let go of their hug and leaned back against the wall, leaving Osamu still straddling his thighs. “Not to sound like Miyoshi-sensei, but you gotta start planning for your future. So does Atsumu.”

He sighed, lowering his head in defeat. It wasn’t fair. Suna was right.

“Hey.” Suna patted the bed next to him and Osamu slid off. Side by side again, Suna’s fingers found his, carefully entwining and tucking them together. A trace of guilt surged through Osamu as Suna’s thumb brushed over his knuckles but was quickly quelled by his voice. “After you’ve figured it all out, whatever you want this to be...” He squeezed their hands. “Dating, friends who kiss, friends who forget they ever did. I’m game.”

Osamu nodded. 

Suna raised his other hand, extending a pinkie. “Friends?”

Osamu curled his pinkie around Suna’s, squeezing as hard as he could. “Yeah. Friends.”

“Good.” Suna gestured — inviting Osamu to scooch in closer — before his fingers fiddled with the joysticks of the controller. “Now, let’s finish our movie.”

Osamu’s always been a fine connoisseur. He constantly dreamed of trying new, fresh flavors from all corners of the globe. Trying every restaurant in town — eyes glittering every time a new one opened. Googling all the restaurants that popped up on O’ahu since the last time he visited his cousins and carefully planning which ones he’d drag his uncle to. Playing with traditional Japanese methods and combining them with new ingredients found in markets or online.

But, there’s a distinct flavor that was the earliest and most poignant in his memory.

He first tasted it as a young child.

Young enough to still have to be confined in the horrible wooden prison his constantly hungry little self was often subjected too. Tiny fingers picking at puffed snacks — flicking them at his brother and giggling when he got hit back.

As was the cause of so many of their bumps and bruises, their mom had her back turned for just a second. Long enough for little Atsumu’s fingers to grip the tray of Osamu’s high chair and rock him back and forth.

Silly laughter turned into a shriek turned into crying as the chair careened over, sending little Osamu crashing to the floor. Their father always said the crying was mostly their mom, horrified that her precious baby boy had been murdered by his own twin. 

After a panicked trip to the doctor and a diagnosis of a ripped labial frenulum that healed in a few days, Osamu was deemed fine.

But he’ll never forget the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. 

Certainly not today.

The iron lingered in his mouth, no matter how much water Gin made him swish around and spit. He was convinced Osamu had knocked a tooth loose and that was the source of the pink that tinged his saliva. But that theory had been shot out of the water by the tentative prodding of Osamu’s tongue against all twenty-eight of his teeth and the discovery that everything was firmly in place.

As Gin fussed over him — wiping at the split next to his eyebrow and digging through the club’s first aid kit for butterfly closures — Osamu wished Atsumu was here.

He’d been dragged off by Suna. It was easy to imagine them sitting on the locker room bench, Suna clutching a bloodstained antibacterial wipe and a box of bandaids he’d pilfered from the kit. 

Maybe he should’ve wished Gin and Suna were swapped. Atsumu and Gin were always closer and he’d come to find comfort in Suna’s lingering touches. But since Kita-san technically retired from the club and Aran spent most training days in Osaka with the Falcons, Suna had somehow become the voice of reason amongst the remaining players.

There were some harsh, painful truths Atsumu needed to hear and accept and Suna was the best one to deliver them. After all, he’d told Osamu the same painful truths.

“I think yer good, Osamu.” Gin said with a sigh, plucking the little bits of paper from the butterfly closure off the gym floor.

“Thanks, Gin.” Osamu pulled the first aid kit into his lap. “I’ll clean this up… you can go wash yer hands. And uh… maybe go check on Tsumu?”

Gin nodded, disappearing into the locker room.

Osamu wished he could recall the majority of their argument. What started as what he'd hoped was a classic Miya Twins Heart to Heart™ swiftly devolved into a classic Miya Twins Bloodbath™. Once the blood rushed through his ears, he was as good as gone.

The coaches were at faculty meetings and scouting sessions all week, so the second and first years were given optional player-led practices. Atsumu was relatively placid, satisfied with his newly crowned captaincy and not hungering over any upcoming tournaments. Plus, their annual trip to Hawai'i was just a few weeks away. Osamu had figured this was the safest time.

Suna and Gin were gone — Gin fetching some balls for a 2v2 from the storage room and Suna on a konbini run. A few players lingered around the gym, but no one paid the twins much mind.

“Atsumu.” He said as his brother tied his shoes and immediately regretted that added syllable. He never used Atsumu’s full name anymore. “I need to talk to you.”

Fiery anger lighting up amber. A tongue tucked behind a fanged grimace. Tripped off with a single string of words. They knew each other too well. Atsumu knew he needed to be on edge.

“I’m quittin’.” Osamu said, tilting his chin up — taking advantage of his full height. “I ain’t goin’ pro.”

“A bit early for April Fool’s Day.”

“Yeah.” His skin burned. “‘Cause it ain’t a prank.”

Osamu let his back hit the wooden floor of the gym, cringing as his spine ached. Maybe he did need to slouch less. He hated when Atsumu was right. He stretched his limbs wide, feeling sharp pain radiating throughout his body. 

Tomorrow, he’d wake up to find an army of bruises garrisoning along the course of his skin. All the working out Atsumu was doing in preparation for their third year of tournaments and his inevitable pro tryouts had turned him into a menace.

The shots he helped his brother inject in his thigh every few weeks certainly weren’t helping either. Atsumu had a mean right hook now, the pain echoing from his jaw was evidence enough.

Osamu snorted before laughing out loud. He was proud. Glad his brother was becoming who he wanted to be.

“You fuckin’ promised.” Atsumu snarled, nails digging deep into Osamu’s jacket. “Does that mean fuckin’ nothing to you?”

Osamu shoved his brother away, feeling sick satisfaction as he stumbled back. “Am I supposed to just be yer shadow for my entire goddamn life? We were eight, you asshole!”

He just hoped that his brother was glad Osamu was becoming who he wanted to be. If not now, then soon.

Gin had broken them apart before they started swinging, shoving them to their asses and sternly telling them to shut the fuck up. They’d sulked — picking at cuticles and filing nails — until Suna returned from the konbini.

Then, they’d gone up in flames once more.

Gripped collars. Sharp words. Bruised knuckles.

A new promise.

“If yer so dang confident.” He gripped his brother’s jacket. “So dang sure you’ll be the happier one, then come back when we’re 80-year-old geezers! Wait until then to laugh in my face and say you were happier!”

“When we’re on our deathbed… I’m gonna turn and look you right in yer face and say I lived the happier life!”

“Hey, idiot.” A voice, accompanied by the prod of a shoe to the temple.

Osamu opened his eyes to see Suna, hands on his hips and face donning his signature unbothered expression.

“How’s Tsumu?”

Suna huffed out a breathy laugh. “Adorable. You’re both so cute when you fight. Wah, how’s my poor bwuver doing? I hope he’s okay even though I’m the one who decked him in the first place.” Suna batted his eyelashes and pouted.

“Yer awful.” Osamu shielded his face with his arms. “Worst person I know, truly.”

“Easy tiger.” The air shifted as Suna sat down next to him. “No flirting at school.”

Cold fingers pried his arms apart, forcing him to face the bright gym and his friend. To his credit, Suna looked at least a little concerned. Whether it was feigned was a different story, but his heart liked to think it wasn’t.

“He’s fine, I think.” Suna said, brushing a bit of Osamu’s bangs out of his eyes. This was risky in a public place like this, but he appreciated the gentle touch. “You got him good, but I see it was a mutual thrashing.” A thumb stroked over his aching cheek, sending faint tingles of pain coursing through his bloodstream. “I think he might’ve even won.”

“He cheated.” Osamu grumbled half-heartedly, earning himself a snort from Suna. 

“I suppose store bought sometimes wins over homemade.” Suna grinned, patting him on the shoulder before withdrawing his hand back to safety. “Not a good omen for you, Mr. Future Chef.”

“Eh?” Osamu swished the words around his head before putting two and two together. “You know?”

“Had a hunch.” Suna leaned back on his palms, position entirely too casual. “Always got some vibes from him but since you two are basically identical in looks, I was a little less sure. Wasn’t one hundred percent until just now, when I was cleaning up his cuts.”

“He told you?” Osamu pushed himself up by his elbows. “No offense, but ya ain’t the most trustworthy of guys.”

Suna laughed, loud and clear. “None taken. I wouldn’t trust me as far as I could throw me.”

"Rin."

"Yeah, yeah." Suna bumped his knee into Osamu's thigh. "Makes sense why he's so pissed. The feeling of betrayal aside, he now has to face a world that doesn't accept him and a career that isn't meant for people like…" Suna hesitated. "Like us. Him and me."

"Oh." It slipped out of Osamu's mouth a little too easily. 

Suna stared at him for a long moment, narrow green eyes flicking back and forth and analyzing Osamu's expression. When he was sufficiently satisfied, he continued. "And now he has to do it without his brother who's supported him all this time."

"It's not like I'm abandonin' him. I can support him off the court, too."

"I think Atsumu knows that, and I told him as much, but you can't blame him for being blinded by his emotions right now." Suna sent him a tiny smile. "Gin's right. I think you two are gonna be just fine."

"Thanks Rin." He slipped his palm over the back of Suna's hand, slotting their fingers together long enough to squeeze before pulling back. "For everything."

Osamu wiped his forehead with a rag — the summer sun bearing hot on his skin as he worked. He’d prayed for a light cool rain last night when he checked the forecast, but was a little disappointed to find clear blue skies and a generous heat index.

“Samu-chan!” A voice shouted from the distance. “Come in for lunch, sweetheart!”

He exhaled in relief, smiling as he trudged through the field.

"I made ya a special treat since you’ve been workin' so hard." Kita Yumie waved him over as he approached, her tiny hand gently pressing him on the back. "Grilled unagi and rice."

"Granny! Yer too good to me! You’ll hafta give me the recipe.” Osamu pulled his boots off in the genkan and tucked his gardening gloves inside. Usually, she made them somen or cold ramen, but she loved spoiling him like he was her own grandson. “Is… um… Sh-Shinsuke joinin’ us?”

Yumie-san giggled into her hand at his embarrassment. Having to call his former captain by his first name was surprisingly mortifying. “In a lil bit, he’s gotta do one more row before he calls it a day.”

He nodded as she gently led him into the kitchen to wash his hands of all the morning’s sweat and dirt. That first splash of cold water and the exfoliating scrub of her lemon soap always felt like salvation.

His trips up to the Kita farm north of the city had become a regular routine since summer began. Every Sunday, Osamu took the train before the sun rose — helping Kita with the farm in the morning and Yumie-san around the house in the afternoon. It was hard, exhausting work but it didn’t matter much to him.

He had a goal, and he was determined to make it a reality.

"Hon, wouldja mind makin’ us some salad?” Yumie-san said, on her tiptoes reaching for something in the cabinet. “I’m gonna run over to Mae-Mae’s house while we’re waitin’ for Shin-chan. She made some fresh peach tea.”

“She’s got some trees, ain’t she?” Osamu quickly wiped off his hands before helping her pull out a few glass bottles.

Yumie-san beamed as he handed them to her. “Michi-kun was over yesterday helpin’ her pick ‘em. I invited 'em over for lunch today but he had to head back to Osaka for work.” She let out a long sigh as she tucked the bottles into her tote bag. “You youngsters are always so busy.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.” Osamu followed her back to the genkan, sliding open the door for her. He was a little disappointed, he hadn’t seen Akagi-san in a while. “Hopefully he can visit soon.”

After she departed, he slipped out the back door and toed on a pair of spare sandals. He padded through Yumie-san’s garden, hunting for vegetables for their salad. A fresh head of lettuce, a couple of beautifully sweet tomatoes, and a bright yellow bell pepper. The cucumbers weren't quite ready yet, but he figured it'd still be tasty without one.

“Oh, Osamu.” He turned to see Kita sitting on the edge of the veranda, kicking his boots together to knock loose the last bit of mud from the field. “Lemme help ya with those.”

"Thanks, Kita-san." He passed him several of the fresh vegetables, stealing the opportunity to pluck another pepper and tomato.

"How is Atsumu doin'?" Kita asked as they settled in the kitchen. Elbow to elbow, Kita washed the vegetables and dishes while Osamu chopped and prepped the bowls.

"Better. He's excited about the Interhigh." Osamu dug through the cupboards, plucking out ingredients to make salad dressings. "He promised to destroy those Miyagi kids, and ya know how Tsumu is about promises."

“Are the two of ya… okay?” 

They spent the last month and a half of their second year constantly arguing at worst or ignoring each other at best. But Atsumu could only complain so much when Osamu attended every single practice — both official and optional player run — and continued to work his ass off.

It’s not like Osamu didn’t want to play volleyball. He still thrived off that buzz of adrenaline singing through his veins every time they had a practice game, every time his palm met the ball, every time he high-fived his teammates.

Things had improved after their Spring vacation and the start of third-year. Atsumu had embraced captaincy and while he wasn’t the team’s favorite senpai — Suna had somehow claimed that title — he took his role seriously. Couldn’t exactly be bashing his brother’s skull into the gym floor in front of the kids.

The topic of Osamu's food service career remained taboo. Whenever someone brought it up, Atsumu either tabbed out of the conversation completely or segued it into something else.

Osamu couldn't blame him. 

It just fueled Osamu more. He was determined to prove himself. To restore Atsumu's trust, his faith.

He'd win. He'd be the happier twin.

"We're fine." Osamu smiled as he blended one of two salad dressings. "I think a tiny part of him still thinks this is some kinda elaborate joke, but he's movin' on."

"That's good." He could hear the smile in Kita's voice as he carried the three bowls of salad out the door. It was too beautiful of a day to not have lunch out on the veranda. As Kita returned, Osamu felt the unmistakable pressure of his golden stare burn into his back. “How are yer grades?”

Osamu let go of the whisk to glance back at him. “Um… they’re… uh…”

Kita’s expression went flat as he passed Osamu. “Ya know the deal, Osamu.”

That was the agreement he made with Yumie-san when he first asked her for a job. She’d pay him for his help and teach him some of her recipes and life lessons, while he had to keep his grades up. If they slipped too low, then it was clear to the Kitas that he needed to be spending his Sundays studying or resting instead of working.

“My… um… last Japanese lit essay was… just okay.” Osamu averted his eyes, turning his attention back on the dressings. He hoped Yumie-san would like the concoction he was mixing up — they were all ingredients he’d found in her kitchen but whether they tasted good together was a different story.

“I’m sure Suna-kun would help if you asked.” Kita’s voice was icy. Suna always was good at writing papers… when he actually wrote them, that is. The problem with their homework sessions was they had the terribly bad habit of— “You two just have to actually study…”

Osamu’s cheeks burned as Kita disappeared out the backdoor again. Their little Best Bros Who Kiss Sometimes routine was a secret — even Atsumu was unaware — but unfortunately eagle-eyed Kita was painfully hard to keep secrets from.

Okay, maybe him walking in on them making out in the Inarizaki storage room didn’t help.

His embarrassment was mercifully cut short by the sound of the front door opening and the rustle of shoes. “Boys! Mae-Mae gave us some extra peaches!” In addition to her tote bag, she clutched a plastic bag with a number of peaches Osamu would describe as significantly more than ‘some extra.’ Kita took the bag from her as she slid into her house slippers. “Take some home with ya, Samu-chan. Give ‘em to yer ma and yer lil Rin~!”

Nevermind.

He was going to change his name and become a sheep herder in the mountains of rural Iceland.

They settled into the small table on the veranda, kneeling on cushions and enjoying their meal. 

"Hmm." Yumie-san dipped a piece of bell pepper in his salad dressing. The crunch as she chewed and tasted was deafening. "Sorry, hon. Not my favorite."

"Win some, lose some." Osamu grinned, pouring her a little rice vinegar and soy sauce dressing into a fresh dipping dish. "What do you think, Kita-san?"

Kita-san shook his head, lips pulled into a taut line. "It's a little too bitter. The red wine vinegar is very overpowering."

In addition to the extra cash for his restaurant savings, Osamu also appreciated the Kitas for their honest opinions when it came to his food. 

Atsumu ate everything Osamu fed him but when asked how it was, he just nodded with his mouth full. Suna was slightly more helpful but he was also painfully picky. His mom told him it's great honey every time he fed her something and he was starting to believe she was lying.

"Mhm!" Yumie-san nodded. "Shin-chan is right. I like the seasonings but maybe a different vinegar?"

"Thank ya, ma'am." He said, earning him a giggle.

Yumie-san sighed contentedly as she took a bite of her rice. He was sure it was perfectly cooked as always and he was eager to dig in himself, but waited. Kita had the same idea, his hands politely folded on his lap. "You two." She smiled after swallowing. "Ya don't hafta wait for me."

"Gotta make sure it ain't poisoned." Osamu grinned, sending her a cheeky wink. She howled in laughter in a way he could never imagine her grandson doing. 

"Clever boy." Her words were muffled by a mouth full of rice. "Ya like it?"

Osamu took a big bite of unagi — his shoulders slumping and body relaxing at the oh-so-painfully-sweet taste. The eel sauce had painted the rice below a flavorful golden brown, and he wanted to stick his face in the bowl like a damn animal.

Yumie-san chuckled. "Don't ya worry, hon. I'll getcha the recipe."

Osamu nodded, shoving another loaded chopstick full of rice into his already full mouth. He was always looking for new dishes to learn and master. 

Not to mention, he’d been wanting to properly ask Suna out — finally turn Bros Who Kiss into Actual Boyfriends — with a big, beautiful meal. He had a feeling this would be the perfect dish. Unagi was expensive but Suna was worth it.

"Say, Samu-chan." Yumie-san folded her hands on the table. "Why don't ya help me cook this afternoon? I want to make Mae-Mae some daifuku as a thank you for the peaches. And you can help me pick out dinner."

He bowed his head. "Yes, ma'am. I'd love to."

"I've been thinkin'." Osamu said as he plucked another onigiri from the buffet of snacks spread across Kosaku’s coffee table. He took a bite, enjoying the new flavor he’d been messing with. “How ‘bout onigiri?”

This might not have been the best time. 

Suna — squeezed between him and the end of the big sofa — was leaned as far forward as his spine could manage, tapping rhythmically at the Wiimote. His eyes were locked firmly on the television, irises flicking at the speed of light as he analyzed the rapidly changing situation.

Gin and Atsumu — next to Osamu and perched in Kosaku’s recliner respectively — were aggressively smashing buttons with far less precision. They’d given up on fighting one another and were too busy trying to tag team Suna with little to no success. 

Kosaku was slumped in a bean bag chair looking pitiful after his Yoshi had been sent to the pits of hell for the fourth time — all before the rest of them even lost a single life. It always felt terrible to lose first in your game on your console in your home.

“What about onigiri?” Gin took the bait moments later, after Suna launched his Toon Link into the stratosphere. His hand buried itself into a chip bowl and shoved a bunch into his mouth, quickly chewing and licking off the salt before he respawned. “We already got lots.”

“I don’t mean now.” Osamu glanced over to see Atsumu pointedly ignoring everyone, chanting whispers of c’mon c’mon c’mon as he fought Suna. It’d been over half a year since their Quitting Volleyball fight but it remained a subject they continued to avoid. “I mean in the future. How about an onigiri restaurant?”

“Mmm.” Kosaku plucked a can of soda off the table, cracking it open with a loud hiss. “Not a bad idea.”

“Yeah, I like it.” Gin grunted out between button smashes before getting obliterated once more. "Yer onigiri is pretty good."

“I wouldn’t need such a big building then. Small and cozy with takeout and a few eat-in tables.” Osamu said. He’d been concerned about the overhead costs since helping out at the Kita’s place once a week wasn’t exactly a lucrative job. But he also couldn’t get another one without sacrificing his grades, his sanity, or… well… volleyball. He still wanted to play, see their school tournaments through before hanging up his volleyball shoes for good.

“What the hell, Sunarin…” Atsumu groaned, slumping back in the recliner as the announcer shouted GAME! “Yer a damn cheater.”

“Get good, scrub.” Suna relaxed before setting the Wiimote on the arm of the couch. Osamu felt the faintest brush of a touch on his thigh, before Suna leaned forward to grab a gyoza. “And Osamu, that sounds like a great idea. You can get creative while still serving the classics.”

Seemingly content to ignore the conversation, Atsumu raised his Wiimote and waved it around. “Who’s down for the next round?”

Gin and Kosaku were eager to agree while Suna brushed it off. “Nah, you guys can duke it out. I’ll sit this one out.”

“Yer a sore fuckin’ loser, Sunarin.” Atsumu stuck his tongue out before glancing at Osamu. “Samu?”

“I’ll hop in after this, ‘kay?” 

"Just onigiri or other stuff?" Gin elbowed him mid-recovery, either on purpose or accidental. He squished himself closer to Suna who certainly wasn't complaining.

"Maybe chazuke and some sides. Nothing too complicated." Osamu rested his head on Suna's shoulder, taking advantage of their friends' focus on Smash to show a little affection. "Kita-sama taught me how to make a bunch of desserts, so maybe a limited daily special?"

"Any idea what yer gonna call the place?" Kosaku half-said and half-shouted as Gin up smashed his Yoshi off the stage. "There's been lots of those real fancy places with English names lately."

"Yeah, but they charge like 1,000 yen for a damn iced Americano." Gin added.

"If it's good it's worth it." Kosaku nodded. "Osamu's good."

"Y'all know my English is rusty as hell." Osamu snorted. "I might call the place a bad word by accident and never get a single customer."

"Hey guys, let's check out that new onigiri place. Oh, what's it called again? Penis!" Suna pantomimed, earning himself a chorus of cackles.

"Maaan, I love the tuna mayo at Buttcrack~!" Gin barely finished his sentence before breaking into a laugh.

"Onigiri Miya."

The living room went silent, Kosaku and Gin's button smashing pausing and their characters standing in place. Atsumu continued to tap away at his Wiimote before he realized everyone else stopped. No fun demolishing people who aren't even playing.

Osamu pulled his head off Suna's shoulder, locking his eyes on his brother's face. Atsumu was expressionless, gaze staring at the TV screen.

"What didja say?" Osamu spoke carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was spook his brother when he was opening up like this.

"Onigiri Miya." Atsumu set the Wiimote down. "Ya should call it Onigiri Miya."

"I…" Osamu didn't know what to say, throat thick with emotion. 

"Play on words, y'know?" Atsumu still avoided his eye, everyone's eye. "Both our last name and 'palace.' They'll know it's good."

He felt Suna's hand ghost over his knee, an intended reassurance. But it didn't mean nearly as much as the tiny smile cracking through his twin's sullen expression.

"Yeah." Osamu breathed. "Onigiri Miya sounds great."

Osamu was nervous — painfully so — as he paced. He’d been kicked out nearly forty-five minutes ago, and his heart had been racing nonstop ever since. A neverending badump, badump, badump, badump. Over and over and over.

After months — months — of hard work, it was finally happening. 

Tomorrow was the official soft opening of Onigiri Miya. He’d sent out invitations to his friends, his family, the local V.League teams, and the current Inarizaki volleyball team. He doubted too many of the kids would make it all the way to Osaka — especially since he didn't know any of them anymore — but it was mostly a show of goodwill to his former coaches.

And Osamu?

Osamu was losing his goddamn mind.

Despite his careful planning, the restaurant wasn’t quite ready just yet.

Somewhere inside, Gin and Akagi were fixing some of the woodwork and putting the final touches on the counter. Kosaku was up a ladder painting a few splotchy parts of the ceiling while Riseki spotted and refreshed the paint in his roller tray whenever it got low. Aran had nails between his teeth and a hammer in his hand as he hung artwork and framed jerseys — three bearing the names MIYA, SUNA, and OJIRO. Oomimi carefully mopped the floor of the kitchen and sanitized the brand-new appliances.

Osamu was apparently ‘overbearing’ and ‘stressed out’ and ‘not thinking clearly’ so he’d been relentlessly exiled to the back alley. Aran had confiscated his set of keys and locked him out with the intention he’d go back to his apartment and chill the fuck out.

That wasn’t happening. Obviously.

What was stressing him out the most were three distinct individuals. All three bizarrely missing from the army of former Inarizaki players inside. Though he’d sent countless text messages to all of them, each was left on read.

That was to be expected from his terrible twin and from his shithead boyfriend, but Kita? Leaving him on read? Unbelievable.

He’d settled onto the filthy back stoop and exhausted several social media feeds and played what felt like a thousand games of sudoku before he finally got a text.

[🍤🦊🤍]: stop textign me

[🍙🗿🖤]: love u too asshole

[🍙🗿🖤]: where the hell are you

[🍤🦊🤍]: omw

[🍤🦊🤍]: no ur still not allowed in the restaurant

[🍤🦊🤍 sent a sticker]

[🍙🗿🖤]: RINTAROU

Read 16:08

Four more games of medium sudoku and one expert. An uncountable amount of stress.

[🍤🦊🤍]: 5 more mins

[🍤🦊🤍]: then come around to the front

After the most excruciatingly long five minutes of his life, Osamu navigated his way out of the alleyway towards the main throughway. His legs brought him past the gacha shop, the cafe, the shabu-shabu restaurant, and the tiny konbini before he came face to face with Onigiri Miya.

His breath caught in his throat.

Stretched above the entrance was a navy blue banner, gently fluttering in the spring breeze. おにぎり宮 was splashed in white across the fabric, written in a calligraphic script. One he’d recognized from countless recipe cards given to him — some of the very recipes incorporated into his menu.

The front door of the restaurant slid open, heralding Kita-san with a kind smile stretched across his lips. His former captain bowed before gesturing towards the door. “Welcome to Onigiri Miya.” 

“What—” Osamu couldn’t finish his sentence before he was ushered inside.

Inside, another set of navy banners hung above the bar counter — noren once again bearing Yumie-san’s handwriting. His friends were distinctly absent except for Kita behind him, but their tasks had all been finished in record time. Decorations lined the shelves and walls. The woodwork had not only been fixed, but also freshly shone from wood polish. The paint finally looked up to standard.

“Please, take a seat.” Kita-san stretched his hand out towards the closest bar stool and Osamu tentatively sat down. The bar counter had been prepared with a bamboo mat, condiments, sauce dishes, and paper wrapped chopsticks at every seat.

He turned to find Kita had disappeared as well, slipped out the front door.

“Thanks for waiting.” He whipped his head back towards the kitchen to see Suna behind the counter holding a tiny notebook and a pen. “My name’s Rin. I’ll be your server for this evening.” 

“Rin…” Osamu’s eyes drifted to his clothes. Suna had changed since the last time he saw him earlier in the day, now wearing all black with a burgundy apron. Embroidered over his chest was an onigiri and on his black cap was the same calligraphic 宮 from the front banner. “What in the world…?”

“Do you like it?” His boyfriend winked, tipping his cap and swiveling his waist in a mock modeling session. “Me and dick for brains thought you needed a proper uniform.”

“Oi!” Came a familiar voice from the kitchen. Atsumu emerged, wearing a matching set of clothes. “Don’t call me that!”

“Is…” Osamu was at a loss for words as his brother and his boyfriend stood side by side behind the counter, terribly smug smiles stretched across their lips. “Is that what y’all’ve been doin’ this whole time?”

“The rest of them had it covered here.” Atsumu grinned. “We figured ya needed a few finishing touches.”

Osamu wanted to cry.

It wasn’t until he felt warm arms around him, his face tucked against Suna’s collarbone that he realized he already was. Their bar stools spun back and forth as Suna rocked his legs, their knees bumping together. Long fingers ran through his dark locks over and over again as he sobbed.

Atsumu was behind him, having climbed into the stool to his right. A hand rested firmly on his shoulder, thumb rubbing gentle circles.

“There, there little brother.” Atsumu’s voice was soft. “Everything’s fine.”

If there’s one thing Osamu has learned about his brother over the years, it’s that he’s a habitual liar. From white lies that were easy to shrug away to the massive lies that brought them to blows.

Everything’s fine.

Liar.

“No.” 

Osamu half-laughed, half-sobbed. 

“Everything’s great.”