Chapter Text
Depending on who you ask, Miya Osamu is many things.
He is the seventeenth student in Class 2-1, tenth ranked overall. He holds the second highest grade in modern literature, third highest in Japanese history, was the only one that failed the English listening assessment by two marks. Thankfully, he was able to redo it and passed by three marks.
He is the opposite hitter for the Inarizaki Boys’ Volleyball Team. Originally a setter in junior high before the position was passed to his brother, his flexibility allows for difficult plays and sets. Although he isn’t resourceful nor powerful, he can be tasked to score in a pinch, as his brother never fails to set the ball in his direction.
He is the sleepy-eyed, gray hair-dyed boy who eats in class, shares his food with precisely one person in school, and knows how to fight in the interest of self-preservation. He is quiet, observant, and thinks before he acts (most of the time). He is respectful, waits for others to finish speaking before replying, never forgets to bow or say thank you.
He is many things, yet many think he is Miya Atsumu. Can you blame them, when they were born thirteen minutes and fifty-three seconds apart, wouldn't settle down until they were holding hands as newborns, and wore the same clothes until they decided they weren’t actually the same as each other?
Osamu has always known this, but the realization didn’t hit him until a supposedly ordinary autumn day, when he’s observing the sky, monotone when he says, “Congrats on makin’ it ta All-Japan, ‘Tsumu.”
His hands are in his jacket pockets to stave off the chill that’s settled in the gym. Their teammates are resting, quiet spectators to their conversation. Atsumu pouts behind him. “Why arent’cha more frustrated, ‘Samu?”
“I am, ya scrub.” And yet, he keeps his voice flat like an onigiri pressed between his palms, the sheet of nori that hugs the rice. “I’m frustrated that I ain’t more frustrated.” Isn’t that the proper response, when both brothers were selected the year before, and now, it’s only one? How far did he veer off the path despite playing on the same team, participating in the same drills, having the same regimen? What does his brother have that he does not?
Why does this feel like a premonition?
He lets out a faint sigh to loosen the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his feet. “Ya worked hard fer this, ‘Tsumu, an’–“
“What, are ya sayin’ that ya haven’t been workin’ hard, too?” Atsumu snaps.
“Oh, I have. I just think they wanted people who’re crazy, like ya.”
“Hah? What’s that s’posed ta mean?”
Osamu doesn’t dignify that with a reply. “Look, I’m just as good as ya–“
“There’s no way in hell that yer better when I–“
“Just shaddup an’ listen, will ya?” The faintest snap sharpens his words, and Atsumu reels back. Osamu watches from the corner of his eye, notices how his brother’s sleeves are shoved messily to his elbows, eyes that shine like gold fixed on him. There is irritation in his gaze, a hint of goading, and a spark of disappointment. He turns to face the sky, again. “We’re on the same level skills-wise, but when it comes down ta it, I think ya love volleyball a smidge more than I do.”
The autumn wind caresses their ankles, stirs the volleyballs left on the court. This is a sport that they’ve played since elementary school, wide-eyed with uncoordinated hands, untrained fingers, mismatched feet. It is a sport that refuses to abandon them, not when their father walked away, not when their mother fell into depression, not when they only had each other to endure long nights and heavy silences, passing a volleyball between them.
And yet, it seems that it is no longer theirs, but Atsumu’s.
It starts with serve drills. The players stand on either side of the court, Akagi rotating between his teammates, shouting encouragement or corrections. Aran bounces his ball thrice before cradling it between his hands. He makes his approach, jumps, slams it home. It barely lands on the sideline.
Osamu stares at his own ball. Molten. Worn. Recently cleaned, dust wiped off. Suna stands beside him, tosses his ball for a standing serve. It goes over the net, plain and simple.
Atsumu stands in the opposite corner. The gym is quiet, save for the occasional call or caution, yet he presses the ball to his forehead in deep concentration. From the back line, he takes four steps, faces the net. With a toss, he makes his approach and jumps, the heel of his palm light against the ball. Osamu watches its course, straight as an arrow until it passes the net, swerving hard to land in-bounds. Atsumu smiles with satisfaction before crouching to retrieve another ball.
It's his turn. Osamu doesn’t have a pre-serve routine, simply waits six seconds after the whistle before his toss. He counts for himself, throws the ball, and makes his approach. He jumps, slams his hand against the worn leather. It flies across the court.
In fact, it flies all the way to the opposite wall, his teammates scrambling to avoid it. “Sorry,” he calls out, when they shoot glares in his direction.
“Osamu!”
Coach. He stiffens, slides his eyes toward him, standing on the side to observe. His critical eyes are narrowed behind his glasses. “That’s yer third homerun. Everythin’ okay?”
“Sorry, Coach,” he apologizes. “I’m still workin’ on those serves.”
“Bullshit.” Atsumu’s snort echoes louder than the balls in the court. “We’d been workin’ on ‘em since junior high!” Osamu ignores him, picks up another ball. He prays that it’ll be in.
And it is, but only because it’s a standing serve. He hasn’t done that since second year of junior high.
The last few balls fly as Coach calls for a huddle to discuss the protocol for their practice match after school. Osamu doesn’t pay attention, eyes downcast. He was first to hit a jump serve, used to boast about his accuracy because Atsumu’s were always out. No one else was successful until their third year, when Atsumu finally caught up. Then, over the summer, he dedicated long afternoons in the field by their house to practice his jump floater, after watching the latest VNL match, where France scored five service aces with jump floaters, alone.
Osamu didn’t join him. Instead, he was in the kitchen, utilizing the space while their mother worked, trying a different recipe from the cookbook that he borrowed from the library. When he reached the end, he’d return it and borrow another.
Atsumu never told him when he added jump floaters to his arsenal.
Maybe he was always plannin’ ta leave me behind, Osamu thinks as he does his cooldown. Or maybe, it was the other way ‘round.
“Hey.”
They’re filing into the locker room when his brother falls into step with him, glowering eyes radiant with disappointment. “Ya better not do those shit serves durin’ the tournament. Whatever ya were doin’ was scrub-worthy.”
“Shaddup.” There’s no heat, only resignation. “I ain’t listenin’ ta someone who looks constipated every time he serves.”
“If ya don’t get better, yer not gonna make it ta the camp next year, either.”
That makes him pause. Next year. This year’s hasn’t even taken place, and he’s already thinking ahead? What’s the point of thinking that far, when they haven’t even fulfilled their current goals? Osamu opens his mouth, closes it. “Whatever,” he mumbles, pulling ahead of him.
Their teammates exit one at a time, changed out of their gym strip and into their uniforms. Osamu glances around; Suna must’ve left already. They usually leave together, given that they’re in the same class again, the other second-years in 2-2. He changes out of his T-shirt, buttons his dress shirt, pulls on his sweater vest and blazer, then knots his tie. About to tuck his water bottle into his bag, he catches a flash of gray. With a frown, he reaches for it, pulls out a heart folded with origami paper – the same paper that he bought for Suna on more than one occasion.
It takes him a moment to realize that there’s writing scrawled on it, written in nearly illegible handwriting that is unique to a certain individual. I think you’re perfect the way you are.
When did Suna slip it in here?
He flinches at the hand that shoves his shoulder. “The bell’s gonna ring, scrub.” Atsumu doesn’t stop.
“Oh. Yeah.” He shoves the heart back into his bag, zips it shut. Shouldering it, he hurries after him, the last ones to leave. He’ll simply ask his friend about it later.
He does not have the chance to ask his friend about it later.
It’s lunchtime when he’s given a reprieve. Seated at their usual table in the cafeteria, he sits with Suna, Atsumu, Ginjima, and Kosaku, the newest addition to their team. He was supposed to start last year, but complications held him back. “We actually played against each other durin’ the qualifiers, but ya’ll smoked us,” he says between slurps of udon. “Seems kinda weird ta be on the other side, doin’ the smokin’.”
“Ya just need ta get used ta bein’ with a powerhouse,” Atsumu says dismissively.
“I know, right? A powerhouse with a setter goin’ fer All-Japan. That’s pretty major, isn’t it?”
Ginjima nods. “Both o’ the twins went last year, but it’s just Atsumu, this time. D’ya think they forgot ta send an invite ta Osamu?”
“Nah, they don’t invite scrubs. All-Japan is only fer the best, ya know?” Atsumu says through a mouthful, a bad habit that he never seems to have outgrown. “We gotta eat dinner altogether ‘fore I go. Ma’ll make a feast.”
At the mention of her cooking, Osamu glances down at his bento. Since starting their second year, he took over making their lunches. While she handles breakfast and dinner, he assembles their bento boxes with leftovers or prepares ingredients after dinner, often cooking alongside her in the morning to fry karaage, cook tamagoyaki, or stir-fry meat and vegetables. Atsumu always sleeps until the last possible moment, joining them as the table is set. Osamu wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t noticed the change.
The conversation shifts to local landmarks that Kosaku still hasn’t visited, having hailed from Himeji. Osamu listens, mentally assessing each mouthful he takes, making notes on the taste, quality, and consistency. He’s about to eat another mouthful of rice when a paper crane is placed on the table by his bento box, raising his eyes at its creator.
Suna has pushed his tray aside to make room for his elbows, practiced fingers folding his napkin with quick and careful movements. His eyes are narrowed, lips pressed in a pensive frown, slouched in his seat. He pulls the wings out from either side and places it beside the first crane. It falls over, unable to support itself. No one comments when he reaches over to filch Atsumu’s napkin and rips it in half.
This is the most that Osamu has seen him fold in one sitting all year, which can only mean one thing. “Ya doin’ okay, Suna?”
At the callout, the conversation slows, but Suna does not. “Yeah,” he replies, monotone. “Just anxious, I guess.”
“Wanna talk ‘bout it?” His friend has gotten better at admitting when his anxiety has spiked, although it hasn’t been recent, not since he maintained monthly sessions with the school therapist last year. The cranes have disappeared, only making an appearance when he’s bored. However, Osamu has learned to distinguish between cranes folded from anxiety, and cranes folded from idleness, and judging by how none of these cranes can stand, they’re made from stress.
“It’s today.” He folds the body. “The divorce proceeding.”
Osamu feels a twinge of sympathy in his chest. “It’s just my mom against…him.” Suna slows, fingers leaving impressions on the paper. “My aunt missed too many days of work and couldn’t get time off. I wanted to, even if…” He lowers his eyes. “My mom told me that I didn’t have to, but I still wish I was there.”
Little information was divulged, even though Osamu and Atsumu are also passengers in the same boat, victims of mistreatment from their own father before Ma divorced him. Custody will likely go to his mother, Suna told them, because they have proof of his father’s abuse. When he visited home last year, his father punched him, kicked him down, forced him to leave in the middle of the night. He hid his injuries, to the point that he collapsed from not taking care of himself. Osamu held him as he cried, revealing the hurt that he tried to ignore, a private, intimate sort of memory shared between them and no one else.
“Well, there’s nothin’ ya can do,” Atsumu says. Although his words are firm, his voice is soft. “Finish eatin’, yeah?”
There’s still more than half of his udon left. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbles, returning to his crane.
“At least eat ‘Samu’s onigiri. We have a practice match later, an’ it’d suck if ya weren’t at yer best. We gotta show that we’re better.”
Suna finishes his crane, places it at the center of the table. Osamu slides his container of onigiri closer, watches him take one, bites into it. Atsumu nods in approval. “The lawyer that’s helpin’ yer ma is good people, ain’t he? Ya met him, didn’t ya?” It was during the summer, which was why he missed a few days of their training camp.
“Yeah. He’s my aunt’s friend.”
“An’ yer aunt works in law, so she’s got lotsa connections. Even if ya ain’t there, yer ma isn’t alone. She’s in good hands.”
Osamu is astounded. His brother is a dick, most of the time, but when it comes to calming someone of their anxiety, he actually knows what to say. Suna nods, the pinch in his shoulders loosening, the second bite of his onigiri bigger than the first.
At the bell, they clean up and head to the second floor. Osamu and Suna wave goodbye to their friends, continuing onward to their own classroom. “Are ya addin’ those ta yer collection?” he asks, gesturing at the cranes that Suna carries in his hand.
“Probably not. I’ll leave them around.” For all the cranes left around the school property, Osamu has never found any of them.
“I honestly thought ya kicked the habit, since ya barely folded any all year.”
Suna gives him an unamused frown. “You don’t stop having anxiety. Besides, I still fold them for fun. It gives me something to do.”
They enter their classroom and walks between the aisles to their desks. Osamu stares at his bag hung over his chair, zeroing in onto the outer pocket, where the origami heart resides. “Ya added more shapes ta yer repertoire, huh?”
“Cranes are part of my muscle memory.” Suna sits down. “There are a few others, though.”
“Like, hearts, maybe?” Osamu ventures, taking his own seat.
“Mm, maybe. Why?”
Playing coy, huh. He can follow along. “Oh, nothin’, just that I found an origami heart in my bag this mornin’. With yer handwritin’. I didn’t know ya had origami paper with ya.”
“You mean, this?” Suna reaches into his bag to pull a familiar packet of paper out. “You’ll never know when I’ll need it.”
“Like today.”
“Like today.”
I think you’re perfect the way you are. “Why?”
Suna straightens to face him. “It’s repayment for your heart from last year.” The bell rings, their classmates scrambling for their seats. “Plus, you’re not your brother – you have your own skills and strengths. Why change who you are to become someone you don’t want to be?”
Their language teacher enters with a greeting. Suna turns away to retrieve his books, but Osamu simply stares, flabbergasted. It isn’t until the teacher announces a pop quiz that he snaps out of his reverie and fetches his pencil case.
Why change who you are to become someone you don’t want to be? As much as he wants to hold onto those words, it simply reinforces the existential dread that continues to hold his heart hostage. If I’m not my brother, then who am I?
Needless to say, he doesn’t get any question on his quiz right.
If you ask Miya Osamu who he is, he will stare at you with a blank expression. Then, emphatically, he will respond with–
I ain’t get a fuckin’ clue.
Consider his name. He mastered the kanji in nursery school, mindful of the rigid lines and radicals. When he was in elementary school, as part of his class’s calligraphy project, they had to share what their names meant. Ma explained it over dinner.
“Miya means ‘shrine.’ Osamu, yer name can either mean ta rule or govern. Atsumu, though, yer name can mean a lotta different things, but the ones that I like are ta urge others ta eat, ta suggest, an’ ta help.” She had her cheek on her hand, watching her twins shove rice into their mouths from their plastic bowls, one red and one blue. “I dunno if bein’ born thirteen minutes an’ fifty-three seconds is enough ta prove that yer the older brother, but since ya were first, yer s’posed ta help him an’ others.”
“Why does Osamu’s mean ta rule?” Atsumu asked through a mouthful. “He got picked on yesterday. The other kids don’t like him.” Osamu’s ears burned as he resisted the urge to throw his spoon at him.
Ma was unamused. “Baby, were ya gonna tell me that? Why don’t they like ya?”
“I dunno.” Osamu didn’t look at her. “They just don’t.”
“That’s why ya gotta be strong ‘nough ta rule over ‘em,” Atsumu says. “Ya know, like a king! People don’t mess with kings, right?”
“I would say yes, but kings can also be violent, an’ we don’t need that,” Ma said sternly. “Pa an’ I picked Osamu’s name first, actually. We want him ta be strong an’ lead his own life instead o’ followin’ after someone else. Atsumu, we want ya ta help others, an’ make ‘em feel better. If they don’t, ya urge ‘em forward, not push ‘em down. Ya got that, boys?” They agreed.
Who am I? It is the first thought that Osamu wakes to, the last thought before he falls asleep. It echoes every time he watches Ma and Atsumu eat his food, whenever Atsumu lands a service ace during their practice scrimmages.
Who is Miya Osamu? He contemplates possibilities when he brushes his teeth and stares at his reflection, dark roots contrasting his dyed gray hair. He considers the answer when running with the team, clad in matching shorts and T-shirts. He devises his thesis when sitting at the lunch table with his bento, a meal that he packed earlier in the morning with ingredients prepared with careful hands.
The conclusion is the same. I have no fuckin’ clue.
“Who d’ya think I am?” The words fall from his mouth one day after practice. He and Suna are walking back to the gym from the main building, after delivering some documents for Coach. It’s dark, the school yard illuminated with overhead lights, their footsteps echoing hollowly around them.
Suna has his hands in his shorts, shoulders tense to suppress his shivers. “You’re Miya Osamu.”
“But what does that mean?” he presses. “Like, who is Suna Rintarou? What makes ya who ya are?”
“I didn’t know we asked philosophical questions on Thursdays.” His friend releases a huff between his lips, frozen air lost in the darkness. “We’re products of our environment. The people that we’re around the most make us who we are, and to differentiate ourselves from them, we think for ourselves and have our own opinions.” He frowns, staring into the distance. “We try to step away from the paths that they set down for us by adding another road.”
Is it possible to add a fork, Osamu wants to ask, and still retain parts of yourself? The inquiry is lost when they return to the gym, and assist with cleaning up. It isn’t long before they separate at the bottom of the hill, Suna and Kosaku to the dorm, Ginjima and Atsumu and Osamu to the bus stop. They chat, and Osamu stares out the window. They say goodbye when they reach the twins’ home, and Ginjima continues down the path. Atsumu throws the door open, shouts at Ma, and kicks his shoes off. Osamu straightens them with his foot.
Dinner is routine, with Ma asking them about their days. Atsumu complains about the injustices against him, caused by his own idiocy; Osamu is quiet, as usual, but he can sense how unnerved his family is by his mumbles and lack of contributions. He dutifully wipes the table and starts lunch preparations while Atsumu washes the dishes. They don’t talk until they’re in their room, seated at their desks to do homework.
“Hey.”
Osamu glances at him. Atsumu has changed into his ratty sweater with Vabo-chan on it. Osamu has a similar one, of course, but he’s wearing his Inarizaki sweater, if only to feel like himself. “What?”
“Ya’ve been actin’ strange lately. What, ya jealous that ya aren’t goin’ ta camp with me?”
“No.”
Atsumu wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, right. Who wouldn’t wanna play with the best in Japan?”
“I’m not,” Osamu repeats. “I’m not jealous.”
“Repeatin’ it won’t make ya feel better.”
“I’m not lyin’.” He thought he was, back in October, but as the weeks passed, that envy waned, replaced with something that he still can’t quite identify. Relief? Happiness? Pride? “If anythin’, I’m gonna enjoy not havin’ ya ‘round. I deserve some peace an’ quiet.”
Two more days until his brother leaves for Tokyo. Osamu flips through his textbook, distracted by the paper cranes that line his desk. He still remembers how, last spring, he woke and found Suna asleep in his borrowed futon on the floor, utterly at peace. Overwhelmed, Osamu folded an origami heart by following an online tutorial – it was shitty and uneven, but it was supposed to convey his gratitude for everything that Suna did for him, to show that he cared for him.
Suna’s heart is still in his bag’s outer pocket. He leans over to retrieve it, blinks at the scrawled note across the front. I think you’re perfect the way you are. Which way is that, though? Which one is perfect – the way of Miya, or the way of Osamu?
For all his life, there had only been one, of the twins together. But maybe, after this week, there will be two, of the twins separate.
The weekend arrives, and he and Ma escort Atsumu to the station, where he’ll take a train to Osaka, and then the shinkansen to Tokyo. Atsumu stands tall in his team jacket, scarf around his neck, backpack heavy over his shoulders. Osamu, as well, is in his team jacket, and Ma has her own coat over her scrubs. “Are ya sure ya have the right directions?” she fusses. “Ya don’t have the wrong address?”
“No, Ma. It’s the same place as last year. I know the way.”
“Osamu was guidin’ ya’ll last time. We all know that ya suck at directions.”
Atsumu rolls his eyes, lets his gaze drift toward Osamu. He blinks back. “Ya better not slack off durin’ practice,” his brother tells him. “When I come back, I’m gonna work ya ta the bone.”
“I’d like ta see ya try,” Osamu replies dryly.
Neither of them move, but in the next breath, they each take a step and clap each other on the back, the barest hug that either are willing to give. The train pulls into the station, the doors opening. Atsumu takes a step forward, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m off.”
“Safe travels,” Ma says. Osamu echoes her.
Atsumu steps into the train, the doors closing. It pulls away, grows smaller in the distance, disappears down the track. There it goes. Osamu is truly left behind now, with no way for him to catch up.
He doesn’t know if he wants to.
“If ya want, ya can invite Rintarou-kun fer dinner,” Ma says. “He can even sleep over.”
Osamu nods, waiting until they’ve exited the station before he opens his message thread with Suna.
Me (9:23 AM)
Samu is off to tokyo
Wanna sleep over?
Suna Rintarou (9:23 AM)
Fuck yeah
Practice is casual, run by the third-years because Coach has an emergency. Kita dismisses them early, and Osamu waits for Suna to pack an overnight bag in the dorm’s common room. When he’s ready, they take the bus into town to eat lunch, study at the library, and then return home for dinner.
“It’s nice ta see ya, Rintarou-kun.” Ma gives him a hug when he enters. “Have ya been well?”
“Yes, Miya-san. Thank you for having me.” He bows and offers her his grocery bag. “We got some fruit at the supermarket on the way back.”
“Thank ya kindly. Osamu, get the futon set up, will ya? Dinner’ll be ready soon.”
For their first dinner without Atsumu, they have beef nabe, a warm and delicious meal in response to the cold winter day. They enjoy their peaches with tea afterwards, take turns in the bath, and linger until darkness descends onto the household, stars alight in the sky.
Osamu hangs off the edge of his bunk as he converses with Suna, hidden beneath his futon. The desk lamp provides a warm glow that allows him to admire his friend, wearing striped pajamas, hair down after his bath. “Have ya ever thought ‘bout what ya wanna do after high school?” he mumbles.
Pause. The blankets rustle as Suna turns toward him. “I…thought about going pro.”
“Wow.” Images of his friend wearing the red uniform of Japan’s National Team overwhelm him, his name written in bold letters across his back. “Really?”
“Yeah. There’s…nothing that I really want to do. People tell me that I’m good at it, so I might as well shoot my shot.” His exhale is long and low. “Don’t tell your brother.”
“I won’t. He won’t let go o’ ya.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Suna rolls onto his back. “At the same time, I don’t know if I should. My mom would probably prefer it if I went to university, or started working after graduation. Money is tight because of my tuition, the move, divorce, and…everything else. I want Riri to go to university, too.” Of course he would put his younger sister before him. “So, I don’t know what to do.”
Osamu hums. “Maybe ya can go ta university first. I bet ya could get scouted by one o’ the collegiate teams. Isn’t it easier ta play fer one o’ ‘em instead o’ goin’ straight into the pro league from high school?”
“Yeah, but I’ll have to move and live in the dorms, again. That’ll be an extra cost, on top of tuition, so I’ll probably have to work, or try for a scholarship. Even if I manage that, it won’t cover everything.” He glances at him. “What about you? I assume this is to help with your ‘who am I’ dilemma.”
Embarrassment floods him. “Ya don’t hafta put it like that.”
“It’s true, though, isn’t it? I assume that you aren’t going pro.”
“How–“
“It’s obvious, at least to me. I watch closely, too.”
Osamu is glad that the light doesn’t reach him, blush hidden in the dark. Suna adds, “Unless you’re still debating to, like me.”
“I dunno. I guess…” He glances at the top bunk, feels its emptiness over his head, the lack of creaks and shuffles, the deafening silence. “I never thought ‘bout it, ya know? It just made sense that I’d go pro with ‘Tsumu, that we’d be like, these super twins, or somethin’. Now, though, with him at camp while I’m stuck here, I think…” He swallows, heavy and tense. “I think it’s time ta make a fork in the road.”
The room falls silent. Osamu looks over, startled by the vivid emerald gaze fixed on him. “Where will that fork take you?” Suna asks.
“Closer toward Miya Osamu, I hope.”
“Which is what?”
“I dunno.” He closes his eyes. “Ain’t that part o’ the journey? I’ll just hafta see where it takes me.”
Sunday is their rest day, so the boys sleep in, huddled beneath their blankets. Osamu opens his eyes when he hears the door close, head raised at Suna kneeling on top of his futon, rummaging through his bag. “I’m meeting with Riri and my aunt for lunch,” he tells him. “We’re going to video call my mom.”
Osamu nods, hiding a yawn behind his hand. “If ya want, they can join us fer dinner. Ya know that Ma wouldn’t mind, an’ with ‘Tsumu outta the house, she’s gonna cook more ta compensate.”
“Oh.” Suna looks down in contemplation. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. I bet Riri-chan wants ta meet me.”
“I bet she doesn’t.”
Unfortunately for him, his sister does want to meet Osamu. After a quick confirmation from Ma, who is eager to open her house for his family, Suna asks his aunt, who happily accepts. He steps outside into the clear morning, and Osamu closes the door behind him.
Ma is leaning against the counter when he enters the kitchen, an expectant glint in her eyes. “Ya wanna take charge o’ tonight’s meal, baby?”
He nods. She steps forward to give him a quick hug, smiles at him with wide eyes. “Call me yer sous chef, then. What are ya thinkin’?”
Onigiri will definitely be served, although it won’t be the main dish. December is the advent of winter, with colder temperatures, shorter days, and longer nights. “How ‘bout oden?” he suggests. “It’s good fer lotsa people, an’ we can include a bunch o’ different ingredients in it.”
They devise a shopping list, and Ma drives out to the supermarket. Osamu starts preparations for his onigiri, guided by muscle memory – from measuring rice, washing it under a stream of water, letting it cook on the stove while he prepares the fillings. After the timer goes off, he spreads the rice in a large bowl to cool, finishes the rest of his prep, and waits until it’s ready for the next step.
Ma returns with ingredients for oden, and joins him to prepare them – daikon, tofu, a variety of fish cakes and fish tofu, and kombu. The dashi simmers in a clay pot on the stove, a particularly large one reserved for gatherings like these.
The doorbell rings as evening encroaches. Osamu welcomes their guests, smiling at Suna, whose nose and ears are bright red from the cold. He barely says anything before his friend is shoved aside. “It’s nice to meet you, Osamu-nii!”
Suna Rikako is barely at her brother’s hip, dark hair hidden beneath her toque, fluffy scarf around her neck. She is bundled in a bright red jacket and fur boots, small backpack over her shoulders. Her aunt steps forward to nod at him. “Thank ya fer the invite, Miya-kun. Please excuse our intrusion.”
“Ya’ll are welcome any time,” he replies, gesturing for him to enter. “Dinner is almost ready.”
They cross the threshold, and Rikako marvels at the open living room, framed photos hung on the wall, accolades along the shelves, kotatsu in front of the flatscreen TV. She turns toward him. “Nii-chan told me that your brother is in Tokyo, and that I shouldn’t meet him. Why not?”
Osamu shoots a look at Suna, but he simply heads upstairs without commenting. “I dunno why he said that.”
“I know why!” She beckons him forward, and he kneels until she can whisper in his ear. “It’s because he likes you more.” Heat washes over him, leaving him flabbergasted while she skips away to inspect the volleyball trophies.
In the hallway, Ma is shaking hands with Azusa. “Thank ya fer joinin’ us tonight. I’m Miya Kaede.”
“Suna Azusa. Thank ya fer takin’ care o’ Rintarou.”
“It’s my pleasure. Anyone who’s friends with my boys have a place under my roof.” Ma turns her gaze to Rikako. “An’ who might ya be?”
“Nii-chan’s younger sister, Rikako,” she chirps. “It’s nice to meet you, Auntie Miya!”
Osamu pours everyone a cup of tea before returning to his workstation. A handful of rice remains, last remnants of filling left in the various dishes spread on the counter. “Hey.” Suna joins him. “I can finally watch the master at work.”
“I’m almost done.” He wets his hands and gathers the rice. “How did the call go?”
“Fine. There’s still some paperwork left, but after it’s submitted, it’ll be done. We’ll be free.” Suna slumps against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. “She’ll stay in Aichi until she can find a new job here. I don’t think she’ll be settled before we’re third-years.”
“Ya’ll should join us fer New Year’s. Ma wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll see. We’ll probably meet with relatives to let them know what happened. I don’t have a lot of details yet.” He shrugs, falling silent. “You’re really good at that, huh.”
“What?”
He gestures. Osamu glances at his hands shaping the rice, careful caresses around the edges to form a triangle. Once it’s formed, he wraps it with nori and places it with the others. “I like cookin’ since it relaxes me. I like the process.”
“I bet Atsumu doesn’t cook.”
“He can feed himself beyond instant noodles. Ma made sure we wouldn’t starve.” Using a dishcloth to clean his hands, he stacks his dirty dishes to move toward the sink. “Help me set the table?”
The meal is pleasant, not at all awkward. Azusa and Ma chat about their respective work – Azusa as a paralegal, Ma as a nurse. Across the table, Rikako talks with Osamu, ignoring her brother as she fishes for gossip.
“Do you think Nii-chan is the best player on the team?”
“I’d say he’s one o’ ‘em,” Osamu answers. “He ain’t the strongest, but he’s got crazy flexibility an’ reflexes. I always feel confident blockin’ with him, ‘cause I know he’d kill the ball, fer sure.”
Suna hides an unamused frown behind his slice of daikon. “I’m hardly the best.”
“If Osamu-nii says you are, then you are.” Rikako fishes a piece of tofu from her bowl. “Did you make all of this? Do you like cooking?” At Osamu’s nod, she beams. “You should teach Nii-chan! That way, he’ll be able to cook for you. That’s what relationships are about, right?”
The boys stare at her. Suna lowers his bowl, about to scold her, but Osamu laughs. “I’d love ta teach him. I heard ya know how ta cook, too. How come ya learned but he didn’t?”
“Nii-chan would make excuses not to. Mom tried, but he got out of it every time.”
“Riri, if you don’t stop talking–“
“You can’t threaten me! I’m a guest!”
Afterwards, they clear the table, and the boys offer to wash the dishes. Rikako tries joining them, but there isn’t enough room in front of the sink, so she returns to the living room, where her aunt and Ma continue their conversation. Osamu runs a sponge over each dish, Suna rinsing and arranging them on the dish rack. “Oden was a good choice,” he remarks. “I was never a fan of it, but yours is an exception.”
“They key ta good oden is good broth. Lotsa places make it thick, but if it’s lighter, it’ll be easier fer the ingredients ta absorb the flavor.” Osamu passes him a bowl. “I thought ‘bout curry, since it’s a classic, but I figured I should impress yer aunt and Riri-chan.”
“You impressed them with the onigiri last year. I saw your mom pack them a box.”
“Good. They should have somethin’ fer the road.”
Suna rolls his eyes, adding a plate on the dishrack. “Aunt Azusa will drive me back after this. I like not having to wake so early for practice.”
“Lucky. Well, I don’t hafta wake too early either, now that ‘Tsumu ain’t here.” He pauses, blinks at his own reflection through the window above the sink. It’s the first time that he’s thought of his brother all day. Sunday is orientation, where the athletes tour the facilities, learn about the coaches and each other, and mingle. Atsumu must be busy, but he’ll probably call or message later. Osamu makes a mental note to check his phone later.
He removes the plug and watches the soapy water circle down the drain. “Where’s the kettle? I’ll make some tea since we got leftover fruit in the fridge.”
“I stacked dishes on top of it.”
“I’ll be careful.” Osamu walks around him, able to spot the kettle beneath the bowls, plates and other dishes leaning against it. He maneuvers them to create a large enough to pull the kettle free, fingers damp from the residual water.
“Wait, there’s–“
His friend’s caution is a second too late. A bowl slides and falls with a crash. Glass flies across the floor, larger fragments framed by miniscule bits, the blue pattern lost in the fray. “Shit,” Osamu curses. He hasn’t broken a bowl since he was a kid, after he slipped and fell, trying to get seconds. “I’ll grab a broom–“
Suna stares, eyes wide. He lowers himself into a crouch, hands hovering over the carnage, the slightest tremor seizing his fingers. “I’m- I’m so sorry.” His stammer is low. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Don’t worry, it’s just a bowl. I’ll sweep it, so don’t–“ Osamu cuts himself off. Suna closes his fingers around one of the larger shards. “Hey, don’t touch–“
“I’ll clean it up,” he repeats. “I’ll–“
Osamu drops to his knees across from him. “It’s- it’s okay.” He reaches forward. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Rin.” The name falls easily from his lips, the same as a leaf might fall from a branch, as rain descends from the sky, as time passes with every second.
It’s because of this natural order that Osamu misses the mark, entirely.
Suna flinches away, scoring his finger across the shard’s jagged edge. His breaths become heavy and frantic, eyes blown wide, emerald irises surrounded by a sea of white, bright with panic. Osamu’s mouth falls open uselessly, fingers closing around air. “Suna. Suna, I–“
“Is everythin’ all right?” Footsteps thud behind him. Osamu whips around, Ma approaching. Azusa follows behind, Rikako peeking from over the couch. Ma catches his eye, notices the broken bowl, then Suna. Her expression hardens, sweeping an arm out to stop Azusa before joining them, crouching down with a low voice. “Rintarou-kun, it’s all right. We aren’t gonna hurt ya fer droppin’ a bowl. Breathe with me, okay? Let’s take a deep breath…”
Osamu winces at his friend’s attempt to inhale. His hand snakes to the top of his forehead, where the sliver of a scar sometimes peeks out. Ma continues to murmur with a steady tone, encourages him to follow her rhythm. It takes several breaths before his breathing returns to normal, eyes gradually closing until they squeeze shut, tense shoulders drooping until he almost curls into himself.
“I’m sorry.” His whisper is tiny. Osamu drops his gaze, balls his hands into fists. He would do anything to eliminate his friend’s demons, to erase the trauma in his heart and replace it with freedom.
“Ya have nothin’ ta apologize fer. We’ll move ta the couch when yer ready. Don’t worry ‘bout this, either; my boys broke so many bowls an’ plates, one more won’t hurt anybody.” Ma gives his shoulder a tiny squeeze. “I’ll talk ta yer aunt. Osamu, stay with him.”
He nods and slides into her place when she stands and pivots around. “What happened?” Rikako asks behind him. “Isn’t it just a broken bowl?”
Suna flinches again, curls further into himself. Osamu bites his bottom lip; if he can hear snippets of their conversation, so can Suna. “Let’s head upstairs.” Offering him a hand, he pulls his friend to his feet, guides him around the mess, and across the steps. He closes the door behind them.
They sit on his futon. The silence is punctured by Suna’s breaths, head lowered, uninjured hand still clasped in his. “Sorry,” he rasps. “I should’ve put the futon away.”
“S’okay. Also, stop apologizin’ so much. Feels kind weird.” Osamu tries to joke, but he feels his friend stiffen, and he quickly adds, “Sorry, that was bad. I mean it, though. Ya did nothin’ wrong, an’ that bowl was already on its way toward death. We just hurried it along.”
Knocks sound on his door. “Baby, I have the first-aid kit fer Rintarou-kun’s finger.”
“I’ll get that.” He releases him, stands to meet Ma at the door. “Thanks.”
“Everythin’ good?” she confirms. At his nod, she lets out a small breath. “Take as long as ya need. We’ll wait fer ya’ll downstairs.” Patting his cheek, she retreats back to the living room.
Osamu returns to his side. “May I?” he asks, while opening the first-aid kit.
All he gets is a nod. The cut is along the length of Suna’s crooked pinky, bleeding shallowly. Osamu cleans it with an alcohol wipe, then places a bandage over it. He crumbles the garbage into the bin, leaves the kit on his desk, sits down again. Suna doesn’t look at him.
Faint chuckles echo around them, airless and void of humor. “I’m a fuck-up, huh? Riri is right – it was just a bowl. A year of therapy, and I still get triggered. Feels like a waste.”
“Don’t say that,” Osamu says softly. “Triggers are hard ta pin down ‘cause they aren’t always obvious. Fer the longest time, I couldn’t sit in the passenger seat after what Pa did, an’ even now, I still don’t like popsicles. Trauma ain’t a one-done deal; it’s somethin’ we gotta live with.”
“I want it done. I’m tired of all this.” His hands ball into fists. “I want to be normal, back when I didn’t give a flying fuck about everything. I still care, but now, it’s like…if I don’t care enough, my mind thinks something bad will happen. It’s the same when…when someone says my name, and now, apparently, it’s whenever glass breaks. I don’t…he…”
“Ya don’t hafta explain. Ya can cry, yeah? D’ya wanna hug?”
Suna nods, and Osamu wraps his arms around him, feels his shoulders shake as he cries. They remain like that until his sobs subsides, sniffles begin to slow. Suna pulls away, eyes tinged with red, blows his nose with the tissue that Osamu offers him. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t lift his eyes. Osamu remains, their knees and shoulders brushing, a gentle reminder of his presence.
“The scar on my head…” Suna tries to say. “My dad…threw a bowl at me. That’s why…the glass…”
“I’m sorry that happened ta ya. I’m sorry fer triggerin’ ya too, since ya mentioned ya don’t like that part o’ yer name. I just forgot an’…” he trails off, weighed down by warring emotions of guilt and sympathy. “I wanted ta call ya somethin’ other than yer surname.”
“It’s…hard. Rintarou is fine. Riri goes with Nii-chan, but then…” His throat seizes, breath stuttering. “Rin reminds me of my dad. I don’t like Tarou because one of my uncles on his side of the family had a dog with that name. There were…jokes.”
Osamu winces. “I’m sorry. That musta been awful.”
“That’s why I prefer my surname or full name, or whatever nickname that I get, like Atsumu. I…didn’t like it at the start, but I got used to it. I’m glad you never used it.”
Perhaps not, he thinks, but instead, he used a name that he shouldn’t have. “D’ya think ya’d ever feel comfortable with that part o’ yer name, again?”
“Maybe. It’ll take time. God.” Suna lets out a rueful laugh. “What wouldn’t take time?”
“Ya know…” Osamu rocks forward, fiddling with his fingers. “After what happened, I got scared o’ bein’ in a car, yeah? A therapist helped me with gettin’ over that fear by telling me ta associate it with somethin’ positive. I’d imagine goin’ somewhere like home or practice. Why don’t we try somethin’ like that fer yer name?”
His friend frowns. “How is that supposed to work?”
“Well, think o’ it like this.” He drops his hands. “Do ya trust me?”
“Yeah.”
“Will I ever intentionally harm ya?”
Suna’s brow crinkles as he slowly shakes his head. Osamu moves closer, arms open for a hug. “D’ya feel safe ‘round me?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Think o’ all that. Yer safe with me, an’ I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He inches forward, and Suna reciprocates, falling into his embrace. “Isn’t that right, Rin?” The name comes as a whisper, spoken with patient reverence reserved for one person, alone.
He feels him shudder, falling deeper. “Was that okay?” Osamu asks.
“Y-Yeah. I think so.”
“Okay. Just think o’ me an’ how ya feel safe ‘round me. I’m gonna call ya that again.” He takes a breath, says his name quietly. “Rin.” It glides off his tongue like it’s the most natural sound in the world, the missing letter in his alphabet, the one that he can never stop saying.
This time, there’s no reaction. “Rin.” Osamu wraps his arms around his back. “Rin.” He tightens his hold around his waist. “Rin.”
Suna draws in a stuttering breath, choking back a sob. “Fuck, Osamu,” he cries. “Why are you so nice to me?” His voice breaks him, makes him lower his head and close his eyes.
“It’s ‘cause it’s part o’ ya, an’ what makes ya Suna Rintarou.” He holds him tighter. “Ya deserve every part o’ ya.” Just like how even though Osamu shares the same surname as his brother, his given name is his own, giving him the right to forge a fork in the path.
If only he knows what lays down that path, away from his brother and everything that he knows.