Gold Chains and Soy Sauce

The late afternoon sun slipped through the blinds, painting gold stripes across Osamu’s worn wooden floor. The whole place smelled like soy sauce and sesame oil—that familiar scent that clung to everything from their childhood home, now stamped all over his apartment. A stack of cookbooks sat on the coffee table next to a half-empty mug of cold tea. The TV was on low, some cooking competition he’d seen a million times.

He wasn’t really watching. He was waiting.

The lock clicked, the door swung open, and there was Atsumu Miya, practically glowing. His skin had that warm, sun-kissed tint from the Paris spring, and his hair—usually styled to perfection—was a little tousled, like he’d just stepped out of a breeze. He wore a soft cream sweater that hung loose on him, and a thin gold chain around his neck caught the light with every move.

Osamu, sprawled on the sofa in an old hoodie and sweatpants, raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, the pretty bride finally returns from her honeymoon.”

Atsumu’s face split into a grin so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. He kicked off his shoes without untying them—one, two, thud against the wall—and padded across the floor. “Bold talk from someone who’s been wearin’ the same sweatpants since I left.”

“They’re comfortable,” Osamu said, not moving. “And I ain’t the one who got married. How was Paris? Did ya eat anything that wasn’t French bread and wine?”

“More than that. We had escargot. And frog legs.”

Osamu’s nose wrinkled. “Did ya throw up?”

“Nope. They were actually good. Ya gotta be more open-minded, Samu.”

“I’ll stick to rice bowls, thanks.”

Atsumu laughed—bright, unguarded, filling the small apartment. He dropped his duffel bag by the door and flopped down next to his brother. For a moment, he just sat there, breathing in the familiar smell, letting the post-travel haze settle. Osamu watched him from the corner of his eye. Something was different about Atsumu—beyond the tan and the new necklace. A softness around the edges he hadn’t seen before.

“So,” Osamu said, poking Atsumu’s shoulder. “Gonna tell me ‘bout the trip, or do I gotta drag it outta ya?”

“Let me at least give ya your gift first,” Atsumu said, sitting up and digging into his duffel bag. He pulled out two neatly wrapped packages—one bigger, one smaller. “This one’s for you.” He handed the bigger one to Osamu. “And this one’s for Sunarin.” He set the smaller one on the coffee table.

Osamu turned the gift over in his hands. The wrapping paper was navy blue with little gold stars, the bow tied with the kind of precision Atsumu usually reserved for setting volleyballs. “Ya didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Course I did. Yer my only brother, and I missed ya. Now open it.”

Osamu rolled his eyes but complied, carefully peeling back the tape. Inside a simple black box was a watch—sleek, minimalist, with a dark leather strap and a silver face that caught the light. He recognized it instantly: one of the brands he’d admired in a magazine months ago but never mentioned to anyone out loud. Atsumu must have noticed him looking, or maybe Suna had tipped him off. Either way, the gesture hit hard.

“Tsumu…” Osamu’s voice came out quieter than he intended.

“Ya like it?” Atsumu leaned forward, eyes eager. “I figured ya could use something nice for the restaurant. Makes ya look professional when you’re schmoozin’ suppliers.”

“It’s… a lot.” Osamu ran his thumb over the smooth face. “Ya didn’t have to spend this much.”

Atsumu waved a hand. “It’s just money. And you’re worth it, dummy.”

Something squeezed in Osamu’s chest. He set the watch down carefully on the cushion beside him, then turned and wrapped his arms around Atsumu in a fierce hug. Atsumu let out an “oof” but melted into it immediately, burying his face in the crook of Osamu’s neck.

“Yer an idiot,” Osamu muttered into Atsumu’s hair.

“Yeah, yeah.” Atsumu’s voice was muffled, but he was smiling—Osamu could feel it against his shoulder. “Best idiot you’ve got.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, the afternoon light shifting around them. When they finally pulled apart, Atsumu’s eyes were bright, and he was biting his lower lip, the way he did when he was holding something back.

Osamu noticed. “What’s with that face? Did ya break something in Paris?”

“No.” Atsumu’s voice came out thin. He took a shuddering breath. “No, I didn’t break anything. I… found something.”

“Found what?”

Atsumu’s hand moved slowly, almost unconsciously, to rest over his stomach. The fabric of his sweater wrinkled under his palm. He lifted his gaze to meet Osamu’s, and there were tears gathering at the corners of his eyes—not sad ones, but the kind that shimmered with something too big to contain.

“Samu…” His voice cracked. “I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like a held breath. Osamu’s brain stalled, skipping like a scratched record. He blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened but nothing came out for a solid three seconds.

Then his jaw dropped.

“Wait—what? Tsumu, are you serious?” He sat up straight, grabbing Atsumu by both shoulders. “For real? Ya ain’t messin’ with me?”

Atsumu shook his head, a tear spilling down his cheek. He laughed—a watery, joyful sound. “We found out before we left, but I wanted to tell ya in person. Wanted to see that stupid look on your face.”

Osamu stared at him, at the hand still pressed over his belly, at the glow that now made complete sense. And then he burst out laughing—a loud, surprised laugh that echoed off the walls. He pulled Atsumu into another hug, this one tighter, crushing, lifting Atsumu slightly off the sofa cushions.

“Ya idiot!” Osamu shouted, half-laughing, half-yelling. “Yer gonna be a parent! When did this happen? How? Obviously I know how, but—how far along? Are ya healthy? What does the doctor say?”

“Samu, calm down.” Atsumu was laughing too, gripping Osamu’s shoulders as his brother spun him around the room, feet skimming the floor. The world blurred in streaks of golden light and the familiar pattern of the wallpaper. “I’m fine. I’m eight weeks. Everythin’ is goin’ well. The doctor said I’m in good shape.”

Osamu finally set him down, but kept his hands on Atsumu’s arms as if he might float away. His eyes were bright, his usual deadpan expression completely shattered into something raw and open. “Eight weeks. So ya knew before the wedding? Ya kept that secret from me for a month?”

“Had to make sure everythin’ was stable first,” Atsumu said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “And I wanted to tell ya face-to-face. Couldn’t do it over the phone.”

“Ya coulda told me as soon as ya got back.”

“And miss the look on your face right now? No way.”

Osamu shook his head, but he was smiling—a genuine, unguarded smile that had become rarer these days. He pulled Atsumu in for another hug, gentler this time, mindful of the fragile new life cradled inside his twin. “I can’t believe this. I’m gonna be an uncle.”

“A really cool uncle,” Atsumu corrected, his voice muffled against Osamu’s shoulder.

“Obviously. The coolest. I’ll teach ‘em how to cook. And how to set a proper table. An’ how to avoid your temper tantrums.”

“I don’t have temper tantrums anymore. I’m a mature, married omega.”

“Sure ya are.” Osamu pulled back, his hands moving to rest on Atsumu’s shoulders. He looked him over with a critical eye. “Ya look good. Healthy. And yer not as pale as ya usually are after a long flight.”

“Paris agreed with me. And the morning sickness wasn’t too bad. Kiyoko—my wife—she took great care of me.”

“Good. I’d expect nothin’ less from her.” Osamu’s gaze dropped to Atsumu’s stomach again, then back up to his face. “Is it gonna be a boy or a girl?”

“Too early to tell. We found out at six weeks, but we haven’t had the next ultrasound yet. We’ll know in a few more weeks.”

“I don’t care either way. As long as the baby’s healthy an’ you’re safe.” Osamu’s voice turned serious, a rare steel entering his tone. “If anythin’ happens—if ya need anythin’—ya tell me. I’ll drop everythin’. The restaurant can wait. You’re family.”

Atsumu’s eyes welled up again. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I know, Samu. I know. That’s why I wanted to tell ya first.”

“First? Ya haven’t told Ma and Pa yet?”

“Not yet. We’re goin’ to their place tomorrow. Wanted to enjoy your reaction without Ma sobbin’ all over me.”

Osamu snorted. “Fair. She’s gonna lose her mind.”

“I know. That’s why I’m tellin’ her in a public place so she can’t smother me.”

They both laughed, settling back onto the sofa. Osamu grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. The silence that followed was comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of the apartment settling around them. Atsumu curled his legs up under him, leaning into Osamu’s side like he used to when they were kids, sharing a futon during bad storms.

“Tell me about the honeymoon,” Osamu said, draping an arm over the back of the sofa behind Atsumu. “Don’t leave out anythin’. I wanna hear about the food, the weird stuff ya saw, and how many times ya got lost.”

“We didn’t get lost. We had a map.”

“Ya have the directional sense of a blindfolded badger.”

“Rude.” But Atsumu was grinning. “Okay, okay. The first day, we went to this little bakery near our hotel. It was tiny, like, barely room for four people, but the croissants… Samu, I swear, they were melt-in-your-mouth. We went there every mornin’. The owner remembered us by the third day.”

Osamu listened, his head tilted, a faint smile on his lips. He could picture it: Atsumu in the morning light, dragging his wife by the hand to that bakery, eyes wide and excited like a kid in a candy store. He’d never change. Thank god.

“We went to the Louvre, but we only lasted two hours ‘cause I got bored,” Atsumu continued. “Kiyoko wanted to see every single paintin’, but I was like, ‘they all look the same after a while.’ She laughed and dragged me out for ice cream instead.”

“That’s why she’s the perfect wife,” Osamu said. “She knows when to cut your losses.”

“Oi. I’m a cultured man.”

“Ya think ‘romantic’ is a type of pasta.”

“That’s insultin’. I know what romance is. I just proposed in a volleyball gym, remember?”

“Points for originality. Deductions for ambience.”

Atsumu threw a cushion at him. Osamu caught it one-handed, smirking.

They talked for another hour, the words flowing easily. Atsumu described the Eiffel Tower at night, the Seine river cruise, the tiny crepe stand near Notre-Dame that made the best Nutella banana crepe he’d ever tasted. Osamu asked about the weather, the crowds, the prices. He made mental notes—places Atsumu loved, things he’d hated, foods he’d want to try recreating at the restaurant.

“Ya should come visit with Suna next year,” Atsumu said at one point. “We could go together. I’ll be fat and waddlin’ by then, but we can still do the touristy stuff.”

“I don’t waddle. And I’m not leavin’ my kitchen for a week just to watch ya eat crepes.”

“Then don’t come. More crepes for me.”

“I’m comin’. Just so I can make sure ya don’t get run over by a bicycle.”

Atsumu laughed, and the sound was lighter than it had been in months. Osamu’s presence had always been a balm—the one constant in a life that had changed so much in the past few years. Marriage, moving, a new city. But sitting here, in this cluttered little apartment that smelled like home, it was as if no time had passed at all.

The front door opened, and Suna Rintarou stepped in, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He took in the scene—the two twins on the sofa, the discarded wrapping paper, the slight redness around Atsumu’s eyes—and raised an eyebrow.

“Am I interrupting something, or did you two solve world hunger?” he asked, setting his bag down.

“Suna!” Atsumu scrambled off the sofa and threw his arms around the taller man. Suna stiffened for a split second before relaxing into the hug, patting Atsumu’s back.

“Welcome back, Miya. You look… annoyingly happy.”

“It’s ‘cause I am. And ya left me to die with your boyfriend for an hour. Good timing.”

Suna’s gaze slid to Osamu, who was still smiling—a genuine, rare smile that made Suna’s look soften in return. “He didn’t scare you off with baby talk already, did he?”

“Baby talk?” Suna’s head snapped back to Atsumu, then to Osamu. “What baby talk?”

Osamu cleared his throat. “Tsumu has news.”

Atsumu pulled back from the hug, looking at Suna with the same bright, tear-rimmed eyes. “I’m pregnant, Sunarin.”

Suna blinked. For a full three seconds, he was perfectly still. Then a slow grin spread across his face—an unusual sight from someone who typically kept his expressions as unreadable as a closed book. “No shit. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I knew ya’d be excited.”

“I said congratulations, not excited. There’s a difference.”

“Liar. I can see yer smile.”

Suna shrugged, but the smile didn’t fade. “Fine. I’m happy for you. And for Kiyoko. She always wanted kids.”

“She’s gonna be the best mom,” Atsumu said, his voice going soft.

Osamu stood up, walked over to his brother, and pulled him into a side hug. “You’re gonna be a great parent too, Tsumu. I mean it.”

Atsumu leaned into the embrace, closing his eyes. “Thanks, Samu.”

“An’ I’m gonna be the best uncle. I’ll teach the kid how to make onigiri before they can walk.”

“They’ll probably eat the rice raw.”

“That’s fine. We’ll start with rice balls. Simple.”

Suna moved past them into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “I’m making tea. You two want some?”

“Yeah,” Osamu said.

“With honey?” Atsumu added.

“One honey, one plain.”

As Suna filled the kettle, Osamu guided Atsumu back to the sofa. They settled in, side by side, and Osamu reached over to pick up his watch. He turned it over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship, the way the leather strap would wear in nicely over time. It was probably too expensive for a birthday, let alone a souvenir from a honeymoon. But it was from Atsumu, and that made it priceless.

“Ya didn’t have to,” Osamu said quietly.

“I wanted to.” Atsumu leaned his head on Osamu’s shoulder. “You’ve always been there for me. Even when I was a brat. Especially when I was a brat. This is just a token.”

Osamu’s throat tightened. He pressed a kiss to the top of Atsumu’s head. “Yer still a brat.”

“Yeah, but now I’m a brat with a baby.”

“A terrifying combo.”

“The world isn’t ready.”

They laughed together, quiet and warm. Suna came back with three mugs, handing one to Atsumu—steam curling up with the scent of honey and lemon—and settling into the armchair across from them. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through something, but his attention was clearly still on the twins.

“So,” Suna said without looking up, “what’s the due date?”

“Late November,” Atsumu said. “We’ll find out the exact date next appointment.”

“Winter baby. Cute. You’ll have to buy all new gear.”

“I’ve already started lookin’ at onesies. There are ones with little volleyballs on them.”

“Naturally,” Osamu muttered.

“What? It’s adorable.”

“It’s propaganda. The kid hasn’t even been born yet, and you’re already tryin’ to make ‘em a setter.”

“Better than tryin’ to make ‘em a chef,” Atsumu shot back.

“I’d be a great teacher.”

“You’d be a tyrant in the kitchen.”

“Exactly. Best way to learn.”

Suna sighed, the sound long-suffering but fond. “You two never change.”

“Why would we?” Atsumu said, lifting his mug in a mock toast. “We’re perfect.”

Osamu snorted but didn’t argue. He took a sip of his tea, let the warmth spread through his chest, and looked at his brother. The sunlight had shifted now, turning from gold to amber, painting long shadows across the floor. Atsumu’s eyes were half-closed, the glow of exhaustion and happiness mingling on his face.

“Ya should rest,” Osamu said. “Long flight, time difference, an’ ya still have to face Ma tomorrow.”

“I know. But I’m not tired yet.” Atsumu opened his eyes, meeting Osamu’s gaze. “Can I stay for dinner? I’ll help cook.”

“Ya always offer to help, and ya always end up watchin’.”

“That’s called moral support.”

“It’s called freeloadin’.”

“Also correct.”

Suna stood up, stretching. “I’ll go pick up some groceries. You two decide what you want.” He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and paused, looking back at Atsumu. “Really, Miya. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, Sunarin.”

With a nod, Suna slipped out, leaving the twins alone again.

Osamu finished his tea, then got up and walked to the small galley kitchen. He opened the fridge, scanning the contents—leftover curry, eggs, some vegetables. “I can make omurice,” he said. “If ya want.”

“Samu’s special omurice? Ya know I can’t say no.”

“Thought so. Go set the table.”

Atsumu slid off the sofa, moving to the cabinet where Osamu kept the bowls and plates. He pulled out two of each, setting them on the small dining table by the window. Outside, the sky was turning pink and orange, the city settling into evening. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked, and the distant hum of traffic filled the gaps.

“Samu,” Atsumu said, his back to his brother.

“Hm?”

“Thanks for always bein’ here.”

Osamu paused, a whisk in his hand, the eggs half-beaten. He looked at Atsumu’s back—the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he tilted his head just slightly when he was thinking. The same as it had always been.

“Don’t mention it,” Osamu said. “That’s what twins are for.”

Atsumu turned, a smile on his face that was soft and real and full of love. “Yeah. It is.”

The rest of the evening passed gently. They cooked together—Osamu at the stove, Atsumu chopping vegetables and passing ingredients. They ate at the little table, the TV on low in the background, and talked about nothing and everything. Atsumu’s hand would drift to his stomach every so often, a subconscious gesture, and each time, Osamu would notice and feel a surge of warmth.

When Suna returned, they gathered in the living room for tea and dessert—mochi ice cream that Atsumu had brought back from Paris, somehow still frozen in his luggage. They laughed at Atsumu’s stories of getting lost in Montmartre, of trying to speak French and accidentally ordering three desserts, of the pigeon that had stolen a piece of his baguette right out of his hand.

By the time the clock struck nine, Atsumu was yawning, his head drooping. Osamu insisted he take the sofa bed instead of going back to his own apartment.

“It’s already dark, and ya need rest. I’ll drive ya home tomorrow mornin’.”

“Ma’s gonna wonder where I am.”

“Text her. Say ya crashed here. She’ll understand.”

Atsumu was too tired to argue. He changed into a borrowed t-shirt and sweatpants, and Osamu pulled out the sofa bed, fluffing the pillows. Suna had already retreated to the bedroom, calling a gruff “goodnight” over his shoulder.

As Atsumu slipped under the covers, Osamu sat on the edge, his hand resting lightly on his brother’s shoulder.

“Tsumu,” he said quietly. “I’m gonna be the best uncle. I promise.”

“I know.” Atsumu’s voice was drowsy, but clear. “And I’m gonna be the best parent I can be. With a little help.”

“More than a little. You’re gonna need all the help ya can get.”

“Then I’m glad I’ve got you.”

Osamu squeezed his shoulder once, then stood up. He turned off the light, leaving only the soft glow of the moon filtering through the blinds. At the door, he paused.

“Goodnight, Tsumu.”

“Goodnight, Samu.”

The door clicked shut, and Atsumu lay in the quiet, one hand resting on his belly. He could hear Osamu moving around in the kitchen—closing cabinets, turning off the tap. The sounds of domesticity, of a home that had always welcomed him, no matter what.

A smile touched his lips. The future stretched ahead, uncertain and bright, but one thing was sure: he would never face it alone.

He had his twin.

And that was more than enough.