Midnight Skirts and Onigiri

The living room was dark except for the TV, which was playing some late-night cooking show Osamu wasn’t even watching. He was sprawled out on the couch, one leg hanging off the armrest, phone glowing in his face as he scrolled through social media. Practice had been hell—two hours of serves and receives, then a brutal three-on-three that left his palms raw and his legs feeling like concrete. He’d already showered, but the fatigue was deep, the kind that only solid sleep could fix.

He heard the front door unlatch and swing open—that familiar creak. Osamu didn’t look up. “’Tsumu, you better have snacks. I’m starving.”

No answer. Just footsteps. But they sounded wrong—too sharp, too rhythmic. Not sneakers. Heels.

Osamu’s thumb froze. He lifted his head, and it took a solid three seconds for his brain to catch up.

Atsumu stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding a little clutch. He was wearing a plaid skirt—short, barely mid-thigh—a tight white crop top showing off a strip of his stomach, and black heels that gave him four extra inches. Dark eyeliner, glossy pink lips, his hair swept back with a few strands loose.

And from the side, his ass was red. Handprint-shaped red, like someone had grabbed him hard.

Osamu blinked. Then again. The phone slipped out of his hand and landed on his chest. “Where were you, princess?” The words came out flat, meant as a joke but sounding more like an accusation.

Atsumu kicked off the heels like he’d done it a hundred times, wincing when his feet hit the floor. “Party,” he said, not even looking at Osamu. He tossed his clutch on the table and headed for the kitchen, the skirt swishing.

Osamu sat up, exhaustion gone. “You ditched practice for a party?”

Atsumu hummed, grabbed water from the fridge, and drank. Still in that ridiculous outfit, and Osamu had to look away for a second—seeing his twin in a crop top and skirt was too much.

“With who?”

Atsumu turned, leaned against the counter, and smiled smugly. “My boyfriend.”

The room went silent. The TV was still going on about folding an omelet.

Osamu stared. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh.” Atsumu’s smile widened.

“Since when?”

“A while.”

“A while?” Osamu’s voice cracked. He stood up, pointing. “You’ve been dating someone and didn’t tell me?”

“Didn’t think you’d care.” Atsumu shrugged, totally casual, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

Osamu ran a hand through his hair. His twin—obnoxious, volleyball-obsessed, loud-mouthed Atsumu—had a boyfriend. And he’d skipped practice. And he was wearing that. “Cover up,” Osamu said, grabbing a throw blanket and tossing it at Atsumu. It hit him in the face.

Atsumu caught it, mildly offended. “Rude.”

“You’re my twin. I don’t wanna see you dressed like that. It’s weird.”

“It’s called fashion, Samu. You should try it sometime.” But he wrapped the blanket around his waist anyway, tying it loosely. The skirt still peeked out, but at least the crop top was half-hidden.

Osamu dropped back onto the couch, head spinning. “Okay. Start talking. Who is he? How long? How did this happen? And why are you wearing a schoolgirl uniform?”

Atsumu sauntered over and took the opposite end of the couch, curling his legs under him. “First of all, it’s not a schoolgirl uniform. It’s a skirt. There’s a difference.”

“Looks like our old school uniform skirt.”

Atsumu’s smirk flickered—just a bit, but Osamu caught it. “Maybe it is. Maybe I stole one from the lost and found when I was a second-year.”

“You’re a creep.”

“You’re a hater. Anyway.” He waved a hand. “His name is… not important.”

“Not important? You just said he’s your boyfriend.”

“And? You don’t gotta know everything.”

Osamu narrowed his eyes. Atsumu was being evasive, which meant he was hiding something. Probably because he knew Osamu would judge him. “How long have you been dating?”

“Couple months.”

“Months?” Osamu’s voice pitched higher. “We share a room! We share a bathroom! How did you hide a whole boyfriend from me for months?”

Atsumu shrugged again, but a blush was creeping up his neck. “We’re not—it’s not like we go on big dates. We just… hang out. After practice sometimes. Or on weekends when you’re at the store.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. He worked part-time at a grocery store on Saturdays. So that’s what Atsumu was doing when he said he had “extra training” or “meeting friends.” Now it clicked.

“So that’s why you’ve been acting weird lately,” Osamu said slowly. “Leaving earlier, coming home later. Smiling at your phone like an idiot.”

Atsumu’s blush deepened. “I don’t smile at my phone.”

“You do. It’s creepy.”

“Shut up.”

Osamu leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell me who it is.”

“No.”

“Atsumu.”

“Nope.”

“I’ll find out eventually.”

“Good luck.”

Osamu studied him. Atsumu was never this cagey. He was loud, proud, overshared everything—especially if it meant getting a reaction. The fact that he was holding back meant he was worried about how Osamu would react. Which meant the boyfriend was someone Osamu knew.

He ticked off possibilities. Had to be someone from school or volleyball. Atsumu didn’t have much of a social life outside that. One of their teammates? Suna? No, they bickered too much. Ginjima? Too shy. Kita? Too serious. Osamu almost laughed at the thought of Atsumu dating Kita. But then he remembered the red mark on Atsumu’s ass—a handprint. Someone with big hands. Strong hands. Someone who could grab hard.

And Atsumu had said “a while.” Months. Probably started during spring, maybe earlier.

Osamu’s gaze drifted to the skirt again. It was definitely from their old middle school uniform. He recognized the pattern, the pleats. Why would Atsumu be wearing that? Unless it was part of some roleplay—no, he didn’t want to think about that. But it had to mean something.

“Is he a senpai?” Osamu asked quietly.

Atsumu’s eyes flicked to him, then away. “Maybe.”

“From our school? From Inarizaki?”

Silence.

Osamu’s mind raced through former Inarizaki players. Older, graduated senpai who might still be in the area. The handprint, the skirt, the evasiveness. Someone who had access to the school lost and found, or who might have kept a uniform as a souvenir. Someone strong enough to leave a mark.

And then it hit him.

The handprint. The skirt. The way Atsumu was blushing and refusing to say the name. The way he’d said “not important” like he was trying to hide something huge.

“You’re dating Aran-san,” Osamu said flatly.

The color drained from Atsumu’s face, then rushed back in a deep red. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. “What—how did you—”

“The handprint,” Osamu said, pointing at his own ass. “On your, y’know. Aran-san has huge hands. And you wore that old skirt—the one from middle school. You two went to the same middle school, didn’t you? And he’s always been nice to you. Too nice.” He paused, the pieces falling into place. “And you’ve been weird about Aran-san ever since he graduated. Always talking about him, bringing him up in conversations. I thought you just looked up to him.”

Atsumu buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”

“You’re dating Aran Ojiro,” Osamu repeated, louder. “Our former ace. The giant with the eyebrows. That Aran-san.”

“Yes!” Atsumu’s voice was muffled through his fingers. “Okay, yes! Are you happy now? I’m dating Aran-san! We’ve been together for four months! He’s my boyfriend! I love him! There, you got it!”

The room went still.

Osamu stared at his twin, who was now hiding behind his palms, ears bright red. The confession hung in the air like a volleyball mid-spike, waiting to land.

And then Osamu laughed.

It started as a chuckle, then grew into a full belly laugh that doubled him over, shoulders shaking. “You—you and Aran-san—I can’t—that’s—”

“Stop laughing!” Atsumu’s head shot up, face a mix of embarrassment and indignation. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” Osamu wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. “Aran-san. The guy who always scolded you for not listening in practice. The guy who’s like a full head taller than you. You’re dating him.”

“He’s very sweet,” Atsumu muttered, crossing his arms. “And he’s got a great personality.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does.” Osamu’s laughter subsided into a grin. “So that’s why you’ve been so happy lately. I thought you just got a new brand of hair gel.”

Atsumu threw a pillow at him. Osamu caught it easily.

“But seriously,” Osamu said, his tone softening. “Aran-san? Of all people?”

Atsumu’s defensive posture relaxed slightly. He looked down at his lap, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “He’s… he’s really good to me, Samu. He listens. He doesn’t treat me like I’m a handful. Well, he does, but in a good way. And he makes me laugh. And he’s patient. And he’s got these really big hands that—”

“Okay, too much information,” Osamu cut in, holding up a hand. “I don’t need to know about his hands.”

Atsumu smirked, some of his usual confidence returning. “Jealous?”

“Of you with Aran-san? Not even a little bit.” Osamu leaned back, crossing his arms. “But I gotta say, I didn’t peg him for the type to date someone who wears schoolgirl skirts to parties.”

“It was a costume party,” Atsumu said quickly. “Theme was ‘school days.’ And Aran-san said I looked cute.”

“He’s blind.”

“You’re just salty because you’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“I’ve had girlfriends.”

“That one girl from the convenience store lasted two weeks.”

“She moved.”

“She moved because you kept talking about onigiri at dinner.”

Osamu opened his mouth to retort, but he couldn’t argue with that. “Okay, fair point. But still. You and Aran-san.” He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Does Kita-san know?”

“No one knows,” Atsumu said quickly. “Just you. And I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind. I don’t need the whole team knowing about my love life.”

“So you told me before anyone else.” Osamu felt a warm flicker in his chest. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but that meant something.

Atsumu shrugged, but his eyes were soft. “You’re my twin. You were gonna find out eventually. Might as well get it over with.”

“And you waited until you were dressed like a sexy schoolgirl to tell me.”

“I told you, it was a costume party.”

“Sure it was.”

Atsumu stuck his tongue out. Osamu responded by flicking his forehead.

“Ow!”

“You deserve it for keeping secrets.” Osamu stood up, stretching his arms over his head. His back cracked loudly. “Alright. I’m making onigiri. We’re gonna celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Atsumu asked, watching him.

“I dunno. The fact that you finally got a boyfriend? Or the fact that he’s Aran-san? Either way, I’m hungry, and I’m not cooking for myself.”

Atsumu’s face split into a genuine smile, not the smug one he usually wore. “You’re not gonna yell at me for skipping practice?”

“I’ll yell at you tomorrow. Tonight, we eat.” Osamu headed toward the kitchen, already pulling out a bowl of rice from the fridge. “But you’re changing out of that skirt first. It’s distracting.”

“You’re just jealous that I pull it off better than you.”

“I’m not wearing a skirt.”

“You could. I think you’d look good in one. Aran-san might even—”

“Finish that sentence and I’m putting wasabi in your onigiri.”

Atsumu laughed, a bright, easy sound that filled the small apartment. He got up, the blanket trailing behind him, and disappeared into their shared room to change.

Osamu stood at the kitchen counter, mixing the rice with seasoned vinegar. His mind was still spinning from the revelation. Atsumu and Aran. It made a weird kind of sense, actually. Aran had always been patient with Atsumu’s antics, always the one to calm him down when he got too worked up. And Atsumu had always looked up to him, always talked about him with a certain fondness that Osamu had written off as senpai worship.

But now he knew better.

He heard the bedroom door open and Atsumu shuffled out in a pair of loose sweats and an oversized hoodie—probably Aran’s, judging by the size. He’d washed off most of the makeup too, leaving his face pink and clean.

“That better?” Atsumu asked, flopping onto a kitchen stool.

“Much.” Osamu grabbed a sheet of nori. “Tuna or salmon?”

“Salmon.”

“Of course. You always pick the expensive one.”

“You asked.”

Osamu shook his head, but he was smiling. He worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, shaping the rice into neat triangles, wrapping them with nori, and setting them on a plate.

Atsumu watched him, chin resting on his hand. “You know, I was kinda scared to tell you.”

Osamu glanced up. “Scared? Of me?”

“Not scared, like, scared. But… nervous. I didn’t know how you’d take it. You can be really protective sometimes. And I know you and Aran-san weren’t super close, so I thought maybe you’d think it was weird.”

“It is weird.”

“Samu.”

“But it’s also kinda cute.” Osamu slid the plate of onigiri across the counter. “Eat. You’re probably hungry after all that partying.”

Atsumu picked up an onigiri and took a bite. His eyes closed in contentment. “You make the best onigiri.”

“I know.”

“And you’re the best twin.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

“Is it working?”

Osamu sat down across from him with his own onigiri. “Maybe. A little. But don’t let it get to your head.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the chewing and the TV, which had moved on to a drama about a detective and his cat. Osamu finished his first onigiri and reached for another.

“So,” he said, “when do I get to meet the boyfriend officially? Or have I already met him a million times without knowing?”

Atsumu swallowed. “You’ve met him. But officially… I was thinking maybe next weekend? He wants to take us both out to dinner. Proper like.”

“Us? Both of us?”

“Yeah. He said he wants to get your approval. And he’s scared of you, by the way.”

Osamu snorted. “Aran-san’s not scared of anyone.”

“He is of you. He says you have a ‘judgy stare.’”

“I do not have a judgy stare.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

Osamu realized his eyebrows were furrowed and deliberately relaxed his face. “Fine. Tell him I’ll come. But he’s paying.”

“He already offered to pay.”

“Good. Then I’ll order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“You’re so petty.”

“Learned from the best.”

Atsumu grinned, and for a moment, he looked younger, softer, more like the kid Osamu had grown up with than the flashy setter the whole volleyball world knew. “Thanks, Samu. For not making it weird.”

“It’s still weird. But I’ll get used to it.” Osamu picked up another onigiri. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t ditch practice again. Kita-san will kill you, and I’m not cleaning up the mess.”

Atsumu laughed. “Deal.”

“And tell Aran-san that if he ever makes you cry, I’ll make sure his onigiri is always salted with sorrow.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” Atsumu’s smile softened. “I’ll tell him.”

They finished the plate of onigiri, arguing over who got the last piece (Osamu won by virtue of being the one who made them), and then settled back on the couch to watch the detective drama. Atsumu leaned against the armrest, his feet tucked under Osamu’s thigh for warmth, like they used to do when they were kids.

Osamu didn’t say anything. He just let his twin steal his body heat and pretended not to notice.

After a while, Atsumu spoke again, his voice sleepy. “Hey, Samu?”

“Mm?”

“If you ever wanna borrow that skirt, just ask. I’m sure Aran-san wouldn’t mind seeing you in it.”

Osamu kicked his feet off his lap. “I’m going to bed.”

“No, wait, I was joking!”

“Goodnight, Atsumu.”

“Samu! Come back! I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow!”

“You’ll burn the toast.”

“I’ll try really hard not to!”

Osamu paused at the doorway to their room—they shared it, but they’d set up a partition with a bookshelf to create the illusion of privacy. He looked back at his twin, who was grinning at him from the couch, a little sheepish, a lot happy.

“You’re an idiot,” Osamu said.

“Your idiot,” Atsumu replied.

“Unfortunately.” But Osamu was smiling as he turned away. “Night, ‘Tsumu.”

“Night, Samu. Thanks for the onigiri.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Osamu crawled into his futon, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Through the gap in the bookshelf, he could see the soft glow of the TV reflecting off the living room wall, and he could hear Atsumu humming along to the drama’s theme song.

He closed his eyes, a smile still on his face.

Aran Ojiro. Of all people.

But maybe that was exactly the kind of person Atsumu needed.

And maybe, just maybe, Osamu was okay with that.