The Knife That Cut Too Deep

The knife came down—thwack, thwack, thwack—against the cutting board. Steady. Practiced. Atsumu Miya had been cooking forever, or at least since he was old enough to reach the stove. Necessity first: parents worked late, and Osamu would eat instant ramen until his tongue went numb if left alone. Then pride. He liked being good at things. Liked the way ingredients surrendered to his hands.

But tonight, the onion fought back.

First tear caught him off guard. He blinked, wiped his cheek with his wrist, kept chopping. Second came faster. Third clung to his lashes like it had nowhere else to go. Halfway through the second onion, his vision went blurry—yellow and white smeared together—and his chest heaved with something that had nothing to do with sulfur.

Just the hormones, he told himself. Just the goddamn hormones. You're fine. You're fine. You're—

A sob cracked out of him. Raw. Ugly. He dropped the knife.

It clattered against the counter, loud enough to make him flinch, but the pew-pew from the living room didn't pause. They hadn't heard. Of course they hadn't. Osamu was two levels deep in some shooter with Kiyoomi, and neither paid attention to the kitchen unless food stopped appearing.

Atsumu pressed his palms against his eyes and tried to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth—the same breathing exercises he used before a big serve, before match point, before he stepped onto the court and became someone untouchable.

The baby didn't care.

The baby—Jesus, the baby—was a cluster of cells smaller than his thumbnail, and it had already flipped everything he thought he knew about himself. He was eighteen. Starting setter for Inarizaki, one of the best in the country. He had a twin who'd kill him if he found out, a boyfriend who played for Itachiyama and had a personal vendetta against physical touch. And Atsumu was pregnant.

Another sob escaped, wet and bitten-off. He pressed his fist against his mouth.

He could still taste salt from the tears dripping into his lips. His hands shook, and not from nerves—from the fact that his body wasn't his own anymore. He was housing a tiny, impossible secret, and it was eating him alive.

He needed out of the kitchen. Somewhere quiet. Dark. Somewhere he could fall apart without Osamu's sharp eyes noticing or Kiyoomi's silent scrutiny cutting him open. He stumbled toward the hallway, past the stove, past the sink. His footsteps were loud in his own ears but too soft to carry over the TV.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. He turned the lock with trembling fingers.

Light off. He didn't bother turning it on. He slid down against the door, back pressed to cool wood, and let himself fall apart in the dark.

He cried like he hadn't since he was a kid—ugly, gasping, full-body sobs that wracked his shoulders and left him breathless. Cried for the future he'd planned: Nationals, professional volleyball, maybe figuring out what Kiyoomi meant to him without the weight of a pregnancy pressing on his ribs. Cried because he was terrified, and alone, and had no idea how to tell the two people who mattered most that he'd shattered their trust without meaning to.

His phone was still on the kitchen counter. Couldn't call anyone. Couldn't text. Trapped in a bathroom in his own house, drowning in the dark, and no one even knew he was gone.

Eventually, the sobs tapered into hiccups, and the hiccups faded into silence. He sat there, legs pulled to his chest, forehead on his knees, trying to remember how to be Atsumu Miya—loud, arrogant, untouchable.

He failed.

Upstairs, the game paused with a digital chime.

Osamu had been reloading when he heard it. A muffled thump, like something heavy hitting a counter. Then nothing. Then, a few minutes later, the creak of a door and the click of a lock.

Didn't think much of it at first. Atsumu was always dropping things, slamming cabinets, making noise. Constant, grating, familiar. But then the noises stopped, and the silence stretched, and something prickled at the back of Osamu's neck.

He set the controller down.

"Oi, Sakusa. I'm gonna get a drink."

Kiyoomi grunted, didn't look up. His character stood idle, but his thumb still tapped the controller restlessly. "Don't take too long. I'm not going to carry you through the next level."

"Like you could carry me," Osamu muttered, but there was no heat in it.

He padded down the stairs, socked feet silent on the wooden steps. Kitchen empty. Cutting board abandoned, half an onion intact, knife lying at an odd angle. Stove off. Rice cooker on, but already clicked over to warm—which meant Atsumu had started cooking and then just... stopped.

Osamu frowned.

Checked the living room. Nothing. Checked the back porch. Nothing. About to text him when he noticed the bathroom door at the end of the hall. Closed. Light off.

Something cold settled in his stomach.

He walked over slowly, pressed his ear against the door. At first, nothing. Then a breath—shaky, uneven, like someone trying very hard not to make a sound.

"Tsumu?"

Silence.

"Tsumu, you in there?"

Pause. Then, hoarse and barely audible: "Go away, 'Samu."

Osamu's blood ran cold. Because Atsumu never said go away. He said get lost, or piss off, or I'm busy, dumbass. Not go away in that small, broken voice that sounded nothing like his brother.

"No."

He heard shuffling, Atsumu shifting against the door. "I mean it. Leave me alone."

"Not happening." Osamu's voice was calm, but his heart hammered. He tried the handle. Locked. "Open the door."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

Long, awful pause. Then, so quiet Osamu almost missed it: "Both."

Osamu pressed his palm flat against the wood, like he could reach through it. "Tsumu. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. Just—" A breath. "—just having a moment. Okay? I'll be out in a minute. Go back to your game."

"You're a shit liar."

"I'm a great liar, actually. You're just too stupid to know when you're being fooled."

The words were sharp, but the delivery was hollow. Like Atsumu was reciting a script, going through the motions because he didn't have the energy for anything else.

Osamu didn't move.

"Osamu?" Kiyoomi's voice from the top of the stairs. "The game's still paused."

"Game's gonna stay paused," Osamu called back, not taking his eyes off the bathroom door. "Get down here."

Beat of silence, then soft footsteps. Kiyoomi appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dark curls slightly mussed, expression unreadable. He took in the scene—Osamu in front of the bathroom door, abandoned kitchen, dim light—and his brow furrowed.

"What's going on?"

"Atsumu's locked himself in the bathroom and won't come out."

Kiyoomi's gaze flicked to the door. He didn't say anything, but something in his posture shifted—a subtle tightening of his shoulders, barely perceptible change in his jaw. He walked over and stood beside Osamu, close enough that their elbows almost touched.

"Atsumu." Kiyoomi's voice was low, even, almost gentle. "Open the door."

Silence stretched. Osamu could hear his own heartbeat, loud and thudding. The hum of the refrigerator. A dog barking somewhere outside. But from inside the bathroom, nothing.

Then, a sound so faint it might have been imagined: a sniffle.

"Omi," Atsumu said, and his voice cracked on the second syllable, "please just go away."

"No."

Kiyoomi's answer was simple, firm, absolute. He didn't elaborate. He waited, patient as stone, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe like he was bracing himself.

Osamu watched his boyfriend's face. Kiyoomi rarely showed emotion—one of the things Osamu both admired and found frustrating about him—but there was something in his eyes now. Something soft and unguarded, like a door he'd left open by accident.

"We're not leaving," Kiyoomi continued, barely above a whisper. "So you might as well come out."

The silence that followed felt like an hour.

Then the lock clicked.

The door swung open slowly, and Atsumu was there—kneeling on the tile, face blotchy and streaked with tears, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He looked smaller than Osamu had ever seen him, hunched in on himself like he was trying to disappear. His hands trembled, and he was holding onto the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Osamu's throat closed up.

"Tsumu..."

"Don't," Atsumu said, but there was no bite in it. Just exhaustion. Defeat. "Don't look at me like that. I can't—I can't handle you looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm broken."

Osamu knelt down in front of him, slow and careful, like approaching a spooked animal. "You're not broken."

"I am." Atsumu's voice cracked again. "I'm so fucking broken, 'Samu. You don't even know."

"Then tell me."

Atsumu shook his head, jerky, desperate. "I can't. If I tell you, you're gonna hate me. And Omi's gonna hate me. And I'll have nothing. I'll have nothing."

Kiyoomi moved then. He didn't kneel—not the type to lower himself to the ground—but he crouched, knees popping, and reached out to rest his hand on Atsumu's shoulder. Atsumu flinched, but Kiyoomi didn't pull away.

"We're not going to hate you," Kiyoomi said. "Whatever it is. We're not."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"How?" Atsumu's voice rose, thin and desperate. "How can you possibly know that? You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I—" He broke off, a sob tearing out of him. "I'm pregnant, Omi. I'm pregnant, and I don't know what to do, and I'm so scared."

The words hung in the air, heavy and fragile, like glass about to shatter.

Osamu's mind went blank.

He heard the words. Understood them. But they didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense, because Atsumu was a boy. His twin, his other half, the loudmouthed idiot who had never once in his life done anything quietly or carefully. And he was sitting on the bathroom floor, tear-streaked and trembling, saying he was pregnant.

Kiyoomi's hand stilled on Atsumu's shoulder.

For a long, terrible moment, no one moved.

Then Osamu exhaled, slow and shaky, and said: "Okay."

Atsumu looked up, eyes wide and wet. "Okay? Okay? That's all you have to say?"

"Give me a second, I'm processing." Osamu's voice was rough, but steady. "You just dropped a bomb on me, Tsumu. Let me catch up."

"There's no catching up," Atsumu said, voice breaking. "There's no okay. There's no way this ends well. I'm eighteen, I'm a setter, and I'm pregnant. Do you know what that means? It means my career is over before it started. I'm gonna be a father before I can legally drink. I'm gonna ruin everything, for everyone, because I was too stupid to use a condom—"

"Stop."

Kiyoomi's voice cut through the spiral like a blade. Sharp. Clear. Final.

Atsumu's mouth snapped shut.

"I said stop." Kiyoomi's jaw was tight, knuckles white where he gripped his own thigh. But his eyes were steady, locked onto Atsumu's. "You're not stupid. And you're not ruining anything. Not yet."

"Omi..."

"How long have you known?"

Atsumu's breath hitched. "A week. Maybe two. I didn't—I didn't want to believe it. I took three tests. Thought maybe they were all wrong, but they weren't. They kept saying the same thing."

"And you didn't tell me."

It wasn't an accusation. Just a statement, flat and hollow, and Atsumu flinched like it was a slap.

"I couldn't," he whispered. "How was I supposed to tell you? 'Hey, Omi, remember that weekend we snuck away from training camp? Well, surprise, you're gonna be a dad.' What was I supposed to say?"

Kiyoomi was silent for a moment. Then he shifted, lowering himself fully to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of Atsumu. Such an uncharacteristic move—Kiyoomi Sakusa, who hated sitting on anything that hadn't been sanitized, who refused to touch public surfaces without a barrier—that both Miya twins stared at him.

"You were supposed to say it," Kiyoomi said quietly. "And I was supposed to be there. That's how it works."

Atsumu's face crumpled. "I didn't want you to hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"You might. Later. When you realize what this means."

Kiyoomi reached out and took Atsumu's hand. Slow, deliberate, like handling something precious. His fingers were cold, but they wrapped around Atsumu's with a steadiness that made Atsumu's breath catch.

"I know what this means," Kiyoomi said. "It means we have a lot to figure out. It means things are going to be hard, and complicated, and I'm probably going to be terrible at most of it. But it doesn't mean I hate you. It doesn't mean I'm leaving. I don't do things by halves, Miya. You know that."

Atsumu stared at him, eyes wide and glistening. "You're not... you're not angry?"

"I'm processing." Kiyoomi's lips quirked, the ghost of a smile. "Give me a second. I'll catch up."

A wet, broken laugh escaped Atsumu's throat. He looked at Osamu, still crouched on the floor, face unreadable. "And you? Gonna say something? Yell at me? Tell me I'm an idiot?"

Osamu was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and ruffled Atsumu's hair, the same way he'd done as kids, when Atsumu cried over a scraped knee or a lost game.

"You are an idiot," he said softly. "But you're my idiot. And we'll figure it out."

Atsumu's composure shattered.

He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Osamu's neck, burying his face in his brother's shoulder. Osamu held him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed flat against his spine. He could feel Atsumu shaking, feel the damp heat of tears soaking through his shirt, and he held on tighter.

Kiyoomi's hand found Atsumu's back, resting between his shoulder blades. A grounding weight. A promise.

They stayed like that for a long time—three boys on a bathroom floor, tangled together in the dark, holding onto each other like the world outside might crumble if they let go.

Eventually, Atsumu's sobs quieted into shaky breaths. Osamu pulled back, eyes suspiciously bright, and cleared his throat.

"Come on. Let's get off the floor. You're gonna make your back hurt."

Atsumu laughed—wet and fragile, but real. "It already hurts."

"Yeah, well, that's pregnancy for you. Get used to it."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No," Atsumu whispered, "I don't."

They moved to the living room like a procession of ghosts, slow and careful. Kiyoomi guided Atsumu to the couch, his hand never leaving the small of his back. Osamu disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a few minutes later with three mugs of tea, steam curling into the air.

He handed one to Atsumu first, then to Kiyoomi, kept the last for himself. Sat down on Atsumu's other side, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

For a while, no one spoke.

The tea was hot and floral, some blend their mom had left in the cupboard. Atsumu wrapped his hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into his fingers. He didn't drink. Just held it, staring at the surface like it might hold answers.

"I don't know what to do," he said finally, raw and quiet. "I don't know how to tell Mom and Dad. I don't know how to tell the coach. I don't know how I'm supposed to keep playing volleyball when—" He swallowed hard. "When I can't even keep my own body under control."

"You'll figure it out," Osamu said.

"How do you know?"

"Because you're Atsumu Miya." Osamu's voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like stating an obvious truth. "You've never let anything stop you before. You're not gonna let a baby stop you now."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is. But you're not doing it alone."

Atsumu's gaze shifted to Kiyoomi, sitting quietly, tea untouched, eyes fixed on the wall opposite. He looked like he was thinking—really thinking—brow furrowed, lips pressed thin.

"Omi?" Atsumu's voice was small. "Say something."

Kiyoomi blinked, came back to himself. Turned to look at Atsumu, and something in his expression softened.

"I'm thinking about names," he said.

Atsumu choked on a laugh. "That's... that's really far ahead, don't you think?"

"I like to be prepared."

"You can't prepare for a baby. There's no such thing."

"Then I'll adapt." Kiyoomi reached out and took Atsumu's hand again, threading their fingers together. "I'll adapt, and I'll learn, and I'll be there. That's what I'm trying to say."

Atsumu's eyes welled up again, but this time the tears didn't feel like drowning. They felt like release.

"You're both insane," he said, voice cracking. "You do know that, right?"

"Takes one to know one," Osamu said, and he bumped his shoulder against Atsumu's.

They sat there until the tea went cold, until the last of the evening light faded from the windows, until the only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the steady rhythm of three people breathing in the same room. They didn't have answers. Didn't have a plan. Had nothing but each other, and a secret too big to hold, and the terrifying, fragile hope that somehow, they would find their way through.

But for now, that was enough.

Atsumu leaned his head against Kiyoomi's shoulder, and Kiyoomi didn't pull away. Osamu reached over and flicked on the TV, and the familiar glow of the game menu washed over them.

"We'll start a new file tomorrow," Osamu said. "Tonight, we just sit."

And they did.