The Octopus Sausage Incident

The first sign was the eggs.

Osamu didn't think much of it when Atsumu woke up early Monday. His twin was always an early riser—usually out the door before the sun cleared the horizon to practice serves against the gym wall. But this time, when Osamu stumbled into the kitchen at 6:15, Atsumu was already there, standing over the stove with a spatula, humming some pop song Osamu didn't recognize.

"What're you doin'?" Osamu asked, rubbing his eyes.

Atsumu turned. Osamu nearly stepped back. His twin was smiling. Not his usual sharp grin or obnoxious smirk—soft. Dreamy. His cheeks were pink, and it had nothing to do with the stove.

"Makin' breakfast," Atsumu said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"You don't cook."

"I'm learnin'." Atsumu gestured to the counter, where a bento box sat open. Inside, rice shaped into a perfect heart, tamagoyaki cut into star shapes, little octopus sausages with smiling faces.

Osamu stared. "Did ya hit your head?"

"No." Atsumu's smile didn't waver. He flipped an egg with theatrical precision. "Go sit down. Made enough for both of us."

Weird. All of it was weird. But Osamu let it slide—figured it was a phase, or some new obsession his brother picked up. Atsumu was like that: intense about everything, always. He threw himself into things with the same ferocity he threw into volleyball. Maybe he'd decided to become a chef overnight. Wouldn't be the strangest thing he'd done.

But the bento with the heart-shaped rice stuck with him all day. Next day, Atsumu woke up even earlier to make another. And another. By Wednesday, Osamu counted five elaborate bento boxes, each more intricate than the last. Atsumu stopped eating breakfast with him entirely, claimed he was "full" from tasting.

Second sign.

"Ya ain't eatin' lunch," Osamu said Thursday, watching Atsumu pack a single wrapped sandwich. "What happened to all those fancy boxes?"

Atsumu's eyes darted. "I, uh—savin' 'em. For later."

"Later when?"

"Later later. Stop bein' nosy."

Osamu let it go. But he watched. He was good at watching—quiet twin's superpower. Noticed the way Atsumu kept checking his phone during breaks, thumb hovering before he smiled and typed something. Noticed his voice dropping an octave when he answered calls, stepping away from the team with a softness Osamu had never heard. Noticed him offering to fetch water for everyone during practice, running to the cooler with manic eagerness.

"Since when do ya play water boy?" Suna asked, eyebrow raised as Atsumu dashed past with three bottles.

"Just bein' nice," Atsumu called back, bright.

Suna turned to Osamu. "Is he sick?"

"Dunno." Osamu muttered. "But I'm gonna find out."

---

Discovery happened Friday.

Practice week was in full swing. Inarizaki's gym packed with players from powerhouse schools—sharp white of Itachiyama, bold colors of Fukurodani, familiar faces of Mujinazaka and Kamomedai. Air thick with sweat and squeaking shoes. Coaches shouting drills, balls slapping palms, constant rhythm.

Osamu finished a rotation and noticed Atsumu slip out during the hydration break. Not supposed to leave—Kita's rules clear about staying within designated areas. But Atsumu never followed rules when he thought no one was watching.

Osamu followed.

Didn't bother being subtle. If Atsumu was doing something stupid, he wanted to catch him red-handed. But when he rounded the corner toward the locker rooms, he stopped short.

Atsumu stood in front of the vending machines, holding his phone in one hand, a bento box in the other. And beside him, leaning against the wall with crossed arms, was Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Osamu's brain short-circuited. Sakusa Kiyoomi. Itachiyama ace. The guy who wore masks indoors and flinched if anyone got within a meter. Reputation for being cold, distant, absolutely obsessed with cleanliness. Standing next to Atsumu. While Atsumu handed him the bento.

"I made the tamagoyaki with less sugar this time," Atsumu was saying, soft and eager. "Like ya asked. And I used the mold ya sent for the rice—see? It's a bear."

Sakusa took the box without a word. Opened it, inspected with clinical precision, nodded once. "Acceptable."

Atsumu beamed.

Osamu felt something cold settle in his stomach. He stepped forward, shoes squeaking. "Atsumu."

Both turned. Atsumu's expression shifted—surprise to guilt to defiance in a second. Sakusa's face unreadable, dark eyes flickering over Osamu with mild disinterest.

"Osamu," Atsumu said, voice too high. "What're ya doin' here?"

"I should be askin' ya that." Osamu crossed his arms. "Who's this?"

He knew exactly who. But wanted to hear Atsumu say it.

Atsumu's hand shot out, grabbed Sakusa's arm. "This is Kiyoomi. He's my—we're—" He paused, cheeks flooding. "We're together."

"Together," Osamu repeated flatly.

"Datin'," Atsumu clarified, like Osamu was stupid. "He's my boyfriend."

Sakusa didn't acknowledge the label. Just stood there, letting Atsumu cling to his sleeve, expression bored. "Are we done here? I need to sanitize before next drill."

"Yeah, sure, Omi." Atsumu's voice dropped soft again. "Go ahead. I'll bring water to ya later."

Sakusa walked away without another word. Atsumu watched him go, eyes practically heart-shaped.

Osamu grabbed his twin by the shoulder. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"Don't play dumb." Osamu's voice low, sharp. "Ya been makin' bento for him? Sneakin' off? Since when do ya date anyone, let alone that—" He gestured vaguely. "That guy?"

Atsumu's expression hardened. "Since a few months. We met at a camp last summer. It's serious, Osamu. He gets me."

"He gets you?" Osamu laughed, no humor. "He looked at your food like a lab specimen. Didn't even say thank ya."

"He doesn't have to. I want to do this for him." Atsumu's jaw set. "Ya wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

But Atsumu just shook his head and walked away, leaving Osamu alone in the corridor with humming vending machines and a growing sense of dread.

---

Red flags piled up faster than Osamu could count.

During next break, Sakusa clicked his water bottle twice—sharp, deliberate sound—and Atsumu launched off the bench like he'd been electrocuted. Grabbed Sakusa's bottle, refilled at the cooler, brought it back with reverence usually reserved for religious rituals. Didn't even glance at his own teammates. Didn't even glance at Osamu.

"Does he have a leash on him or somethin'?" Suna muttered, watching Atsumu hover at Sakusa's side.

"Shut up," Osamu snapped.

But the image stuck. Atsumu kneeling next to Sakusa, asking if he wanted more water. Sakusa nodding without looking. Atsumu scurrying away to fetch it.

Wrong. All of it was wrong.

Final straw came Saturday morning, when Atsumu made an announcement.

They were all gathered in the gym, players from every team sitting in loose clusters while coaches discussed the day's schedule. Atsumu stood in the middle of the circle, hands clasped, face glowing with excitement.

"I got somethin' to say," he announced. Everyone fell quiet.

Kita looked up from his notebook. Suna and Aran exchanged glances. Osamu felt his stomach drop.

"I've decided," Atsumu said, voice ringing out, "that after high school, I'm gonna quit volleyball."

Silence. Then a ripple of murmurs.

"What?" Aran said.

"Quit?" Suna echoed.

Atsumu held up his hand. "Let me finish. I'm gonna marry Kiyoomi. He's gonna play for MSBY in the V.League, and I'm gonna be his househusband. I'll take care of everything—cook his meals, clean his apartment, manage his schedule." He smiled dreamily. "Gonna be perfect."

Osamu shot to his feet. "Are ya out of your mind?"

Atsumu's smile faltered. "What?"

"Volleyball is your life. Ya been playin' since ya were a kid. Ya wanna throw all that away to be someone's maid?"

"It's not throwin' away." Atsumu's voice turned sharp. "It's choosin' somethin' else. Somethin' more important."

"This is insane." Osamu looked around, searching for support. Kita's expression calm but troubled. Suna had his phone out but eyes fixed on Atsumu with unusual seriousness. Aran looked like he wanted to intervene but didn't know how.

Sakusa, sitting a few meters away, didn't even look up.

"Ya don't understand," Atsumu said, voice cracking. "This is love."

"This is stupidity," Osamu shot back.

Tension thick enough to choke on. A coach cleared his throat, said something about getting back to drills. Damage done. Osamu watched his brother walk toward Sakusa, watched Sakusa dismiss him with a wave, watched Atsumu's shoulders slump before he straightened them with visible effort.

Had to do something. But what?

---

Observations continued.

Osamu watched Sakusa critique Atsumu's serve form during a joint drill, calling it "sloppy" and "amateur." Atsumu—who had one of the best serves in the country—nodded meekly and promised to work on it.

Watched Sakusa confiscate Atsumu's lunch and replace it with a plain salad, saying he needed to "watch his weight." Atsumu ate it without complaint, even though he'd been complaining about hunger all morning.

Watched Atsumu check his phone every five minutes, typing out messages with frantic speed, waiting with bated breath for a reply. When Sakusa texted back—usually one or two words—Atsumu's entire face lit up.

"Sakusa said I can have a snack," Atsumu told Osamu proudly, holding up a rice cracker.

Osamu grabbed his wrist. "Atsumu, listen. Ya don't need permission to eat. That's not normal."

"It's sweet. He cares about my health."

"He's controllin' ya."

"He's lovin' me." Atsumu yanked his arm away. "Why can't ya just be happy for me?"

"Because I can see what's happenin'!" Osamu's voice rose. "He's isolatin' ya, he's changin' ya, he's—"

"He's makin' me better." Atsumu's eyes blazed. "I used to be so selfish. So loud. So annoyin'. But Omi helps me be quiet. Be calm. Be good. That's what I need."

"What ya need," Osamu said, voice dropping to a whisper, "is to remember who ya are."

Atsumu's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, expression shifting—fear, eagerness, desperation. "I have to go. He needs a towel."

"Let him get his own towel."

Atsumu didn't answer. Just ran.

---

Confrontation came during a practice match on the final day.

Inarizaki versus Itachiyama. Gym packed, atmosphere electric. Both teams playing hard, score tight at 23-21 in Itachiyama's favor. Osamu on the bench, watching Atsumu set with usual brilliance—quick, precise, unpredictable tosses keeping blockers guessing.

But then he saw it.

Sakusa, standing on the opposite side of the net, made a small hand gesture. Flick of fingers, almost invisible unless you were looking. And Atsumu, receiving the ball, changed course mid-motion. Instead of setting to Aran, wide open on the left, he sent a high, floating ball directly to Sakusa's position.

Easy kill for Sakusa. Also a deliberate miss—set too high, too slow, giving Itachiyama's blockers ample time. Inarizaki lost the point.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Aran turned, confusion on his face. Kita's eyes narrowed.

Osamu saw red.

He was off the bench and on the court before anyone could stop him. Grabbed Atsumu by the collar, dragged him away from the net. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?" Atsumu's voice shaky.

"Ya threw the point. On purpose." Osamu's voice loud enough for the whole gym. "He told ya to, didn't he? He signaled ya, and ya did it."

"Osamu, shut up—"

"No." Osamu turned to face Sakusa, standing calmly on the other side of the net, mask in place, expression unreadable. "What kind of person does that? Manipulatin' my brother into throwin' a match just so ya can look good?"

Sakusa tilted his head. "I didn't manipulate anyone. He chose to set to me."

"Because ya told him to!"

"Did I?" Sakusa's voice cold, measured. "I simply adjusted my positioning. Atsumu, as a good setter, read my movement and responded accordingly. That's not manipulation. That's volleyball."

"Don't twist it," Osamu snarled. "Ya've been twistin' him for months. Makin' him cook for ya, fetch for ya, ask permission to breathe. He's gonna quit volleyball for ya. He's gonna throw away his whole future because ya taught him his only value is servi—"

"Osamu, stop!" Atsumu's voice cracked, raw, desperate. He was crying now, tears streaming. "Ya don't know what you're talkin' about!"

"I know exactly what I'm talkin' about." Osamu faced his twin, heart pounding. "I've watched ya disappear piece by piece. Ya used to be loud, annoyin', confident. Ya used to fight me for everythin'. Now ya just roll over and let him walk all over ya. That's not love, Atsumu. That's—"

"It is love!" Atsumu screamed. "It's the first time anyone's ever wanted me for more than my settin'! Omi sees me—the real me—and he wants me anyway!"

"He sees someone he can control!" Osamu shouted back. "There's a difference!"

Silence. Gym utterly silent. Players from both teams frozen, watching the twins tear each other apart.

Sakusa spoke, voice cutting through like a knife. "Atsumu. Handle your family."

Atsumu flinched. Looked at Sakusa, then at Osamu. Face crumpled.

"I can't," he whispered. "I can't lose him."

"Ya can't lose yourself either," Osamu said, voice breaking.

But Atsumu wasn't listening. He turned and ran after Sakusa, who was already walking toward the exit. Door swung shut behind them, leaving Osamu standing alone in the middle of the court, surrounded by stares of dozens of strangers.

Kita stepped forward. Placed a hand on Osamu's shoulder. "Let him go. For now."

"He's gone," Osamu said, voice hollow. "He's already gone."

---

That night, Osamu found Atsumu on the school steps.

Courtyard dark, lit only by faint glow of gymnasium lights in the distance. Atsumu sitting on the bottom step, knees drawn to his chest, face buried in his arms. Shaking.

Osamu sat down beside him. Not too close. Didn't say anything.

For a long time, neither spoke. Night cold, wind carrying faint sound of cicadas. Atsumu's sobs quiet, muffled, like he was trying to hide them even from himself.

"I told him I'd do anythin'," Atsumu finally said, voice raw. "I told him I'd give up anythin'. And he said—" Voice broke. "He said that was what he liked about me. That I was useful."

Osamu's chest ached. "Atsumu..."

"I thought if I was perfect enough, he'd love me back. Really love me. But when I asked him tonight, after we left—I asked him if he loved me." Atsumu lifted his head, eyes red and swollen. "He said no."

The word hung in the air, heavy and final.

"He said he liked havin' someone who worshipped him. Made him feel good. But he didn't love me." Atsumu's voice dropped to a whisper. "He said I was a convenience."

Osamu reached out, slow and careful, placed his hand on his brother's back. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't see it." Atsumu's voice cracked. "I didn't see any of it. I thought—I thought if I gave enough, it would be enough. But it was never gonna be enough."

"Ya wanted to be loved." Osamu's voice thick. "There's nothin' wrong with that."

"But I stopped lovin' myself."

Osamu pulled him closer. Atsumu didn't resist. Collapsed against his brother's shoulder, body wracked with sobs. Osamu held him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other pressed firmly against his back.

"I'm here," Osamu said. "I've always been here. Even when I'm yellin' at ya, even when I'm callin' ya stupid. I'm here."

"I know," Atsumu whispered. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just—" Osamu swallowed. "Just come back. Please."

Atsumu nodded against his shoulder. "I'm tryin'."

---

They sat there a long time, until stars shifted overhead and cold seeped into their bones. Then Kita appeared, quiet as always, holding two cups of hot tea. Sat down on the step above them, presence steady and calm.

"Love shouldn't make you smaller," Kita said, voice soft but firm. "It should make you want to grow. Not for someone else. For yourself."

Atsumu wiped his eyes. "How do ya know the difference?"

Kita considered the question. "If they ask ya to dim your light, it's not love. If they ask ya to shine brighter—for yourself—it might be."

Atsumu looked down at his hands. "I don't even know what I want anymore."

"Then start by rememberin' what ya used to want." Kita's gaze kind. "Before him."

Atsumu was quiet. Then, slowly, "I wanted to play volleyball. I wanted to be the best setter in the world."

"Then take it back," Osamu said. "Take it all back."

Atsumu met his brother's eyes. For the first time in weeks, something there besides desperate adoration. Something small and fragile, but real.

Hope.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

---

Next morning, Atsumu found Sakusa packing his bags in the Itachiyama locker room. Didn't knock. Just walked in, stood in the doorway, waited until Sakusa looked up.

"I'm not comin' with you," Atsumu said.

Sakusa's expression didn't change. "I didn't ask you to."

"I know." Atsumu's voice steady, even though his hands shook. "But I wanted to say it. I'm not your servant. I'm not your convenience. I'm a person. And I deserve better."

Sakusa zipped his bag. "If that's what you need to tell yourself."

"It's what I know." Atsumu took a step forward. "And I know ya never loved me. But I'm gonna be okay anyway. Because I have people who do."

For a moment, something flickered in Sakusa's eyes—surprise, maybe. Or regret. Gone before Atsumu could name it.

"Goodbye, Atsumu."

"Goodbye, Kiyoomi."

Atsumu turned and walked out. Didn't look back.

---

The gym was warm with morning light. Osamu already on the court, practicing his serves. Ball hit the floor with a satisfying thump, and he turned at the sound of footsteps.

Atsumu stood at the entrance. Eyes still red, shoulders still tight. But standing tall.

"Hey," Osamu said.

"Hey." Atsumu walked onto the court, picked up a ball. "Wanna run some sets?"

Osamu smiled. Small, crooked, but real. "Thought ya quit."

"I'm takin' it back." Atsumu tossed the ball from hand to hand. "If that's okay."

"It's more than okay."

They fell into rhythm without another word. Ball flew between them—set, spike, set, spike—familiar cadence of a lifetime of practice. Osamu watched his brother's face relax, tension melting with every perfect toss.

Wasn't fixed. Nothing was fixed. But Atsumu was here. He was trying. That was enough for now.

End of session, they sat on the floor, backs against the wall, breathing hard. Gym empty, silence comfortable.

"Thanks," Atsumu said quietly. "For not givin' up on me."

Osamu bumped his shoulder. "Never will, idiot."

Atsumu laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "I know."

They sat in silence, watching morning light creep across the polished floor. Outside, the rest of the team gathered, voices drifting through the open door. Soon, practice would start again. Life would go on.

But something had shifted. Something had healed.

Osamu looked at his brother, at remnants of tears still clinging to his lashes, at tentative smile on his lips. Thought about all the years they'd spent fighting, competing, pushing each other to be better. Thought about the bond that held them together through everything.

He thought about how, in the end, they would always find their way back.

"We'll be okay," Osamu said.

Atsumu nodded. "Yeah."

And for the first time in weeks, he believed it.