The Glow Between Us

The first thing Osamu notices when he opens his door is the glow.

Not just the California tan—though yeah, that's part of it. Atsumu's skin's gone that deep golden bronze, makes his blonde hair look almost white in the afternoon light. But there's something else. Softer around the edges of his twin's usually sharp features.

"You look like you swallowed a lightbulb," Osamu says, stepping aside.

Atsumu's grin somehow gets wider. "Missed ya too, Samu."

He breezes past, dragging a suitcase that looks stupidly expensive, and Osamu catches a whiff of something floral. Weird. Atsumu usually wears those fancy alpha colognes—pro volleyball perks—but this is different. Softer. Almost sweet.

"The newlywed returns," Osamu drawls, shutting the door. "How was paradise?"

"Better than your sad little apartment, that's for sure." Atsumu drops onto the couch like he owns it, kicks off his designer sneakers, tucks his feet up. He's in this loose cream-colored sweater, clearly expensive, hanging off one shoulder in that effortlessly intentional way he's nailed over years of magazine shoots.

Osamu settles into the armchair, watching him. Atsumu's always been an open book—too loud, too expressive, wears everything on his sleeve. But today there's something simmering underneath. Anticipation. Like he's waiting for the perfect moment to spring something.

"So?" Osamu says when the silence drags. "Gonna tell me about it, or do I have to guess?"

"Guess what?"

"I dunno. How many times Suna made you cry? Whether you finally tried that fancy restaurant in Shibuya? What it's like to be a pretty bride?"

Atsumu's face flushes. He throws a cushion. "Shut up! I was a groom, same as him!"

"Sure ya were." Osamu catches it, tucks it behind his back. "But you were the one walkin' down the aisle in white."

"It was cream!" Atsumu laughs, that bright infectious sound Osamu's been missing for three weeks. "And it was Suna's idea. He said it brought out my eyes."

"Did it?"

"Obviously."

They lapse into easy silence—the kind that only exists between people who've known each other since the womb. Osamu studies his twin's face. Three weeks apart, and there's a new softness to Atsumu's cheeks, a fullness the training schedules usually keep at bay. His eyes are bright, almost feverish, and he keeps touching his stomach absently. Like he's reassuring himself.

Osamu files that away.

"So." He stretches his legs out, crosses his ankles on the coffee table. "Gifts? Or did ya blow all your money on overpriced honeymoon suite upgrades?"

"Rude." Atsumu's already reaching for his bag, unzipping it. "Obviously I gotcha something. I'm a good brother."

"You're tolerable."

"Same thing."

He pulls out two small boxes, wrapped with the kind of meticulous precision that tells Osamu his sister-in-law had a hand in it. Tosses one to him—caught one-handed.

"The silver one's for you. The black one's for Suna—don't open it, he'd kill me."

"That happened one time."

"It was your wedding gift! And you told me what it was!"

"His face was hilarious."

Atsumu glares, but there's no heat in it. "Just open yours, asshole."

Osamu peels back the wrapping paper slow, savoring how Atsumu fidgets on the couch. When he finally gets the box open, he freezes.

It's a watch. Not just any watch—a Grand Seiko, the kind Osamu had pointed out in a magazine months ago, offhand, never expecting his brother to remember. Deep blue face, almost black, with a textured pattern that catches light like ripples on water.

"Tsumu." His voice comes out rougher than he meant.

"Don't get all emotional." Atsumu's ears are red. "You mentioned it once, and I figured—ya know. You deserve nice things too. Even if you do run a shitty onigiri shop."

"It's not shitty."

"It's adequately mediocre."

Osamu traces the edge of the watch face, feeling its weight in his palm. This isn't the kind of gift Atsumu usually gives—normally it's overpriced gag gifts or whatever caught his eye at duty free. This is thoughtful. Personal.

This is Atsumu saying thank you without actually saying it.

"I'm keepin' it," Osamu says finally.

"Good. Try not to break it within the first week like ya did with that phone case."

"That was defective."

"It was not defective, you dropped it down the stairs."

"They're steep stairs."

Atsumu snorts, but he's smiling that soft, secret smile. The one that doesn't match his usual bravado. Osamu watches him a moment longer, then sets the watch box aside.

"Alright," he says, leaning forward. "Spill."

"Spill what?"

"Whatever's got you actin' weird. You've been fidgetin' since ya walked in, and you keep touchin' your stomach like you're expectin' it to bite ya."

Atsumu's hand freezes mid-motion. He yanks it back, tucks it under his thigh. "I dunno what you're talkin' about."

"Tsumu."

"I'm fine!"

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar! I lied to the press all the time!"

"Those are strangers. I'm your twin." Osamu stands, crosses the room, sits on the coffee table right in front of Atsumu. Close enough to see the slight tremor in his brother's hands. "What's goin' on?"

Atsumu's eyes dart away, then back. He bites his lip—a nervous habit he never grew out of—and takes a deep breath.

"I gotta tell ya somethin'." His voice is smaller now. "And I need ya to promise you're not gonna freak out."

"Too late for that, you've already got me worried."

"Samu, I'm serious."

"I know." Osamu reaches out, rests a hand on Atsumu's knee. "Whatever it is, Tsumu. You know I got your back."

Atsumu's breath hitches. For a terrifying moment, Osamu thinks he's going to cry. But instead, his twin reaches down and takes Osamu's hand, guides it to his stomach. To the slight swell beneath the cream-colored sweater that Osamu had dismissed as a honeymoon food baby.

"I'm pregnant," Atsumu says.

The world goes quiet.

Osamu's hand is pressed against the soft curve of his brother's belly. Beneath it, he swears he can feel something. A warmth. A pulse. Something terrifyingly real.

"You're—" His voice cracks. "You're pregnant."

"Yeah." Atsumu's smile is watery. "Three months along. We found out right before the wedding. That's why we moved it up."

"And you're just tellin' me now?"

"I wanted to tell ya in person." Atsumu's hand covers Osamu's, squeezes gently. "Didn't seem right to drop news like this over the phone. 'Samu, I got married and also I'm havin' a baby, congrats, you're gonna be an uncle.'"

"You're gonna be a parent."

"I know."

"You're gonna be a dad."

"I know."

"To a whole human."

"I can do math, Samu."

Osamu's eyes snap up. "You're gonna be a dad," he says again, and this time the words hit different. They sink in. Take root.

Atsumu laughs, wet and bright, a tear escaping down his cheek. "Yeah. I am."

And then Osamu's moving.

He lunges forward, wraps his arms around his brother so tight Atsumu's breath leaves him in a surprised oof. They haven't hugged like this since they were kids—before the world got between them, before they learned that being identical twins meant people would always compare them.

But this—this is just them. Tsumu and Samu. Two halves of the same whole.

"You're gonna be an uncle," Atsumu whispers into his shoulder.

"Shut up, I'm havin' a moment."

"You're cryin'."

"I am not." But Osamu's voice is thick, and when he pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously wet. "I'm not."

"Your face is wet."

"Your face is wet."

"My face is wet because I'm pregnant and hormonal, what's your excuse?"

Osamu laughs, ragged and raw. He cups Atsumu's face, thumbs brushing away tear tracks. "You're gonna be a great dad. The best. I'm gonna spoil that kid rotten, and you're not gonna stop me."

"Try me."

"I'll teach 'em how to make onigiri before they can walk."

"I'll teach 'em how to serve before they can talk."

"We'll fight over whose funeral they're goin' to."

"We'll both get disinvited."

"Worth it."

Atsumu laughs again, real and full-bodied. And Osamu, overcome with joy he doesn't know how to process, does the only thing that makes sense.

He stands, scoops his brother up off the couch, and spins him.

"Samu!" Atsumu yelps, clutching at his shoulders. "Put me down, you idiot!"

"No."

"I'm pregnant!"

"I know! That's why I'm celebratin'!"

"You're gonna make me sick!"

"Then aim for the plants, they need water."

Atsumu's laughter rings through the apartment as Osamu spins him, dizzy and disoriented and completely happy. When he finally sets him down, Atsumu staggers, grabbing Osamu's arm for balance.

"I hate you," he says, but he's grinning.

"Love ya too, Tsumu."

They stand there a moment, breathing hard, foreheads almost touching. Osamu thinks about all the things he wants to say—how scared he is, how proud—but he doesn't. Instead: "You're stayin' tonight."

Atsumu blinks. "What? No, I gotta get back to—"

"It's late."

"It's four in the afternoon."

"And you're pregnant." Osamu crosses his arms. "You can't be drivin' all over town in your condition."

"My condition. Samu, I'm pregnant, not terminally ill."

"Same difference."

"It is not!"

"You need rest. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"I play one on TV."

"You work at an onigiri shop."

"Details." Osamu waves a hand. "You're stayin'. I'll make dinner. I have that good miso you like, and I picked up fresh salmon yesterday."

Atsumu's mouth opens, closes. For a moment, Osamu thinks he'll argue. But then something in his expression softens, and he lets out a breath.

"Fine. But I'm not wearin' any of your ugly clothes."

"My clothes are not ugly."

"They're all gray and black. You dress like a background character."

"I dress like someone who doesn't have to do magazine shoots every week."

"You dress like you've given up on life."

"I dress like I'm comfortable."

"There's a difference?"

Osamu throws a pillow at him. Atsumu catches it, laughing, and wanders toward the guest room.

"Hey, Samu?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." Atsumu pauses at the doorway, not turning around. "For—for bein' happy about it. I was kinda nervous."

Osamu's chest tightens. "You're my brother, Tsumu. I'm always gonna be happy for you."

"Yeah, well." Atsumu shrugs, but his shoulders are relaxed. "Still. Means a lot."

He disappears into the guest room, and Osamu stands alone in the living room, listening to his brother mutter about the lack of decent pillows. The watch box sits on the coffee table, catching the light.

He picks it up, runs his thumb over the smooth surface, and smiles.

---

The next morning, Osamu wakes to the sound of someone rummaging through his kitchen.

He pads out, hair sticking up everywhere, to find Atsumu standing in front of the open refrigerator, wearing one of Osamu's old sweatshirts and a pair of sleep shorts that definitely belong to Suna.

"The eggs are expired," Atsumu informs him without turning around.

"They're not expired, they're fermented."

"Eggs don't ferment, Samu."

"Anything ferments if you try hard enough."

"That's not how food safety works."

"That's how my kitchen works."

Atsumu finally turns, and Osamu's brain short-circuits.

The sweatshirt is loose—his sweatshirt, high school, faded and soft and full of holes—but it's riding up, exposing a strip of skin. And beneath it, visible in the morning light, is the unmistakable curve of his brother's belly.

Not huge. Not even noticeable under normal circumstances. But in the soft gray light, with the fabric pulled taut across the swell, there's no mistaking it.

Atsumu catches him staring and freezes.

"Don't." His voice is sharp.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm fragile." Atsumu's hands come up to cover his stomach. "I'm not. I'm still me."

"I know you're still you." Osamu crosses the kitchen, careful, like approaching a wild animal. "I'm just—lookin'."

"At what?"

"At my niece or nephew."

Atsumu's breath catches. "We don't know yet. What they are. Suna wants it to be a surprise."

"That's fine." Osamu stops in front of him, close enough to reach out, but keeps his hands at his sides. "Can I—?"

Atsumu hesitates, then nods.

Slowly, Osamu reaches out and presses his palm flat against Atsumu's stomach. The curve fits perfectly against his hand, warm and solid and real.

"Hey, little one," he says quietly. "I'm your uncle. I'm gonna teach you all the bad habits your parents don't want you to have."

"Samu."

"Like how to sneak out past curfew."

"Samu."

"And how to make the perfect onigiri. And how to prank your dad on April Fools'."

"Samu!"

"And how to—"

"I'm not gonna let you near my child if you're gonna corrupt them."

"Too late, I'm already in your apartment."

Atsumu shoves him, but he's laughing, and the tension in his shoulders finally releases. Osamu grins, grabs a pan from the cabinet.

"Alright, sit down. I'm makin' breakfast."

"I can make my own breakfast."

"You can sit down and let your pregnant self be waited on for once."

"I'm not an invalid."

"You're my guest."

"Same thing?"

"Same thing." Osamu cracks an egg one-handed. "Now sit. Eat. Let me spoil ya."

Atsumu watches him a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he pulls out a chair and sits, folding his hands on the table.

"The eggs are still expired."

"Shut up and trust the process."

---

The rest of the morning passes in a lazy haze.

Osamu makes full breakfast—miso soup, grilled fish, rice, tamagoyaki—and Atsumu eats every bite like someone who hasn't had a home-cooked meal in weeks. When he's done, he leans back, patting his stomach.

"I missed your cookin'," he admits.

"Don't let Suna hear you say that."

"Suna knows he can't compete with Onigiri Miya."

"Good. As it should be."

They clean up together, easy rhythm from years of sharing a kitchen. Atsumu washes, Osamu dries, and they bicker about storing leftovers like nothing has changed.

But everything has changed.

Osamu catches himself watching Atsumu more than usual. The way Atsumu moves a little slower. The way his hand drifts to his stomach when he thinks no one's looking. The way his scent has shifted, softer and sweeter.

"Is it weird?" Osamu asks, as they settle on the couch with tea—decaf for Atsumu, because apparently caffeine's on the no-fly list.

"Is what weird?"

"Being pregnant. Physically."

Atsumu considers. "It's strange. I can feel 'em. Not movin' yet, but there. Like a warmth inside me. Like I'm not alone."

"That's cheesy as hell."

"Shut up, you asked."

"I did, didn't I."

They sit in comfortable silence, watching some variety show neither of them is really paying attention to. Atsumu's eyelids start to droop.

"Tired?" Osamu asks.

"No," Atsumu says, right before a yawn.

"Liar."

"'M not."

"You can take a nap. I'm not gonna judge ya."

"My alpha husband isn't here to baby me, I don't need my brother to do it either."

"I'm not babyin' you, I'm bein' a good host."

"Same thing."

"Same thing."

Atsumu glares, but it lacks conviction. He shifts, trying to get comfortable on the couch—definitely not designed for someone in his condition. After a minute, Osamu sighs and gets up.

"Move."

"What?"

"Move. I'll get the good pillows."

"I don't need—"

"Tsumu."

Atsumu's mouth snaps shut. He moves.

Osamu returns with his two best pillows, arranges them with precision, guides Atsumu down until his head's on the pillows, feet tucked up, throw blanket draped over him.

"There. Now sleep."

"You're bossy."

"You're stubborn."

"I learned from the best."

"Flattery won't get you out of nap time."

Atsumu grumbles, but his eyes are already closing. Within minutes, his breathing evens out.

Osamu watches him—this strange new version of his brother. Softer. Slower. But still Atsumu, still the loudmouth idiot who stole his food as a kid.

He pulls out his phone, snaps a picture of Atsumu drooling on his pillow, and sends it to Suna: YOUR HUSBAND IS A MENACE.

The response comes almost immediately: I know. Isn't he perfect?

Osamu snorts, pocketing his phone.

Yeah, he thinks, looking at his twin's peaceful face. He really is.

---

Atsumu wakes up three hours later to the smell of cooking oil and garlic.

He blinks, disoriented, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar ceiling. Then memory floods back—Osamu's apartment, the pregnancy reveal, the spinning—and he relaxes.

"Samu?" he calls, voice rough with sleep.

"In the kitchen!" comes the response. "Hope ya like onigiri, because that's all I know how to make!"

"It's literally the only thing you make!"

"And I make it well!"

Atsumu pushes himself up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his back. Sleeping on a couch while pregnant: apparently not the best idea. But he's not about to admit that.

He shuffles into the kitchen, still wrapped in the throw blanket, and finds Osamu at the stove, humming. The table's set with two plates, each holding perfectly formed onigiri, and there's a pot simmering on the back burner.

"Smells good," Atsumu says, settling into his chair.

"'Course it does. I made it."

"You're so humble."

"Humble's boring."

Osamu brings over the pot—light vegetable soup—and ladles it into bowls before sitting down.

"Eat," he commands. "You need to keep your strength up."

"For what? I'm just goin' home today."

"Exactly. You need energy for the journey."

"It's a twenty-minute drive, Samu."

"Twenty minutes of dangerous road conditions. Have you seen the drivers in this city?"

"Have you?"

"I rest my case."

Atsumu laughs, picks up an onigiri, takes a bite. The salt and rice and filling hit his tongue, and for a moment he's back in their childhood kitchen, sitting across from his brother after practice, eating leftovers and complaining about teammates.

He swallows, and his eyes sting.

"Tsumu?" Osamu's voice softens. "You alright?"

"Yeah." Atsumu blinks rapidly. "Just—hormones. Makin' me weird."

"Uh-huh."

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinkin' it."

"I was thinkin' about how much I love ya, actually."

Atsumu's head snaps up. Osamu is looking at him with an expression he can't quite read—soft and serious.

"I love ya too," Atsumu says, rough. "Even if you are a pain in my ass."

"Same to you, Tsumu."

They eat in comfortable silence, the tension of the past few weeks melting away. When they're done, Atsumu helps with the dishes, and Osamu packs him a bag of leftovers—enough to feed a small army.

"Call me when you get home," Osamu says, standing in the doorway.

"I will."

"Text me when you're five minutes away."

"Samu."

"I mean it."

Atsumu's chest feels tight. "I will. And come back next weekend. I'll make that curry you like."

"Yeah." Atsumu smiles, soft and genuine. "I'd like that."

He steps forward, wraps his arms around his brother one more time. Osamu hugs him back, careful and warm, mindful of the weight between them.

"I'm gonna be an uncle," Osamu whispers.

"You're gonna be the best uncle."

"I know."

"Conceited."

"Learned from the best."

Atsumu laughs, pulls back. He's crying again—stupid hormones—but he doesn't care. Not when his brother is looking at him like that.

"I'll see ya next weekend," he says.

"Next weekend," Osamu confirms.

Atsumu walks away, down the hallway, toward the elevator. At the last moment, he turns back.

"Hey, Samu?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for bein' my brother."

Osamu's smile is wide, genuine, full of light. "Anytime, Tsumu. Anytime."

The elevator doors close. Atsumu presses a hand to his stomach, feeling the warmth of his twins' presence—one inside him, one waiting at home, and one who'll always be just a phone call away.

And for the first time in his life, he feels truly, completely whole.