The Last Train Carries Him Home

The summer ended the way summers in Hyogo always do—too fast, cicadas screaming their last, the sun sinking into humidity and regret. But this year, something heavier hung in the air. A charged stillness, like the atmosphere had been holding its breath, waiting for the twins to come home.

Osamu Miya stood on the platform at Inarizaki Station, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, watching the last train spit out its passengers. The sky above the school was bruised purple, streaked with gold that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Cherry blossoms—out of season, impossible—drifted across the platform in lazy spirals, catching the dying light, glowing from within. Osamu didn't question it. He was used to this—shadows whispering in the hallways, the gym floor humming during practice. That's just how things were around here.

But the magic didn't do much for the knot in his stomach.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the Instagram icon. Three days since that first photo popped up—some account he didn't recognize, tagged with Atsumu's handle. In it, his brother's face was slack, eyes half-lidded, a champagne flute dangling from limp fingers. A girl Osamu didn't know draped over his shoulder, lipstick smeared. The caption: "Summer with the Miya heir. He knows how to party ;)"

He'd scrolled through the rest in a daze. Atsumu in a nightclub, shirt unbuttoned, pupils tiny. Atsumu slumped on a leather couch, surrounded by bottles. Atsumu with white powder on his nostril, mid-laugh that looked more like a grimace. Each one cut, and he felt them all, sharp and cold, even from thousands of miles away. That was their curse—or their gift. The bond was always there, a string that vibrated with every emotion, even when they fought or pretended not to care.

He'd called. Over and over. Voicemail after the first ring, Atsumu's voice bright and fake: "Hey, you've reached Atsumu! Leave a message and I'll get back to ya… maybe."

Osamu didn't leave messages. What was there to say that couldn't be screamed into the void?

The platform emptied. Station lights flickered on, casting long shadows. A paper lantern—one of those old festival ones—bobbed past on a current that smelled of incense and rain, leaving a trail of golden sparks that fizzled before touching the ground. Osamu watched it go, then started walking toward the school gates.

He'd spent the summer with their mother in Osaka, helping at the onigiri shop, pretending he didn't miss the chaos of their father's mansion. Atsumu had been in Tokyo with their old man, attending galas and networking, sending sporadic texts like dispatches from a war zone. "Dad wants me to meet some director. Kill me." "Just shook hands with a politician. His hand was sweaty." "Miss your cooking. The food here is garbage."

Then nothing. Two weeks of silence. Until the photos.

Osamu had wanted to book a flight. Drag his brother out of whatever hole he'd fallen into, shake him until that stupid mask cracked. But their mother placed a hand on his arm, eyes knowing. "He has to come back on his own. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

But Atsumu did want saving. Osamu knew it. He felt it—that hollow ache behind his ribs, dreams full of static, images of his brother drowning in champagne.

The school loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against twilight. Cherry trees lining the path were in full, impossible bloom, petals glowing like small moons. Students milled about, some laughing, some staring at their phones. Osamu kept his head down, footsteps echoing on cobblestones.

He found the volleyball gym unlocked, lights off. Didn't turn them on. Sat on the polished floor, back against the wall, and waited. The air here was cooler, charged with the ghosts of a thousand spikes and serves. A single paper lantern hung from the rafters, unlit, swaying.

He closed his eyes. No idea how long he sat there, but when he opened them, the lantern was glowing—soft amber, casting ripples of light across the floor. And standing in the doorway, gym bag at his feet, was Atsumu.

He looked… perfect. That was the terrifying part. Hair freshly bleached, tips brushed with pink. Uniform immaculate, not a crease out of place. Straight posture, set jaw. But his eyes—those golden eyes that used to hold all the warmth of a summer sun—were hollow, ringed with shadows makeup couldn't quite hide.

"Look who finally showed up," Atsumu said, voice light. "Thought you'd be in the kitchen, perfectin' your rice balls, not broodin' in the dark."

Osamu didn't rise to the bait. "You look like shit."

Atsumu laughed, brittle. "Wow, Samu, tell me how you really feel. Missed you too."

"I called you. Twenty times."

"Phone died. You know how it is." He walked into the gym, steps echoing. Didn't look at the glowing lantern—of course he didn't. The magic was always invisible to those who needed it most.

"I saw the photos," Osamu said, flat.

Atsumu's stride faltered, just for a second. Then he recovered, dropping his bag by the lockers, unzipping it with exaggerated care. "Ah. Those. Yeah, not my best moment. But hey, it's summer, right? What happens in Tokyo—"

"Don't." Osamu was on his feet now, fists clenched. "Don't you dare make a joke out of this."

Atsumu turned, expression carefully blank. "What do you want me to say, Samu? That I had fun? Because I didn't. That I'm sorry? I'm not sure I am. That I need help?" His voice cracked on the last word, and he bit his lip, hard.

The lantern flared, casting their shadows long and distorted. Osamu stepped closer. "We used to feel each other's pain. Remember? When we were kids. You'd scrape your knee, and I'd cry. I'd get a fever, and you'd stay home from school."

"We were kids," Atsumu whispered.

"I feel it now," Osamu said, low. "I've been feeling it all summer. A hollow ache, right here." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Don't tell me you're fine."

Atsumu's mask crumbled. His shoulders sagged, and he looked suddenly, terrifyingly small. "I'm not fine. I'm so far from fine, Samu. I don't even know how to find my way back."

The lantern pulsed. Shadows on the walls seemed to lean in, listening.

Osamu closed the distance. Didn't touch him—not yet. "Tell me."

And Atsumu did. It came out in fragments. The parties, the drugs, the endless stream of people who wanted a piece of the Miya heir. Their father's voice in his ear: "You have to be interesting, Atsumu. The life of the party. That's what people want. That's what they expect." The pressure to smile, flirt, drink until the world blurred and he couldn't feel the disgust anymore. The drugs—just a little, just to keep going, just to make it through one more night—started as a choice, became a necessity.

"I don't even know who I am anymore," Atsumu said, voice breaking. "I'm just… a prop. A pretty face for Dad to show off. A setter who exists to make other people shine. Nothing real. Nothing that matters."

Osamu's chest ached. He pulled his brother into his arms, and Atsumu crumpled against him, sobs muffled by the fabric of his uniform. The lantern blazed, painting them both in gold, and for a moment, the world outside the gym ceased to exist. Just twin hearts beating in sync, a bond frayed but not broken.

"You're real," Osamu said, voice thick. "You're the most real person I know. And you matter. To me. To the team. To Mom. That's what's real. Not the parties. Not the drugs. Not what Dad wants." He tightened his grip. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Atsumu shook in his arms, fingers digging into Osamu's back. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just… stay. Stay here. With me."

The lantern flickered, then steadied, warm and constant.

---

The first day of school came with a pink and gold sky, cherry blossoms falling like confetti. Atsumu walked through the gates with Osamu at his side, head high, eyes clear despite the sleepless night. The whispers started immediately—hushed students who'd seen the photos, stolen glances, phones held up at furtive angles. Each one like a needle, but he kept walking, shoulder bumping Osamu's.

The Inarizaki volleyball team waited by the gym—a cluster of familiar faces ranging from worried to furious. Suna leaned against the wall, expression unreadable. Ginjima paced. Akagi looked like he wanted to punch something. And Kita stood at the center, calm, eyes sharp.

"Atsumu," Kita said, even. "Welcome back."

Atsumu managed a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Miss me, Captain?"

"Always." Then, to the team: "There's been a lot of noise. Gossip. Rumors. I don't care about any of it. What happens outside this gym stays outside. We're a team. We take care of each other." He looked at Atsumu directly. "If anyone needs to talk, my door is open."

The tension shifted. The team relaxed—some nodding, others clapping Atsumu on the shoulder as they filed into the gym. Suna lingered, meeting Osamu's eyes for a moment. Silent understanding: We'll watch out for him.

Practice was grueling. Atsumu pushed harder than usual—serves cracking like thunder, sets precise to the point of obsession. He played like he was trying to outrun something, and maybe he was. But Osamu saw the tremor in his hands when he thought no one was looking, the way he held his breath between plays.

That evening, after the last drill, Osamu found Atsumu on the rooftop.

The school roof was forbidden, but everyone ignored that. It's where students went to smoke, cry, kiss, dream. Tonight, it was bathed in the glow of a thousand fireflies. They danced in shifting constellations, pulsing in waves, as if alive to the rhythm of Atsumu's heart.

He sat on the edge, legs dangling, head tilted back. Fireflies swirled around him—some landing in his hair, others tracing glowing paths across his cheeks.

Osamu sat next to him, close enough that their arms touched.

"They're beautiful," Atsumu said, soft.

"They are."

"You think they're real? Or is this another Inarizaki trick?"

"Does it matter?"

Atsumu laughed, almost genuine. "I guess not." A long pause. Then: "Dad called. This morning. Said the photos were 'bad for the family image.' Told me to 'fix it' or he'd cut me off."

Osamu's jaw tightened. "He's an asshole."

"He's our father."

"He's an asshole who uses you as a trophy." Osamu turned to face him. "You don't owe him anything. You don't have to be what he wants."

Atsumu's eyes glistened in the firefly light. "Then what am I supposed to be?"

"Whatever you want. You're Atsumu Miya. You're a volleyball genius. You're my twin. You're annoying and loud and you steal my food, but you're also kind and loyal and you care so much it hurts." He reached out, took Atsumu's hand. "You're not a prop. You're a person. And I love you."

The fireflies pulsed, a wave of light washing over them, warm and golden. Atsumu's tears fell freely now, each drop catching the glow like a tiny star. He leaned into Osamu, head on his brother's shoulder, and Osamu wrapped an arm around him.

They stayed until dawn, fireflies slowly fading as the sky lightened. When the first rays crested the horizon, the last few settled on Atsumu's hands like tiny farewells. He let them go, watched them drift away on the morning breeze.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Osamu squeezed his shoulder. "Always."

---

The weeks that followed were slow, careful rebuilding. Atsumu deleted his old Instagram posts, ignored the flurry of notifications. The team enforced Kita's no-gossip rule with scary fervor—Suna especially good at shutting down whispers with a single withering glare. Slowly, the scandal faded, replaced by excitement for the spring tournament.

Atsumu went to therapy. It was Osamu's idea, and Atsumu resisted at first, but Kita just said, "It's not weakness to ask for help," and that was that. The sessions were hard—dredging up memories he'd buried deep—but they gave him tools. A way to breathe through the panic. A way to push back against the voice that told him he wasn't enough.

He still had bad days. Days when the whispers felt like they were scraping his skin, or when the memory of that summer clawed at the edges of his mind. On those days, Osamu would find him—in the gym, on the rooftop, in their shared room—and they'd sit in silence, the old magic humming between them.

One evening after brutal practice, they walked home together. The cherry trees were finally losing their blossoms, but a few stubborn petals still clung, catching the last light. The air smelled of earth and