The Proudest

The question came during breakfast. Kitchen warm, miso soup and tamagoyaki, morning light cutting through the window in dusty gold bands. Michelle, three years old, had just discovered the power of "why." She stabbed a piece of egg with her fork and looked up at Osamu across the table. He was stirring his coffee, same quiet efficiency he brought to everything.

"Osamu-san," she said, that particular lilt of a kid who just figured something out, "why don't we have a mommy?"

The fork stopped mid-stir. Across from her, Sakusa's chopsticks froze an inch from his mouth. Suna, leaning against the counter with his tea, went still. The older two—Donna, eight, and Stephanie, six—exchanged a look that held too much weight. They knew. They'd been told, in gentle careful words, when they were old enough to understand: they had a mother once, and he was gone.

But Michelle was too young for that version. She only knew this household: three adults who loved her, two sisters who protected her, and a silence that hung around certain corners like cobwebs.

Osamu set down his coffee. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping under the skin. He wasn't good at this—feelings, the past, him. He kept things running: bills paid, lunches packed, laundry folded. Anchors didn't have to speak.

Sakusa cleared his throat. "Michelle, we've talked about this—"

"No, we haven't," she said, with toddler logic. "Donna says I had a mommy but he went away. But everyone else has a mommy. Why did ours go away?"

He. They'd told her that—her other parent was a man, like Osamu and Sakusa and Suna. But mommy stuck because she heard it at preschool and from neighbors. Kids are creatures of language, not biology.

Osamu's hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the table. "Miche-chan," he said, his voice cracking on the syllable. "Your mommy—your other parent—he didn't go away because he wanted to. He got sick. Very sick. And he couldn't stay."

"But I want him," she said, lip trembling. "I want him to come back."

Sakusa stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor. "I need a minute," he muttered, and walked out—quick, uneven footsteps on the hardwood. The back door slid open, then closed.

Suna set down his tea. He moved to sit beside Michelle, long legs folding under the chair with that boneless grace of someone who'd learned to navigate these moments. "Michelle," he said, voice calm and patient, "remember the story I told you about the star that falls to earth and makes a wish?"

She nodded, sniffling.

"Well, your mommy was like that. So bright, so full of light, that when he left, he didn't really go away. He just turned into something we can't see anymore. But he's still here. In us. In you. Understand?"

She didn't, not fully. But she nodded again, because Suna had a way of making things sound safe, even when they weren't.

Osamu let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His eyes were wet. He blinked hard, forcing the tears back into the dry caverns where he kept them locked.

---

Three years earlier.

The hospital room was too white. White walls, white sheets, white faces of doctors speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Osamu arrived too late—flown in from Tokyo after Sakusa's frantic call, hands still covered in flour from the onigiri shop, heart pounding so hard he thought it might break his ribs.

Atsumu was already gone.

The doctor said something about amniotic fluid embolism, complications that couldn't have been predicted, they did everything they could. Osamu heard none of it. He saw Sakusa sitting in a chair by the window, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a blue blanket, his face a mask of terrible stillness. The newborn girl—Stephanie, they'd name her later—slept peacefully, unaware she'd just lost the person who carried her for nine months.

Sakusa looked up when Osamu entered. Their eyes met. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Sakusa said, in a voice so raw it was barely a whisper, "He wanted you here."

Osamu's knees gave out. He slid down the wall and sat on the cold linoleum floor, head in his hands. He hadn't said goodbye. He hadn't told Atsumu he loved him, that he was proud of him, that despite all their fights and years of rivalry, he'd never stopped being his twin. His other half. The obnoxious, brilliant, infuriating half that made life worth living.

And now he was gone.

The funeral was a blur. Atsumu's teammates came—MSBY Black Jackals, old Inarizaki crowd, Kita with his steady eyes and quiet words of condolence. People cried. People spoke. Osamu stood at the back, holding Donna—then four years old—in his arms, while Sakusa held baby Stephanie and Michelle, not yet born, still a secret in Atsumu's belly no one knew about until the autopsy.

Pregnant with twins, the doctor said. The second baby survived, but…

Michelle. The little girl who would grow up without ever knowing her mother, who would ask questions no one knew how to answer.

---

Osamu's flashback dissolved like mist in sunlight. He was back in the kitchen, staring at the empty chair where Sakusa had been sitting. Michelle was eating her egg again, appeased by Suna's story. Donna watched Osamu with a knowing look that made his chest ache. Stephanie was too young, humming as she drew with crayons.

He needed air.

He stood and walked out the back door, into the small garden where Sakusa stood with his back to the house, shoulders rigid. Morning air cool, scent of damp earth and neighbor's rosemary bushes. Sakusa's hands were shoved in his pockets, head bowed.

Osamu came to stand beside him. They didn't speak for a long time.

"I remember," Sakusa said finally, voice thick, "the way he used to smile when he felt them kick. The first time, with Donna. He grabbed my hand and pressed it to his belly, and he said, 'Kiyoomi, feel this—he's gonna be a volleyball player, I can tell.'"

Osamu's throat tightened. "He said that about all of them."

"Yes. He did." Sakusa's voice broke on the last word. "He was so happy. So full of life. Even at the end, when he was terrified, he still tried to make jokes. Told me to get ready for three setters on the same team. Said we'd have to form a new club. And I laughed. I actually laughed."

Osamu closed his eyes. He could hear Atsumu's voice in his head—loud, brash, impossible to ignore. Oi, Omi-kun, stop moping. You'll give the baby wrinkles.

"I should have been there," Osamu said, the words falling out before he could stop them. "When he called me, I was in the middle of a rush. Told him I'd come the next day. Said, 'It's just a check-up, Tsumu, you're fine.' And then—" He stopped. His hands were shaking again.

Sakusa turned to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. He'd always been the one to hold it together, keep the tears locked behind that stoic mask. But Osamu saw the cracks now—fine lines of grief that had settled into his face over the past three years.

"He knew you loved him," Sakusa said. "He never doubted that."

"I never said it." Osamu's voice was barely audible. "I never told him. We were always fighting, always competing. I thought there would be time. I thought—"

"There's never enough time." Sakusa's hand found his, squeezed once, then let go. "But we have them. His daughters. And we have each other. That's what he would have wanted."

Osamu nodded, not trusting his voice. They stood in silence, watching a bird hop across the grass, until the back door slid open and Suna poked his head out.

"Lunch is ready," he said softly. "And Michelle wants to know if you'll help her draw a picture of her mommy."

Osamu looked at Sakusa. Sakusa looked back. Together, they went inside.

---

That evening.

Dinner was quiet. Suna had made curry, a mild version the girls liked, and they ate around the low table in the living room, the television playing a nature documentary on low. Michelle insisted on sitting next to Osamu, her small hand wrapped around his thumb.

Halfway through, Donna looked up from her plate. "Suna-san," she said, "tell us a story about Mommy. A happy one."

Suna set down his chopsticks. He thought for a moment, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Once, when we were in high school, Atsumu decided to do a prank on the whole team. He mixed hot sauce into the onigiri Osamu had made for practice. Osamu, of course, had no idea—Atsumu swapped them out when he wasn't looking."

Osamu snorted. "I remember that. Thought I'd finally messed up the recipe."

"Half the team turned red and had to drink milk," Suna continued, voice warm. "And Atsumu laughed so hard he fell off his chair. He was banned from helping with snack duty for a month."

The girls giggled. Even Stephanie, who didn't fully understand, laughed because everyone else did. Osamu felt a smile tug at his lips—a real one, not the forced kind he'd been wearing all day.

"He was always doing things like that," Sakusa said quietly. "Driving everyone crazy. But you couldn't stay mad at him for long."

"Because he was too pretty," Osamu said, the words coming out without thinking. The table went quiet. He felt Michelle's gaze on him, curious and innocent.

"Was he really pretty, Osamu-san?" she asked.

Osamu's resolve crumbled. He'd been holding it together all day—through the morning conversation, through playing in the garden, through dinner. But this question, asked with such pure sincerity, breached the dam.

"He was the prettiest," Osamu said, his voice shaking. "He had these golden eyes, like honey in sunlight. And his smile—when he smiled, you couldn't help but smile back, even if you were angry at him. He was loud and vain and annoying, but he was also the most beautiful person I've ever seen. And I miss him. Every single day."

Tears spilled over. He couldn't stop them. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with sobs he'd been holding back for three years. Grief came in waves, crashing over him like a tsunami.

Sakusa was on his feet before anyone else moved. He crossed the room and knelt beside Osamu, and without a word, wrapped his arms around him. And then Sakusa was crying too—silent, shuddering tears that soaked into Osamu's shirt. He'd been strong for so long, kept the grief locked away in a box labeled For Later, but later had arrived. Later was now.

Suna watched them, his own eyes bright with unshed tears. He stood up and gently guided the girls into a group hug around the two men. Donna wrapped her arms around Sakusa's waist. Stephanie clung to Osamu's leg. And Michelle, the littlest one, climbed onto Osamu's lap and pressed her small hand to his wet cheek.

"Don't cry, Osamu-san," she said. "Mommy is watching. He doesn't want you to be sad."

Osamu let out a broken laugh. He pulled Michelle close and pressed a kiss to her hair. "You're right, little one. You're right."

They stayed like that for a long time, a tangle of limbs and tears and quiet murmurs. The documentary ended. The curry grew cold. But no one moved, because for the first time in three years, they were all grieving together, openly, without shame.

---

Later that night.

The house was quiet. The girls were put to bed, faces peaceful, dreams untroubled. Suna had retreated to his room with a book, giving the other two space. Osamu and Sakusa sat on the back porch, a bottle of whiskey between them, stars glittering overhead.

"I never asked," Sakusa said, voice low, "if you blame me."

Osamu took a long sip from his glass. "For what?"

"For not being able to save him. For not making him stay in the hospital longer. For—" Sakusa's voice faltered. "For being the one who survived."

Osamu set the glass down. He turned to face Sakusa. In the dim light, he saw guilt etched into every line of his face. A familiar expression—he'd seen it in the mirror many times.

"It wasn't your fault," Osamu said. "It wasn't anyone's fault. It was just… cruel. The universe took him because it could. And we have to live with that. Keep going for the girls. For him."

Sakusa nodded slowly. "I've been trying. But some days, it's hard to remember why."

"Because they're a part of him," Osamu said. "Every time Michelle laughs, I hear him. When Donna gets stubborn, I see him. And Stephanie has his eyes—that exact shade of gold." He paused, swallowing. "We have pieces of him. That's enough. It has to be enough."

Sakusa reached out and took Osamu's hand. This time, he held it firmly. "Thank you," he said. "For moving in. For helping raise them. For being here."

"Where else would I be?" Osamu asked. "He was my twin. My other half. And they're my nieces. But more than that—they're my family. You're my family, Kiyoomi. All of you."

Sakusa's grip tightened. They sat in silence, stars wheeling overhead, and for the first time in a long time, the weight of grief felt a little lighter.

---

One week later.

It became a tradition. Every Sunday evening before bed, the family gathered in the living room, and each person shared one happy memory of Atsumu. The girls loved it. Donna remembered the time her father—she called him that, because Sakusa was Papa and Atsumu was Daddy—taught her how to set a volleyball in the backyard. Stephanie remembered the way he sang off-key lullabies. Michelle, too young for her own memories, listened with wide eyes.

Tonight, it was Suna's turn. He leaned back on the sofa, thoughtful. "Once, at a training camp, Atsumu dared me to eat a whole jar of pickled plums. I did it, then threw up in the bushes. He laughed so hard he cried. Then he got me a glass of water and sat with me until I felt better. That was him—always pushing people, but always taking care of them too."

Osamu smiled. "Sounds about right."

Sakusa spoke next. "The night before Donna was born, Atsumu couldn't sleep. He made me stay up with him and watch old volleyball matches. He kept pausing them to point out his own plays. 'Look, Omi-kun, that was a perfect serve. See how I flicked my wrist?'" He shook his head, a soft laugh escaping. "He was so proud of himself. And I—I was proud of him too."

The girls grinned. Michelle wiggled in her seat. "Can I draw a picture?" she asked.

"Of course," Sakusa said.

She fetched her crayons and paper and settled on the floor, tongue poking out in concentration. The adults kept sharing—Osamu talked about getting lost in Tokyo as teenagers, arguing over directions for two hours until a kind stranger helped. Suna recalled Atsumu's obsession with perfecting his hair, even on game days. Sakusa remembered the soft way Atsumu touched his face before going into labor, saying, I love you, Kiyoomi. Take care of them.

And when Michelle finished her drawing, she held it up for everyone to see. A crude but earnest picture: a stick figure with yellow hair and a golden smile, wearing a volleyball jersey and a pair of wings.

"That's Mommy," she announced. "He's an angel now, so he can watch us from the sky."

The room fell silent. Osamu felt tears prick his eyes, but this time, not entirely sad. He reached out and cupped Michelle's cheek.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough. "He is. And he's watching right now. Probably telling us we're too slow with dinner, or that my rice balls need more salt."

Suna let out a snort. "Definitely."

Sakusa pulled Michelle onto his lap and pressed a kiss to her hair. "It's a beautiful picture, sweetheart. We'll hang it on the refrigerator."

And they did. Right next to Donna's portrait of the whole family—five figures holding hands under a rainbow—and Stephanie's abstract scribble that might have been a cat. The kitchen wall became a gallery of love, a testament to the family they'd built from loss.

That night, as Osamu tucked Michelle into bed, she looked up at him with sleepy eyes. "Osamu-san," she murmured, "do you think Mommy is proud of us?"

Osamu sat down on the edge of her bed. He thought of Atsumu—the way he always pushed for more, demanded excellence, loved fiercely. He thought of the pride in his twin's eyes when he opened his first onigiri shop. He thought of the way Atsumu held his hand during their final phone call, not knowing it would be the last time.

"He's the proudest," Osamu said. "Because you're his daughters. And because we're all still here, loving each other, remembering him. That's all he ever wanted."

Michelle smiled, her eyes drifting closed. "Good," she said. "I love him too."

Osamu waited until her breathing evened out, then stood and turned off the light. In the hallway, he met Sakusa, coming from Donna's room. They exchanged a look—weary, but warm.

"We did good today," Sakusa said.

"We do good every day," Osamu replied. "That's what it means to keep going."

They walked to the living room, where Suna was cleaning up crayons. The three of them sat together, silence comfortable, the weight of the day settling into a quiet sense of peace.

Outside, the moon rose high over the suburban street. Inside, a family held each other close, bound by love, grief, and the memory of a golden-haired boy who had changed their lives forever.

And somewhere, in a place beyond stars, Atsumu smiled.