The Weight of a Blocked Number

The rain had been coming down for hours now, that steady, insistent drum against the windows of the apartment he shared with Suna. The kind that seeps into your bones, turns everything gray and heavy. Osamu was on the couch, a cup of tea gone cold beside him, his phone face-down on the table. Dark screen. Like a monument to all the years he'd let slip.

Suna stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. He'd been watching for the better part of an hour, reading the tension in Osamu's shoulders, the way his thumb kept rubbing over the ridge of his knuckles. That tell had gotten worse over the past four years.

"You're doing it again," Suna said. Flat, but not mean.

Osamu didn't look up. "Doin' what?"

"That thing where you pretend you're not thinking about him."

The words just hung there. Osamu's jaw tightened, and for a second Suna thought he'd deflect again. But then his shoulders dropped, and he let out this breath that seemed to carry everything—every missed call, every ignored text, every birthday he'd spent pretending he didn't care.

"I blocked him," Osamu said, barely a whisper. "Four years ago. Blocked his number, blocked him on everything. I don't even have his phone number anymore."

Suna's eyebrows went up. "You blocked Atsumu?"

"We had a fight. A stupid one." Osamu's voice cracked. "About Onigiri Miya. About him leavin' the team. About— I don't even remember. I was angry. He was angry. And then I just… pressed block. Told myself I didn't care. That he'd come around. He always did." He laughed, hollow and bitter. "But he didn't. And I was too proud to unblock him. Too scared to admit I was wrong."

Suna moved to the couch, sat on the armrest beside him. Didn't touch him, but his presence was steady. Grounding. "And now?"

"Now I can't stop thinkin' about him." Osamu pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I miss him, Suna. I miss my twin. And I don't even know if he's alive. If he's happy. I don't know anythin'."

Suna was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Then go find out."

Osamu looked up, eyes red-rimmed. "What?"

"Go to his house. Right now. Drive over there and knock on his door." Suna's voice was firm. Cutting through. "You've been carrying this around for four years. That's long enough. If you want to mend things, you have to show up. Not text. Not call. Show up."

"But what if he doesn't want to see me?"

"Then you'll know." Suna shrugged. "But at least you'll know. And you can stop torturing yourself with what-ifs."

Osamu stared at him. Rain drumming frantic against the glass. Then, slowly, he nodded.

---

The drive to Atsumu's house was a blur of wet asphalt and headlights streaking past. Osamu's hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles whitened. Suna sat in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing at Osamu with an unreadable expression.

"You know where he lives?" Suna asked.

"Yeah. Kita sent me the address a year ago. Never used it." Osamu's voice was tight. "I memorized it, though."

Suna didn't comment. Just nodded and went back to his phone.

The house was in a quiet suburban neighborhood, two-story, neatly kept lawn, porch light glowing warm through the rain. Osamu pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. Silence, thick and heavy, broken only by the patter on the roof.

"I'll wait here," Suna said. "Take your time."

Osamu nodded. Didn't trust his voice. He stepped out into the rain—no umbrella. By the time he reached the front door, his hair was plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging to his shoulders. He raised a hand to knock. Then hesitated.

What am I even gonna say?

He knocked before he could talk himself out of it.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured. The door swung open, and Osamu's breath caught.

Atsumu stood there, but it was a version of his twin he barely recognized. Hair longer, falling past his shoulders in soft waves. Loose, comfortable sweater that did nothing to hide the unmistakable swell of his belly—a pregnant belly, round and heavy. His face was softer, too. The sharp edges worn down by time and something else, something that looked like exhaustion mixed with quiet contentment.

And then Atsumu's eyes met his. Osamu saw the moment recognition hit. His twin's face crumpled, tears spilling down his cheeks before he even made a sound.

"Samu?" The name came out broken, barely audible.

"Atsumu." Osamu's voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Atsumu let out a sob, raw and unrestrained, and threw his arms around Osamu's neck. His belly pressed between them, warm and solid—a reminder of how much had changed. Osamu held him tight, buried his face in Atsumu's hair, felt him shake with tears.

"I missed you," Atsumu whispered into his shoulder. "I missed you so much."

"I'm here now," Osamu said, his own tears mixing with the rain on his face. "I'm here."

---

Kita appeared in the doorway a few moments later. Calm expression, but his eyes sharp with concern. He took in the scene—two twins clinging to each other, Osamu soaked and trembling—and simply said, "Come inside. Both of you. You're getting the floor wet."

Osamu pulled back, swiped at his eyes. Atsumu laughed through his tears, watery and hiccupping, and took Osamu's hand. "Come meet the kids."

"Kids?" Osamu echoed. But Atsumu was already tugging him inside.

The living room was warm and bright. Scattered with toys and colorful blankets. And there, on the floor, were four small children.

Two little boys, nearly identical, dark hair and bright eyes, looked up from their building blocks. Two little girls, slightly smaller, sat nearby—one clutching a stuffed fox, the other chewing on a teething ring.

"Osamu. Adami." Atsumu pointed to the boys. "Himari. Rin." He gestured at the girls. "Kids, this is your Uncle Osamu."

The little boy named Osamu—the one with the same name as him—stood up and toddled over, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes. "Uncle Samu?"

Osamu's throat tightened. "Yeah, kid. That's me."

The boy beamed and wrapped his tiny arms around Osamu's leg. "Mommy talks about you all the time."

Mommy.

Osamu's gaze snapped to Atsumu, who flushed and looked away, one hand resting on his belly. "Yeah, well… they call me that. Kita's their Papa. I'm their Mommy."

Osamu didn't know what to say. He looked around the room—at the twins, at the two girls, at Atsumu's swollen belly. Four children. And another three on the way. He'd missed everything. Every ultrasound, every sleepless night, every first word and first step.

"They're beautiful," he managed, voice hoarse.

Atsumu smiled, soft and tired. "They're a handful. But yeah, they're pretty great."

Kita quietly ushered the children to the kitchen for a snack, leaving Osamu and Atsumu alone on the couch. Atsumu sat heavily, one hand resting on his belly, the other reaching out to take Osamu's.

"Four years," Atsumu said softly. "That's a long time."

"I know." Osamu's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, 'Tsumu. I'm so sorry for everything. For blockin' you. For not reachin' out. For bein' too damn proud."

Atsumu squeezed his hand. "I never blamed you, Samu. I was angry at first, but… I missed you. Every single day."

They sat in silence, the weight of lost time pressing down. Then Atsumu shifted, wincing slightly, and Osamu noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to carry a burden too heavy for one person.

"You look tired," Osamu said.

Atsumu let out a dry laugh. "I have four kids under four and three more cookin'. I'm always tired."

"But you have Kita. He helps, right?"

Atsumu's smile flickered. "Kita's amazing. He does everything he can. But he works long hours, and the kids are… a lot. And after each baby, I just…" He trailed off, gaze dropping to his lap.

Osamu's chest tightened. "What?"

"It gets dark, Samu. Really dark." Atsumu's voice was so quiet Osamu had to lean in to hear. "After the twins were born, I couldn't get out of bed for weeks. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I just… cried. All the time. Kita was terrified. He took time off work, brought me to the doctor, got me help. But it kept happening. After Himari and Rin, it was worse. And now with this pregnancy…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know how to explain it. It's like there's a shadow inside me, and sometimes it feels like it's gonna swallow me whole."

Osamu's heart ached. He wanted to say something, to offer comfort, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he pulled Atsumu into a hug, careful of his belly, and held him tight.

"I should have been there," he whispered. "I should have been there for you."

Atsumu shook his head against Osamu's shoulder. "You're here now. That's what matters."

---

Later, after Kita had put the children to bed and Suna had come inside to sit with them, Osamu found himself in the kitchen, helping Kita wash dishes. The silence between them was comfortable, but Osamu's mind was racing.

"Kita," he said, setting down a plate. "What happened? With Atsumu? After the kids were born?"

Kita's hands stilled for a moment. Then he resumed scrubbing a pan, expression unreadable. "He struggled. More than he let on. After the twins, he tried to hide it from me. He would smile and say he was fine, but I could see it in his eyes. The emptiness." He paused, setting the pan aside. "One night, about a month after the girls were born, I came home late from work. The house was quiet. Too quiet. I found him in the bathroom, holding a bottle of pills."

Osamu's blood ran cold. "What?"

"He said he couldn't do it anymore. That the babies would be better off without him." Kita's voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it. "I got him to the hospital. He stayed there for a week. We got him into therapy, adjusted his medication. He's better now, but…" Kita looked at Osamu, eyes dark with old grief. "It never fully goes away. The darkness. He just learns to live with it."

Osamu's hands were shaking. He leaned against the counter, the world spinning. "He tried to… He almost…"

"Yes." Kita's voice was soft. "And he never told you because he didn't want to burden you. He always said you had your own life, your own business. He didn't want to drag you into his problems."

"But I'm his twin," Osamu said, his voice breaking. "I'm supposed to be there for him."

Kita didn't answer. He just placed a hand on Osamu's shoulder and squeezed.

---

Later that night, after Suna had gone to sleep in the guest room and the house had fallen into a quiet hum, Osamu sat on the couch with Atsumu. A single lamp glowed beside them, casting long shadows across the room.

"Kita told me," Osamu said quietly.

Atsumu stiffened. "Told you what?"

"About the pills. About the hospital. About…" Osamu's voice caught. "About you almost leaving."

Atsumu's eyes filled with tears, but he didn't look away. "I was going to do it, Samu. I had it all planned out. The kids were asleep. Kita wasn't coming home until morning. I thought… I thought they'd be better off without me. That they deserved a mommy who wasn't broken."

"Atsumu…"

"But then I thought of little Osamu. And Adami. And Himari and Rin. I thought about how they'd grow up without me. How they'd never know how much I loved them." Atsumu's hand drifted to his belly. "And I thought about these three. The life I was carrying. And I couldn't do it. I put the pills down and I called Kita. And I told him everything."

Osamu pulled him close, wrapped his arms around him like he could shield him from all the hurt. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I'm so sorry, 'Tsumu. I should have been there."

"You're here now," Atsumu said, voice muffled against Osamu's shoulder. "That's all that matters."

"I'm not leaving again." Osamu's voice was fierce. "I promise you, Atsumu. I'm never leaving again. I'm gonna be here for every doctor's appointment, every sleepless night, every tantrum and every milestone. You're not doing this alone anymore."

Atsumu pulled back, eyes shining with tears and something like hope. "You mean it?"

"Mean it," Osamu said. "I'm gonna be the best damn uncle those kids have ever seen. And I'm gonna be the brother you deserve." He paused, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "Besides, someone's gotta teach little Osamu how to make onigiri. He's got the name, after all."

Atsumu laughed—a real laugh, bright and bursting with relief. "You're such an idiot."

"Yeah, but I'm your idiot."

They sat together in the quiet of the night. Outside, the rain finally eased. And for the first time in four years, the space between them felt small, warm, full of light.

In the bedroom upstairs, Kita tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and smiled, listening to the sound of his husband's laughter. He turned off the light and let himself sleep, knowing that in the living room, two brothers were finding their way back to each other.

And that was enough.