2:47 AM

The microwave clock blinked 2:47 AM. Osamu Miya sat at his kitchen table, a half-empty glass of water beside him, tears running down his face. He wasn't sure when they'd started. It'd been building for days, weeks, maybe years. That familiar ache—the weight of a decade of silence—sat heavy in his chest. He'd learned to carry it.

He scrolled through TikTok on autopilot, bright colors and meaningless music blurring past his wet eyes. He'd been doing this a lot lately. Staying up late. Scrolling until his eyes burned. Trying to outrun the thoughts that crept in when the apartment was dark and Suna was asleep.

Onigiri Miya was doing well. Better than well, actually. Three locations now, loyal customers, maybe a fourth on the way. He was proud of what he'd built. But at night, alone with his thoughts, that pride curdled into something bitter.

He'd always figured he'd be the one to break first. He was the sensible twin, the one who kept his head down, who didn't wave his emotions around like flags. Atsumu was the loud one, the brash one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve and dared the world to tear it off.

But Atsumu hadn't broken first. He'd just... disappeared.

After that last fight—about nothing, about everything, about pride and volleyball and whose choices were more valid—the calls had stopped. The texts grew sparse, then stopped entirely. Atsumu had always been the one to reach out, even when Osamu didn't deserve it. But after that fight, Atsumu stopped reaching.

And Osamu, stubborn and too proud, didn't reach back.

He told himself Atsumu was fine. Atsumu was at the top of his game, star setter for MSBY, beloved by fans, surrounded by teammates who worshipped him. Atsumu didn't need Osamu. Atsumu had never needed anyone.

Easier to believe that than admit he was scared.

The TikTok algorithm, cruel and indifferent, fed him a video. He almost scrolled past—another vox pop, some street interview with a random person. But the thumbnail caught his eye. Familiar blond hair, longer now, tied back in a loose ponytail. A face he'd know anywhere.

Osamu's thumb froze.

He pressed play.

The video was shot outside a grocery store. A young woman with a microphone approached a man who looked... happy. That was the only word. The man—Atsumu—stood with one hand resting on the swell of his pregnant belly, a serene smile on his face Osamu had never seen before. Not the cocky grin, not the competitive smirk, not the tight-lipped smile for cameras. This was soft. Content.

"What's the biggest surprise about your parenting journey?" the interviewer asked.

Atsumu laughed—warm, easy, made Osamu's chest ache. "Honestly? That I survived the first five. I've got twins, triplets, and now this little one on the way. Six kids total. Never thought I'd be a dad, but life had other plans."

The interviewer's eyes widened. "Six? You must have your hands full."

"Full doesn't cover it," Atsumu said, his smile steady. "But I've got a good support system. My husband's a saint. The kids are great. Exhausting, but great."

Osamu's breath caught. Husband? Married? Children? Five of them, and a sixth on the way?

The video kept playing, but Osamu wasn't watching. The phone slipped from his fingers, clattered onto the table. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the tears that were flowing freely now.

Atsumu had a family. Atsumu had built a life without him. And Osamu knew nothing about it. Didn't know his own brother's address, didn't have his phone number, didn't know the names of his nieces and nephews.

But that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was the memory that surfaced, unbidden, from when they were fifteen and stupid and thought they'd be together forever.

He could see Atsumu's face—pale, sweaty, clutching a biology textbook in their shared room after a grueling practice. They'd been studying for an exam, but Atsumu had gotten distracted by a chapter on childbirth.

"Samu," Atsumu had whispered, his voice small in a way it rarely was. "Look at this. What happens to the body during labor. I could never—I'd die. I'd absolutely die."

Osamu had laughed, thrown a pillow at him. "You're such a drama queen. Women do it every day."

"It's not being a drama queen, it's being terrified," Atsumu had snapped, eyes wide. "I can't even watch those birth videos in health class without feeling sick. If I ever had to go through that, I'd rather just—not."

Osamu thought it was funny. Atsumu, the fearless setter, scared of childbirth. He'd teased him for weeks.

And now Atsumu was pregnant. Expecting his sixth child.

Osamu's stomach lurched. He stumbled to the bathroom, barely made it before he was sick.

When he came back, Suna was standing in the hallway, hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. He looked at Osamu's pale face, the water stains on the table, the phone still playing a silent loop of Atsumu's interview.

"Samu?" Suna's voice was soft, concerned. He crossed the room, wrapped his arms around Osamu from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. "What happened?"

Osamu tried to speak, his voice cracked. He just pointed.

Suna picked up the phone, watched the video for a few seconds, then set it down. Said nothing at first. Just held Osamu tighter.

"He has five kids, Rin," Osamu finally whispered. "He's having a sixth. And he's—he's terrified of childbirth. He told me when we were kids. Said he'd rather die. And I laughed at him."

Suna was quiet for a long moment. Then he gently turned Osamu around, cupping his face in his hands.

"Samu. You need to call him."

"I can't. I don't have his number. I don't know where he lives—"

"I found an address," Suna said quietly. "A while ago. I didn't tell you because I didn't think you were ready."

Osamu stared. "What?"

"I've been watching his social media," Suna admitted. "Not obsessively, but enough to know he's okay. He posts sometimes. He married Shinsuke Kita about five years ago. They live near Inarizaki, in the old Kita household."

Kita. Of course. Kita Shinsuke. The steady, dependable captain. If anyone could handle Atsumu, it was him.

"You didn't tell me?" Osamu's voice came out sharper than he meant.

"Because you weren't ready," Suna repeated. "And because I knew you'd blame yourself. And look—you are. But Samu, you can't change the past. You can only change what happens next."

Osamu's shoulders sagged. "I don't even know if he wants to see me."

"He might not," Suna said honestly. "But you'll never know if you don't try. And you're going to regret it forever if you don't. So swallow your pride, Miya Osamu, and go see your brother."

The drive to the Kita household took three hours. Osamu left before dawn, a thermos of coffee in the cupholder, Suna's encouragement still echoing in his ears. The sun rose slowly, painting the rice fields in shades of gold and green, and Osamu's mind was a storm of memories.

He remembered their childhood—the constant bickering, the fierce competition, but also the secret smiles, the late-night conversations, the way Atsumu would always, always have his back. He remembered the day they went to different high schools, how Atsumu had clung to him at the train station, pretending it was no big deal. The phone calls after every match, the texts half trash talk, half affection.

And he remembered the silence after that last fight. The way his phone had stopped lighting up with Atsumu's name. The hollow feeling that settled in his chest and never quite went away.

He pulled up to a traditional farmhouse, the kind that had been in the Kita family for generations. The yard was neat—a small garden, a clothesline flapping with brightly colored children's clothes. Toys scattered on the porch: a plastic truck, a doll, a deflated volleyball.

Osamu's heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat.

He got out of the car, walked to the front door, legs like lead. Raised his hand to knock—but the door swung open before he could.

And there was Atsumu.

Older. Face softer, lost some of its sharp edges. Hair longer, pulled back in a messy bun, loose sweater that didn't hide the swell of his belly. His eyes—same amber as Osamu's—widened in shock.

For a long, agonizing moment, neither spoke.

Then Atsumu's face crumpled.

"I missed you so much, Samu."

Barely a whisper, choked with tears. Atsumu stumbled forward, arms wrapping around Osamu with a desperate strength that knocked the breath out of him. Osamu stood frozen for a second, then his own arms came up, pulling his brother close.

He was crying. Didn't realize it until he felt the wetness on his cheeks, tasted salt on his lips.

"I'm sorry," Osamu choked out. "I'm so sorry, 'Tsumu. I should've—I should've been there."

"Shut up," Atsumu said, voice thick. "Just shut up and hug me."

They stood there on the porch, two broken men holding each other, years of silence dissolving into tears. Osamu could feel Atsumu's heartbeat, fast and strong, the slight tremor in his shoulders. Smell the familiar scent—fabric softener mixed with something uniquely Atsumu.

Behind them, a soft voice: "Atsumu, who's at the door? You shouldn't be standing too long."

Osamu pulled back, eyes red and swollen, and saw Kita Shinsuke standing in the doorway. Looked almost exactly the same as in high school—calm, composed, that quiet authority. He was holding a toddler on his hip, a little girl with Atsumu's blond hair and Kita's serious eyes.

Kita's expression softened. "Miya. Good to see you."

"Kita-san." Osamu's voice was hoarse. "I—"

"Come inside," Kita said, stepping aside. "We have a lot to talk about."

Inside, the Kita household was warm and chaotic. A baby crying somewhere in the back, a TV playing a cartoon, two children—maybe four or five—chasing each other around the living room. They stopped when they saw the stranger, curiosity and caution in their eyes.

"Kids," Atsumu said, wiping his face with his sleeve, "this is your uncle. Uncle Samu."

The twins—because that's who they were, Osamu realized, they looked exactly like Atsumu at that age—stared. One, a boy, pointed.

"You have the same face as Mama."

"It's not the same," the other twin, a girl, said. "Mama's is prettier."

"Yuka, be nice," Atsumu said, no heat in it. He turned to Osamu, a fragile smile on his lips. "That's Yuka and Hikaru. The triplets are napping—Kaito, Sora, and Mei. And the baby is Haru."

"New one?" Osamu couldn't keep up. "But you said you're expecting a sixth."

"Haru is the youngest," Atsumu said, patting his belly. "Due in three months. This one doesn't have a name yet."

Osamu's mind reeled. Five children. Six on the way. And Atsumu, who had been terrified of childbirth, had gone through it five times.

They sat in the living room, the chaos settling into a manageable hum. Kita brought tea, then excused himself to put the twins down for a nap, leaving the brothers alone.

Atsumu sat across from Osamu, hands wrapped around a warm cup of herbal tea. He looked tired—the kind of tired from years of sleepless nights—but there was a peace in his eyes Osamu hadn't seen since they were kids.

"So," Atsumu said, voice soft. "What took you so long?"

Osamu's throat tightened. "I didn't know where you were. I thought—I thought you didn't want to see me."

"Idiot," Atsumu said, but affectionate. "I never stopped wanting to see you. I just didn't know how to reach out. Pride, I guess. Stupid pride."

"Same," Osamu admitted. "I kept telling myself you were fine. You're Atsumu Miya, the great setter. You didn't need me."

Atsumu laughed, but hollow. "I needed you. So many times, Samu. But I thought you were angry at me. After that fight, I thought you hated me."

"I could never hate you."

"I know. But you know how my brain works."

They sat in silence, the weight of years pressing down. Then Atsumu took a deep breath and began to talk.

He told Osamu everything.

About the year after their fight, how he'd met Kita again at a tournament, how Kita had seen through all his bravado. They'd started talking, then dating. When Atsumu found out he was pregnant with the twins, he'd been terrified.

"I wanted to call you," Atsumu said, voice cracking. "So badly. But I was scared you'd reject me. Scared you'd tell me I'd made a mistake, or that I was ruining my career—"

" 'Tsumu, I would never—"

"I know. But I didn't know then. And then the twins came, and everything went wrong."

The story came out in fragments, painful and raw. The twins born premature. Atsumu developed severe postpartum depression, weeks in a fog of exhaustion and despair, barely able to hold his own children. Kita took a leave of absence from his job to care for him, dealing with the babies while Atsumu struggled.

"It was the worst time of my life," Atsumu said, eyes distant. "I didn't think I'd make it. But Shinsuke never gave up on me. Held me when I cried, made sure I ate, took me to therapy. He was my rock."

Osamu listened, hands clenched into fists on his knees.

Then, when the twins were two, Atsumu got pregnant again. Triplets. High-risk pregnancy. The birth was a nightmare.

"I hemorrhaged," Atsumu said quietly. "Lost a lot of blood. They almost had to do an emergency hysterectomy. I was in the hospital for two weeks. Shinsuke juggled the twins and the newborns by himself. Never complained."

Osamu felt sick. His brother had almost died, and he hadn't known. Three hours away, running his onigiri shop, living his life, while Atsumu fought for his.

"But that's not the worst part," Atsumu said, voice dropping to a whisper. "During my second pregnancy—with the triplets—something happened."

Osamu leaned forward. "What?"

Atsumu's hands trembled. He set down the tea, wrapped his arms around himself.

"There was a fan. A volunteer at the MSBY fan club, someone I thought was harmless. She started following me to events, sending gifts. I didn't think much of it. But then she found out I was pregnant. Found out I was married to Shinsuke. And she... didn't take it well."

Osamu's blood ran cold.

"She started showing up at our house. Leaving notes. Threatening letters. We got a restraining order, but hard to prove. One day, at a match, she got into the locker room. I was alone, changing. She offered me a bottle of water. I didn't think—I was thirsty, I'd just played three sets—"

Atsumu's voice broke.

"She poisoned it. Something mild, but enough to make me sick. Ended up in the hospital. They monitored the babies for days. Terrifying."

Osamu's vision went red. "She poisoned you?"

"Arrested. In prison now. That was when I decided to quit volleyball. Not because I didn't love it, but I couldn't keep putting my family at risk. The attention, the fans, the stress—it was too much. I couldn't be the public figure while protecting my children."

"So you just... left."

"I just left," Atsumu confirmed. "Told the team I was retiring for personal reasons. No interviews. No explanations. I just disappeared. And I knew you'd hear about it, and I thought—maybe you'd come find me."

Osamu's tears were falling freely now. "I heard. I saw the announcement. I told myself you were fine. You made your choice. Not my place to interfere."

"I wanted you to interfere," Atsumu said, voice breaking. "I wanted you to crash through my door and yell at me and tell me I was being stupid. I wanted my brother to fight for me."

"I'm sorry," Osamu sobbed. "I'm so sorry, 'Tsumu. I was a coward."

"No. No, you were hurting too. We both were. But I just—I just wanted my brother back."

Osamu moved to kneel in front of Atsumu, taking his hands. Smaller than he remembered. Softer. "I'm here now. I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Atsumu looked at him, eyes shimmering. Then he pulled Osamu into another hug, burying his face in his shoulder.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Kita found them like that, half an hour later, still holding each other. He didn't say anything. Just sat down beside Atsumu, placed a gentle hand on his back.

"Kids are asleep," he said softly. "You should rest too."

Atsumu nodded, but didn't let go of Osamu.

"You're staying for dinner," Atsumu said. Not a question.

"I'm staying for as long as you'll let me."

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of bonding and healing. Osamu became a fixture at the Kita household, visiting every weekend and sometimes during the week. He learned the names and personalities of all his nieces and nephews—Yuka the bossy one, Hikaru the quiet observer, Kaito the adventurous, Sora the serious, Mei the sensitive, and baby Haru who just wanted to be held.

He helped with meals, did dishes, played in the backyard, read bedtime stories. Watched Kita and Atsumu interact with quiet awe—the way Kita anticipated Atsumu's needs, offered water or a pillow before Atsumu even knew he wanted it. The way Atsumu leaned into Kita's touch, trusting and safe.

Slowly, the twins rebuilt their bond.

They talked about everything. Their parents, their childhood, their regrets. Argued sometimes—still the Miya twins—but the arguments ended with apologies and laughter instead of silence.

One evening, as the sun set over the rice fields, Osamu and Atsumu sat on the porch, watching the children play. Atsumu rested his belly on a cushion, hand stroking the swell.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," Osamu said for the hundredth time.

Atsumu nudged him with his shoulder. "You're here now. That's what matters."

"But the things you went through—the depression, the hemorrhaging, the poisoning—I could have helped. Should have been there."

"You didn't know."

"I should have known. Should have reached out. I was so wrapped up in my own pride that I let you—"

"Samu." Atsumu's voice was firm. "Stop. I've forgiven you. Forgive yourself."

Osamu was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I love you, 'Tsumu. I never said it enough. But I do."

Atsumu's eyes glistened. "I love you too, you idiot. Now go help Shinsuke with dinner. The triplets are going to be hungry soon."

Osamu laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in years. He stood up, but before he went inside, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Atsumu's head.

"I'll be right back."

Atsumu smiled—genuine, peaceful.

"I know."