The Barest Thread

The heat was fucking oppressive.

Atsumu lay sprawled across Osamu’s couch in nothing but black shorts, one arm slung over his eyes, the other dangling off the cushion. The apartment was a sauna. The AC had wheezed its last breath around noon, and now, at nearly three, the living room had turned into a slow cooker with him as the main ingredient.

He’d already stripped off his shirt. Then his binder. The relief hit so sharp he nearly got dizzy, and now he sat in only the thin red lace of the bralette he’d worn underneath—because apparently his body had decided normal sports bras weren’t good enough anymore, that everything had to be uncomfortable and weird and wrong.

The bralette was technically for postpartum wear, or so the internet said. Soft. Stretchy. No underwire. The only thing he could stand against his skin these days without wanting to crawl out of it.

He pressed a hand to his stomach—still flat enough to pass if he sucked in, but wrong in a way only he could feel. His fingers trembled. He let them fall.

Two months.

He found out two months ago. Stared at the positive test in his own bathroom for forty-five minutes before shoving it to the bottom of the trash and pretending he hadn’t seen anything. He’d been on the road with MSBY. Playing the best volleyball of his life. He’d been fine.

And then he wasn’t.

And the only person he could think to call—the only one who’d been there through every fuck-up and failure and complete collapse—was Osamu.

“Can I stay with ya for a bit?” he’d asked, voice carefully casual. “MSBY off-season’s got me bored outta my mind, and yer place is closer to—I dunno. Stuff.”

Osamu grunted something noncommittal—basically a yes from him—and Atsumu packed one bag and drove four hours to Hyogo without telling anyone where he was going.

He’d been here three days now. Three days of hot rice balls and Osamu’s gruff silences and the secret sitting in his chest like a stone he couldn’t swallow.

I’m gonna tell him. Tonight. Or tomorrow. Or—

The door clicked open.

Atsumu didn’t move. Didn’t even bother lifting his arm. “Took ya long enough,” he mumbled into the stillness. “The AC’s broken. I’m dyin’, Samu. Get me a fan or somethin’.”

Silence.

Then a woman’s voice, sharp and incredulous: “Who the hell are you?”

His arm dropped.

Standing in the doorway was a woman he’d never seen before. Pretty—sharp cheekbones, dark hair in a sleek ponytail, an expensive-looking sundress. Her eyes were wide, fixed on him with an expression that shifted from shock to something uglier.

Behind her, Osamu stood frozen, a bag of groceries in one hand, his face a mask of dawning horror.

“Shit,” Osamu said.

She turned to him. “Shit? You bring me home to meet your fiancée and there’s some half-naked woman on your couch?”

Atsumu went cold.

He sat up slowly, acutely aware of what he was wearing—or rather, what he wasn’t. Red lace. No binder. His hair was a mess, he probably had a pillow crease on his cheek, and he looked soft in a way he’d spent his whole adult life trying to avoid.

“I ain’t—” he started.

“Don’t you dare talk to me,” she snapped, stepping fully into the apartment. Her heels clicked against the floor like gunshots. “I knew it. I knew you were hiding something. You never wanted me to come over, you always made excuses—”

“Rina, stop.” Osamu set the groceries down harder than necessary. “It ain’t what ya think.”

“Then what is it?” She gestured wildly at Atsumu. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve got a girl in your apartment wearing nothing but lingerie while I’m supposed to believe we’re getting married.”

Heat climbed up Atsumu’s neck. Not the good kind. The kind that made his vision blur at the edges. His chest felt too tight, ribs too small for what they were trying to hold.

“I ain’t a girl,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant. Wrong. Everything felt wrong.

Rina turned to him with a sneer. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Something cracked inside his chest.

Osamu stepped between them, shoulders broad, jaw set in that stubborn line Atsumu knew better than his own reflection. “Rina, that’s enough. That’s my twin brother.”

The silence was so complete Atsumu could hear his own heartbeat.

Rina’s sneer faltered. “What?”

“Atsumu.” Osamu’s voice softened, just a fraction. “This is my fiancée, Rina. I was gonna tell ya she was comin’ over, but I forgot my phone at the shop, and I figured we’d be back before ya—I didn’t think—”

“Yer fiancée?” Atsumu heard himself say. The words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. “Ya got engaged and didn’t tell me?”

Osamu flinched.

Small, barely visible, but Atsumu caught it. He always caught it. Eighteen years of reading micro-expressions on his twin’s face, learning the language of silences and half-glances and the subtle tension of a jaw hiding something.

They’d both been hiding.

“Ya said ya were just datin’ around,” Atsumu said, and his voice cracked on the last word. “Ya said it wasn’t serious.”

Rina’s eyes darted between them, anger giving way to confusion. “You’re… you’re really twins? But you look nothing—”

“We’re identical,” Atsumu said flatly. “We just don’t dress the same.”

He stood up, and the movement made his stomach lurch. Pregnancy hormones had been fucking with him from day one—nausea, exhaustion, mood swings that felt like drowning. And right now, all of it was crashing down at once.

His eyes burned.

No. No, no, no—

“Atsumu?” Osamu’s voice was closer, softer, but Atsumu couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at either of them.

“I gotta—” He swallowed hard, tasted bile. “I gotta go.”

He made it two steps toward the bathroom before his stomach revolted completely, and he barely got the door open before he was on his knees, heaving into the toilet.

Not the first time this week. Won’t be the last. But first time anyone’s seen it.

Footsteps behind him. A hand on his back, broad and warm and familiar.

“Samu, don’t—” he tried to say, but another wave of nausea cut him off.

Osamu didn’t move. Just stayed, rubbing slow circles between Atsumu’s shoulder blades, same as when they were kids and Atsumu had gotten himself sick on cheap carnival cotton candy.

“Get her outta here,” Atsumu gasped when he could breathe again. “Please. Just—I can’t—not right now.”

Osamu was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood, and Atsumu heard his footsteps retreat, the low murmur of voices in the living room, the click of the front door.

Then Osamu was back, kneeling beside him with a glass of water and a damp washcloth.

“Here.” He pressed the washcloth to Atsumu’s forehead, cool against skin that felt too hot. “Drink somethin’.”

Atsumu took the water with shaking hands. Took a sip. Let the cool settle in his empty stomach before setting the glass aside and leaning back against the bathroom wall.

He must have looked like hell. Felt like hell.

Osamu sat down across from him, legs crossed, elbows on his knees. His face unreadable, but his eyes—the same honey-brown as Atsumu’s own—held the same weight.

“Ya wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?” Osamu asked quietly. “Or ya want me to guess?”

Atsumu laughed. Came out broken, wet, nothing like the cocky sound he’d perfected over years of volleyball courts and press conferences.

“Ya wanna guess?” he said. “Go ahead. I got nothin’ better to do.”

Osamu’s gaze dropped to Atsumu’s stomach. Just for a second. Just long enough for Atsumu to feel the air leave his lungs.

“How far along are ya?”

The question hung between them, soft and devastating.

Atsumu’s vision blurred. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and tried to breathe.

“Two months,” he whispered. “I found out two months ago.”

Osamu didn’t say anything. Just reached out and took Atsumu’s wrist, pulling his hands away from his face, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Who else knows?”

“No one.”

“The father?”

Atsumu shook his head. “He don’t… he ain’t…” He swallowed. “It don’t matter. It was a one-time thing. I don’t even know how to reach him.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. His grip on Atsumu’s wrist gentled, thumb brushing over the inside of his arm in a gesture so familiar it made Atsumu’s chest ache.

“Why didn’t ya tell me?” Osamu asked, and there wasn’t accusation in his voice. Just hurt. The quiet, aching hurt of a twin kept in the dark.

“Because I didn’t know how.” Atsumu’s voice broke. “Because I’m scared, Samu. I’m so fuckin’ scared. I don’t know what I’m doin’. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I want to do this. And every time I think about tellin’ ya, I just—I freeze. Because what if ya look at me different? What if ya think I’m stupid? What if—”

“Stop.” Osamu’s voice firm, but gentle. “Atsumu. Breathe.”

Atsumu sucked in a shaky breath.

“I ain’t gonna look at ya different,” Osamu said. “I ain’t gonna think yer stupid. Yer my twin. Ya could tell me ya decided to become a professional clown and I’d still be proud of ya.”

A wet laugh escaped Atsumu’s throat. “That’s a low bar.”

“It’s a high bar, actually. Clownin’ is serious business.”

Atsumu laughed again, and this time it felt a little less like breaking.

They sat there on the bathroom floor for a long time, tile cool against their skin, the heat pressing in from every side. Atsumu’s nausea slowly subsided, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made his eyelids heavy.

“I didn’t know ya were engaged,” he said eventually. “That hurt, Samu.”

Osamu’s expression flickered. “I know. I’m sorry. I was gonna tell ya. I kept meanin’ to, but then ya showed up lookin’ like ya were fallin’ apart, and I didn’t wanna add more to yer plate.”

“So we were both protectin’ each other from shit we didn’t need protectin’ from.”

“Guess so.”

Atsumu let his head fall back against the wall. “We’re idiots.”

“The biggest.”

They sat in silence another moment, then Osamu stood, offering Atsumu a hand.

“C’mon. Let’s get ya off the bathroom floor. I’ll make ya somethin’ to eat.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

“Ya gotta eat anyway. For the—ya know.” He gestured vaguely at Atsumu’s midsection.

Atsumu took his hand and let Osamu pull him to his feet. The world tilted for a second, then steadied.

“Yer fiancée,” he said as they walked back into the living room. “She gonna come back?”

“Yeah. I told her to give us a few minutes, but she’s waitin’ downstairs.” Osamu guided him to the couch, grabbed a blanket from the back, and draped it over Atsumu’s shoulders. “She ain’t a bad person. She just… jumps to conclusions.”

“Bit of an understatement.”

“She’ll apologize.”

Atsumu pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “I don’t need an apology. I just need…” He trailed off, not sure how to finish.

Osamu sat down beside him. “What do ya need, ‘Tsumu?”

It was the old nickname. The one Osamu hadn’t used since they were kids, before volleyball turned them into rivals, before Atsumu left for MSBY and Osamu stayed to build a life that didn’t revolve around a ball and a net.

Atsumu’s throat tightened.

“I need to know I ain’t alone,” he whispered. “I need to know that no matter what I decide, I got someone in my corner.”

Osamu put an arm around him, pulled him sideways until Atsumu’s head rested against his shoulder. Awkward and uncomfortable, and Atsumu was pretty sure his neck was gonna cramp, but he didn’t move.

“Ya got me,” Osamu said. “Ya always had me. Even when I’m bein’ a shitty brother and forgettin’ to tell ya about my fiancée.”

“Ya are a shitty brother.”

“I know.”

“But I love ya anyway.”

“I know that too.”

They stayed like that until the heat became unbearable again, then Osamu got up to call a repairman about the AC, and Atsumu curled up on the couch with the blanket and tried not to think about all the things he still didn’t know.

An hour later, a knock at the door.

Osamu answered it, and Rina stepped inside, looking significantly less composed than before. Her hair slightly mussed, eyes red-rimmed, and she held a small paper bag.

“I brought onigiri,” she said, voice small. “From that place ya like. I figured… we could all use somethin’ to eat.”

Atsumu blinked.

She crossed the room slowly, like approaching a spooked animal, and set the bag on the coffee table in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For what I said earlier. For assumin’… for callin’ ya a girl. That was wrong of me, and I had no right.”

Atsumu studied her for a long moment. She looked genuinely remorseful, shoulders hunched, hands clasped in her lap. Not the same sharp-edged woman who’d stormed in an hour ago.

“S’alright,” he said, and meant it. “Kinda hard to jump to the right conclusion when yer walkin’ in on yer fiancée’s mysterious houseguest wearin’ nothin’ but a bra.”

Rina winced. “I really am sorry.”

“I know. Are ya gonna be okay with me stayin’ here for a while? I ain’t tryna get in the way of whatever ya two got goin’ on.”

She looked at Osamu, then back at Atsumu. “He told me. About the—about why yer here.”

Atsumu’s gaze snapped to Osamu, who shrugged apologetically.

“She was gonna keep askin’ questions,” Osamu said. “And I figured if we’re gonna be family, she oughta know.”

Family.

Atsumu hadn’t thought about it that way. He’d been so wrapped up in his own secret that he hadn’t considered Osamu was building a life of his own, one that included new people, new connections, new obligations.

Rina sat down on the edge of the armchair, hands still clasped. “I won’t pretend I understand what yer goin’ through,” she said. “But I do know what it’s like to be scared and not know where to turn. And I know Osamu loves ya more than anythin’ in this world. So if yer his family, then yer my family too. And family sticks together.”

Atsumu felt his eyes sting again, but this time it wasn’t from nausea or fear. Something warmer. Something that made the knot in his chest loosen, just a little.

“Thanks,” he said, voice rough.

Rina smiled, and it transformed her face, softened all the sharp edges until she almost looked kind.

“Now eat yer onigiri,” she said. “Ya look like yer about to keel over.”

Atsumu laughed. Weak and watery, but real.

He reached for the bag and pulled out a rice ball, still warm, wrapped in nori. He took a bite and tasted salt and familiarity and something that felt like home.

Osamu sat down on the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“I’m gonna figure this out,” Atsumu said quietly, for Osamu’s ears only. “The baby. What I’m gonna do. I’m gonna figure it out.”

“I know ya will.”

“And I’m gonna be there for yer weddin’. Even if I gotta wear a trash bag to hide my baby bump.”

Osamu snorted. “I’d rather ya just wore a normal suit.”

“No promises.”

They sat there, the three of them, eating cold rice balls in a sweltering apartment with a broken AC, and Atsumu felt, for the first time in two months, like he could breathe.

He still didn’t know what he was going to do.

He still didn’t know if he could be a parent, or if he even wanted to be one.

But he knew he wasn’t alone.

For now, that was enough.