The Distance Between Raindrops

The rain had been coming down for hours, a steady gray curtain blurring everything past the sliding glass door. Osamu Miya sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone. Screen dark. Had been dark for a long time.

Suna Rintarou watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a cup of tea going cold in his hands. He didn't say anything for a while—let the silence settle like dust. Then he moved, set the cup on the low table in front of Osamu, and sat down beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

"You've been like this all week," Suna said, voice quiet, flat in that way that meant he was worried but didn't want to admit it. "What's going on?"

Osamu's jaw tightened. He didn't look up. "Nothin'."

"Your left eye keeps twitching. You haven't eaten properly since Tuesday. And you've checked your phone about forty times in the last hour."

"Maybe I'm just addicted to social media."

"You don't have social media."

Osamu let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it died in his throat. He unlocked the phone, thumb hovering over the contacts app, then locked it again. Suna's hand came to rest on his knee, grounding.

"It's Atsumu, isn't it."

Not a question. Osamu's shoulders sagged, and the admission came out like a confession. "I don't even know his phone number."

Suna blinked. "What?"

"We haven't— I mean, we text sometimes, through group chats, but I don't have his personal number. Not anymore. He changed it after he moved out, and I was too proud to ask for the new one, and now it's been…" He paused, counting silently. "Two years. Two years since we actually talked. Just us."

Suna was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then he said, "Two years?"

"I know." Osamu's voice cracked, and he hated it. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I thought he'd reach out. He's always the one who reaches out. But he didn't. And I didn't. And now I don't know if he's okay, or if he hates me, or if he's even still alive."

"He's alive," Suna said firmly. "Kita would have told you if something happened."

"Would he? I ain't exactly stayed in touch with him either."

Suna was quiet again, and Osamu could feel the weight of his gaze, patient and waiting. Finally, Suna said, "What are you afraid of?"

Osamu's throat tightened. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "That I've already lost him. That I let pride and busy schedules and stupid excuses drive a wedge between us, and now it's too late to fix it. That he's got a whole life I know nothin' about, and I'm just the brother who abandoned him."

The words hung in the air, heavy as the rain. Suna reached for his hand, squeezed once.

"Then go see him."

Osamu looked up, startled. "What?"

"Surprise visit. Show up at his door. You know where he lives, right? Kita's house? The one with the big garden?"

"I know where it is. But I can't just—"

"Why not?" Suna's voice was calm, unyielding. "What's the worst that could happen? He slams the door in your face? Then at least you'll know you tried. But what if he doesn't? What if he's been waiting for you to show up, too?"

Osamu stared at him. His heart was pounding. "What if I freeze up and can't say anything?"

"Then you stand there and let him talk first. Or you just hug him and figure out the rest later."

"You make it sound simple."

"It is." Suna shrugged. "Hard part is getting in the car. The rest just happens."

Osamu looked down at their intertwined hands. Suna's thumb was tracing small circles on his skin, steady and reassuring. He took a shaky breath.

"Tomorrow," he said. "I'll go tomorrow."

Suna smiled, small and rare. "I'll pack you some onigiri."

---

The drive took just over an hour, but it felt like a lifetime. Osamu's hands were sweaty on the steering wheel, knuckles white. The rain had stopped, leaving the roads slick and the sky a bruised purple-gray. He'd rehearsed a dozen opening lines in his head: Hey, Tsumu. Long time no see. Sorry I'm an idiot. Or maybe: I don't know why I'm here. I just needed to see you. Or even just: I miss you.

None of them felt right.

He pulled up to the house just before noon. Cozy two-story home with a cream exterior and dark wood trim, nestled at the end of a quiet lane. The garden was bursting with life—roses and hydrangeas and a vegetable patch neatly tended. A child's bicycle lay on its side in the driveway. Osamu killed the engine and sat there, gripping the wheel.

You can do this. Just get out of the car.

His legs felt like lead. He walked up the path, each step heavier than the last, and stopped in front of the door. The doorbell was a small brass button. He pressed it.

A dog barked inside, followed by footsteps, quick and light. The door swung open, and Osamu's breath caught.

Atsumu Miya stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other cradling an enormous belly. He was round and soft, face fuller, hair longer and tied back in a loose ponytail. Wore an oversized sweater that did nothing to hide the swell of his pregnancy, and his expression was open, peaceful—nothing like the sharp, competitive twin Osamu remembered.

Then Atsumu's eyes met his, and recognition flooded in like a tide.

"Samu?"

His voice broke on the single syllable. And then he started crying—big, ugly, gasping sobs, tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't move, didn't speak, just stood there shaking, and Osamu felt his own eyes burn.

"Tsumu."

He closed the distance in two steps, wrapping his arms around his twin, careful of the pregnancy, and buried his face in Atsumu's shoulder. The embrace was fierce and trembling, years of distance collapsing into a single moment. Atsumu's hands fisted in the back of Osamu's jacket, and he shook against him, letting out choked sounds that might have been words or might have just been grief.

"I'm sorry," Osamu whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Atsumu just held him tighter.

They stayed like that for a long time, swaying slightly in the doorway, the afternoon sun breaking through the clouds to warm their backs. Finally, Atsumu pulled back, sniffing, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. His smile was wobbly but real.

"You're late," he said, voice thick. "You're real late, Samu."

"I know."

Atsumu laughed, a wet, hiccuping sound. "Get inside. You're gonna let all the warm air out."

---

The house was chaos. Beautiful, noisy, wonderful chaos.

No sooner had Osamu stepped inside than a pair of toddlers came barreling down the hallway, shrieking with laughter. A little boy with silver-gray hair and sharp brown eyes latched onto Atsumu's leg, while a girl with dark hair and Kita's calm gaze clung to the other. Behind them, an older boy—maybe four or five, with Osamu's own features—was chasing a younger girl who looked like a miniature Atsumu.

"Mama! Mama! Genji took my cookie!" the girl shouted.

"Did not! You dropped it!"

"Mama, tell him!"

Atsumu sighed, but his eyes were soft. "Adami, be nice to your sister. Rin, there's more cookies in the kitchen."

Osamu stared. There were four children. Four. And Atsumu was heavily pregnant with what looked like another set of multiples? He counted again. "Tsumu… how many?"

Atsumu grinned, a flash of the old mischievous spirit. "You're lookin' at the proud mama of two sets of twins and a surprise set of triplets on the way." He patted his belly. "Shinsuke's gonna have his hands full."

"Two sets of twins?" Osamu's voice came out strangled.

"Yup." Atsumu gestured proudly. "Adami and Osamu—that's the oldest two, they're five. And then Himari and Rin, the two trouble-makers, they're three. And these three beans ain't due for another two months."

Osamu felt the world tilt. "You named one of them Osamu?"

The little boy—Osamu—piped up, still clinging to Atsumu's leg. "Mommy named me after Uncle Samu! She says I have his eyes."

Osamu's heart clenched so hard he thought it might stop. He knelt down, coming face-to-face with the child. The boy had the same silver hair, the same stubborn set of his jaw, the same serious expression that Osamu saw in the mirror every day.

"Hi," Osamu managed.

"Hi, Uncle Samu." The boy smiled, and it was pure Atsumu—bright and warm and a little bit smug. "Mommy talks about you all the time. She says you're the best twin ever."

Osamu looked up at Atsumu, who was blushing furiously, avoiding his gaze. The girl—Himari, presumably—tugged at Osamu's sleeve.

"Are you gonna stay for dinner?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. That depends on your mom."

"Say yes," Atsumu said quietly. "Please. Stay."

---

The afternoon slipped by in a blur of introductions and laughter. Osamu learned that the oldest boy, Adami, was named after a combination of Atsumu and "Daichi" because Atsumu had always admired the former Karasuno captain. Rin was named for Suna, a subtle nod to the friend who had helped him through tough times. And little Osamu—Osa-chan, they called him—was fiercely protective of his mother, already trying to help with the smaller children.

Osamu watched Atsumu move through the house with practiced ease, settling arguments, wiping noses, pulling snacks out of the cupboard. He was soft in a way Osamu had never seen, maternal and patient, but still quick with a teasing remark and a sharp laugh. The chaotic energy of the Miya twins had been funneled into something gentler, but no less vibrant.

"You're really good at this," Osamu said, when Atsumu finally sat down beside him on the couch, a cup of tea in hand. The children had been corralled into the playroom by the oldest two, and the house had fallen into a rare lull.

Atsumu snorted. "It's survival, not talent. The first year with the twins was a nightmare. I cried more than they did."

"Still. You built this. You and Kita."

"Kita's the backbone." Atsumu's voice softened. "He works double shifts so I can stay home with the kids. He gets up with them at night when I'm too tired. He never complains. I don't deserve him."

"You do." Osamu said it firmly. "You always did."

Atsumu's eyes glistened, and he looked down at his tea. The silence stretched, comfortable but weighted. Then Atsumu spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I kept your number, you know."

Osamu's head snapped up. "What?"

"When I changed my phone, I saved yours. Still have it. Same number from when we were in high school." Atsumu laughed, short and bitter. "I wanted to call. A hundred times. I'd type out a message and delete it. I'd pick up the phone and put it down. I didn't know what to say. I figured you were busy with Onigiri Miya, and I didn't want to bother you, and I kept thinkin' you'd reach out if you wanted to, but you never did, and that hurt, Samu. That hurt a lot."

Osamu felt the words like a punch to the gut. "I thought you hated me."

"Hate you?" Atsumu looked up, eyes wide and wet. "I could never hate you. You're my twin. You're half of me. I missed you so much it made me sick."

"Then why didn't you call?"

"Why didn't you?"

They stared at each other, the question hanging between them, fragile and sharp. Osamu broke first.

"I was scared," he admitted. "Scared you'd moved on, that you didn't need me anymore. Scared you'd see how lonely I was and feel sorry for me. I thought if you wanted me in your life, you'd make it happen. But I was too proud to make the first move."

Atsumu wiped at his eyes. "We're both idiots."

"Biggest idiots in Hyogo."

A reluctant laugh escaped Atsumu. "Maybe Japan."

"Definitely Japan."

They sat in silence, but it was a shared silence now, a bridge. Atsumu reached out and took Osamu's hand, squeezing it.

"I'm sorry too," Atsumu said. "I should have tried harder. I got wrapped up in being a mom and forgot I was a twin. That's not an excuse."

"It's not an excuse for me either."

"We don't need excuses. We just need to promise—no more years. No more silence. I don't care if you call me at three in the morning because you can't sleep. I want to know. I want to be in your life."

Osamu's throat was tight. "Same. I want to know every boring detail. What the kids ate for breakfast. What Kita said that made you laugh. Everything."

Atsumu smiled, genuine and wide. "It's a deal."

From the playroom, a shriek of laughter rang out, followed by the sound of something crashing. Atsumu winced but didn't get up. "They'll sort it out. Or they won't, and we'll deal with the aftermath."

"Sounds about right."

---

Dinner was a boisterous affair. Kita arrived home just after six, looking tired but content in his work uniform. His eyes widened briefly at the sight of Osamu, but then he smiled, small and warm, and gave a single nod.

"Osamu. Good to see you."

"You too, Kita-san."

"It's just Kita now." He hung his jacket and moved to press a kiss to Atsumu's temple, his hand brushing over the pregnant belly. "How was your day?"

"Exhausting. But good." Atsumu leaned into him. "We have a guest."

"I can see that." Kita's gaze was knowing. "I'll set another place."

Dinner was a huge pot of curry, with rice and pickled vegetables and a salad that the children had apparently helped make (the cucumbers were cut into uneven but charming shapes). The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by children's interruptions and playful arguments between the twins. Kita was a steady presence, refilling drinks, wiping faces, answering questions with calm patience.

At one point, little Osamu climbed onto Osamu's lap and demanded to hear a story about "when you and Mommy were in high school." Osamu told them about the time Atsumu had tried to impress a scout by spiking with his left hand and ended up face-planting into the net. The children howled with laughter, and Atsumu threw a napkin at him, but he was grinning.

"You're a bad influence," Atsumu said.

"You're the one who told them to ask."

"I regret everything."

"No, you don't."

Atsumu's smile softened. "No. I don't."

---

After the children were bathed and put to bed (a process that took two hours and involved three rounds of "just one more glass of water" and a spectacular meltdown over a lost stuffed rabbit), Osamu and Atsumu sat on the back porch, looking out at the garden. The stars were beginning to come out, and the air smelled like wet earth and jasmine.

"Thank you," Osamu said, his voice low. "For having me."

"You don't have to thank me. This is your home too."

"Is it?"

Atsumu turned to face him, expression earnest. "Always. These kids are your nieces and nephews. I want them to know their uncle. I want you to be here for birthdays and holidays and school plays. I want to fight with you over whose kid is cuter."

"Mine," Osamu said automatically, then blinked. "I mean—uh, I don't have kids."

"Not yet. But when you do, I'm gonna spoil them rotten and send them home with sugar highs."

Osamu laughed. It felt good. "You already spoil mine."

"Osa-chan? He's named after you. He deserves everything."

Osamu looked down at his hands. "I missed everything. First words, first steps, first day of school. I missed you being pregnant the first time. I missed your wedding."

"You didn't miss the wedding. We did it at city hall. Just us and the witnesses."

"Still. I should have been there."

Atsumu was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You're here now. That's what matters."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the stars. Then Osamu pulled out his phone.

"Give me your number."

Atsumu laughed. "You don't have it?"

"I used to. Lost it when my phone died and never bothered to ask."

"We really are idiots." Atsumu rattled off the digits, and Osamu typed them in carefully. Then he sent a text: This is Samu. Don't delete it.

Atsumu's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and smiled. "I won't. Promise."

"Weekly calls," Osamu said. "Sundays at 6. I'll call you."

"What if I'm busy?"

"Then I'll call again Monday. And Tuesday. Until you pick up."

"Stubborn."

"Learned from the best."

Atsumu leaned over and rested his head on Osamu's shoulder. "Missed this."

"Missed it too."

---

The next morning, Osamu woke to the sound of children's voices and the smell of pancakes. He found his way to the kitchen, where Atsumu was flipping pancakes one-handed while holding a baby bottle in the other—though the baby was clearly a doll, and the children were laughing at him.

"Mommy's practicing for the triplets," Himari explained.

"I'm very serious about my training," Atsumu said, deadpan.

Breakfast was loud and messy and perfect. Osamu took pictures—of the kids with syrup on their faces, of Atsumu trying to eat while simultaneously untangling a knot in Adami's hair, of Kita calmly reading the newspaper while chaos erupted around him. He wanted to remember this.

When it was time to leave, the children clung to his legs, demanding he come back soon. Osa-chan hugged him tightly and whispered, "I'm glad you're my uncle."

Osamu had to blink hard to keep from crying again.

Atsumu walked him to the car, his belly round under a sundress, his hair loose and messy. "Next Sunday. Six o'clock."

"Six o'clock."

"And you're coming for the triplets' birth. I don't care if you have to shut down the shop."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Atsumu hugged him one last time, fierce and warm. "I love you, Samu."

"Love you too, Tsumu."

Osamu drove away with a full heart and a smile he couldn't shake. The road ahead was clear, and for the first time in years, he knew exactly where he was going.