The Last Skewer

The evening air had that last bite of autumn, but the restaurant’s private room was thick with warmth. Laughter bounced off the low tables crowded with grilled meat, rice bowls, and half-empty pitchers of soda. The Inarizaki boys’ volleyball team had taken over the whole back section—tatami mats creaking under the weight of celebrating bodies.

They’d won nationals. Again.

Atsumu Miya sat at the far end of the table, legs crossed, a yakitori skewer dangling from his fingers. He hadn’t taken a bite in ten minutes. His eyes drifted across the room and landed on Osamu, who was in the middle of some quiet conversation with Ginjima about rice seasoning ratios, of all things. His twin looked comfortable—loose posture, easy smile. He always looked like that. Like the weight of the world was someone else’s problem.

Must be nice.

“Oi, Atsumu, you gonna eat that or just stare at it until it learns to dance?”

Atsumu blinked. Gin had leaned across the table, eyebrow up, grin splitting his face. Others nearby snickered.

“Shut yer trap,” Atsumu said, but he took a bite. The meat was good—charred on the edges, juicy in the middle. He chewed mechanically, swallowed, set the skewer down. His stomach felt tight, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a full meal.

The door slid open, and a familiar calm voice cut through the noise.

“Sorry I’m late. The bakery had a long line.”

Kita Shinsuke stepped in, still in his school jacket, a paper bag tucked under his arm. He looked exactly like he always did—composed, steady, his eyes carrying that quiet weight of someone who’d seen every match, every practice, every moment of struggle and triumph. The team greeted him with shouts, and he accepted their energy with a small, patient smile.

He took a seat near the head of the table, across from Atsumu.

The night kept going. Stories were told. Suna made dry observations that had everyone groaning or laughing. Ginjima reenacted a dramatic save from the finals, spilling soy sauce on his sleeve. Aran, who’d graduated the year before, showed up an hour later with a six-pack of fancy sodas and a booming laugh that rattled the windows.

But through it all, Atsumu stayed quiet. He laughed when everyone else laughed. He nodded when someone recounted a play he’d made. He even joined in a toast when Aran raised his glass toward the team’s new captain.

“To Atsumu,” Aran had said, warm and sincere. “The guy who dragged us all to the top.”

Everyone cheered. Atsumu’s smile felt like it was taped on.

At some point, the noise settled into a comfortable hum. Plates cleared. Second and third rounds of drinks ordered. Conversation drifted from volleyball to school gossip to plans for the future. A few of the younger members were starting to nod off, heads drooping toward the table.

And then, quietly, Kita spoke.

“You know,” he said, setting down his cup of tea, “I never had the chance to say this properly last year. Atsumu, you did a fine job leading this team.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up. “Captain,” he started, but Kita raised a hand.

“I know you were hesitant at first,” Kita continued, calm but firm. “I remember that day in the gym. You said someone else should be captain. Osamu. Anyone else.”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. He remembered that day too.

The memory surfaced with embarrassing clarity. It was right after last year’s nationals win, when the team was still riding the high. Kita had called them all together, his expression serious, and announced he was stepping down. He would be graduating. The team needed a new leader.

“Here’s what I want,” Kita had said, his gaze landing squarely on Atsumu. “Atsumu. You’ll be the next captain.”

The room went still. Atsumu felt every eye on him, and for a moment, his brain went blank. Then the denial came, hot and fast.

“Me? No way. That’s a terrible idea. Osamu would be better. Or Ginjima. Or—hell, even Suna has more sense than me. Anyone else, Kita-san. I’m not cut out for this. I’ll mess it up. I’ll make everyone crazy. You know I will.”

He gestured wildly, his voice climbing higher. The team watched, some amused, some confused. Osamu just stared at him from across the gym, his expression unreadable.

Kita let him finish. Then, with the patience of a man who had long since mastered handling Atsumu Miya, he said, “I know.”

Atsumu shut his mouth.

“I know you think you’re not the right choice,” Kita continued. “But I’m not choosing you because you’re perfect. I’m choosing you because you care. You care more than anyone on this team. You’ll push them. You’ll push yourself. And when things get hard—and they will—you won’t give up. That’s what a captain needs to do.”

Atsumu opened his mouth to argue again, but the words wouldn’t come. Kita’s eyes, steady and unwavering, held him in place.

“Trust me,” Kita said. “You can do this.”

And that was that.

Atsumu walked out of the gym that day feeling like someone had strapped a boulder to his back. For weeks, he couldn’t sleep. He lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, running through scenarios. What if he said the wrong thing during a timeout? What if he couldn’t motivate the team when they were down? What if they lost because of him?

He threw himself into practice harder than ever. Stayed late, arrived first, left last. Studied other teams’ strategies, watched footage until his eyes burned, drilled his sets until his fingers ached. He pushed his teammates, yes, but he pushed himself twice as hard.

Dark circles became a permanent fixture. His appetite shrank. His mother started leaving extra food on his plate, worry etched into the lines beside her mouth. Atsumu waved it off. “I’m fine, Ma. Just busy.”

He wasn’t fine. But he couldn’t stop. Every time he thought about easing up, he heard Kita’s voice: You can do this.

So he kept going.

And somehow, impossibly, they won. They won nationals again. Atsumu stood on the court, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face, and watched confetti fall around him. His teammates lifted him onto their shoulders, shouting his name, and for one moment, the weight lifted.

But only for one moment.

Now, sitting in the warmth of the restaurant, with Kita’s quiet praise ringing in his ears, Atsumu felt the boulder settle back onto his shoulders. He managed a smile.

“Thanks, Kita-san,” he said, his voice rough.

Across the table, Osamu was watching him.

Atsumu felt the weight of that gaze more than anyone else’s. Osamu always watched him—had since they were kids. It was the twin thing, Atsumu figured. The ability to size each other up without words, to know when something was wrong even when the other person was smiling.

Osamu’s eyes narrowed. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

Atsumu looked away.

The evening wore on. The group shifted locations—someone suggested going to the park to enjoy the night air, and the idea was met with unanimous approval. They gathered coats and bags, paid the bill (Aran insisted on covering most of it), and spilled out onto the street in a noisy, laughing mass.

The park was quiet this late. The cherry trees had shed their blossoms months ago, leaving bare branches against the indigo sky. Streetlights cast pools of orange light along the gravel path. The team spread out, some claiming benches, others flopping onto the grass. A cool breeze rustled through, carrying the distant sound of a train.

Atsumu found a spot on a bench near the edge of the group, slightly separated. He leaned back, tilted his head up, and stared at the stars.

The sky was clear. A crescent moon hung low on the horizon.

He let out a long, slow breath.

“You gonna sit here all night or actually join the conversation?”

Atsumu didn’t turn. He knew the voice.

“Maybe I like the view,” Atsumu said.

Osamu stepped around the bench and sat down beside him. Close enough that Atsumu could feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that it was impossible to ignore.

“You’ve been weird all night,” Osamu said. No preamble. No softening.

Atsumu snorted. “I’m always weird.”

“Weirder than usual.”

Atsumu didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the stars, tracking the faint glimmer of one that seemed to pulse. Venus, maybe. Or Jupiter. He couldn’t remember which was visible this time of year.

Osamu didn’t push. That was the thing about him—he never pushed. He just stayed. Present. Patient. Waiting.

Minutes passed. The sounds of the team filtered through the night—laughter, a playful argument between Ginjima and Suna, the low rumble of Aran’s voice telling a story. Atsumu heard it all from a distance, like it was happening in another world.

Finally, Osamu shifted. His hand lifted, and for a moment, Atsumu thought he was going to reach for his phone or scratch his neck. But instead, Osamu’s hand settled on the top of Atsumu’s head.

The touch was light. Gentle. Osamu’s palm rested there for a breath, and then he patted once, twice, three times. The motion was so familiar, so tender, that Atsumu’s chest seized.

“Good job, Atsumu.”

Three words. Quiet. Simple.

The dam broke.

Atsumu’s breath hitched. His eyes burned, and before he could stop it, a sob tore out of his throat—raw, ugly, loud. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but the tears were already streaming down his face, hot and relentless.

He couldn’t hold it back. The months of sleepless nights, the pressure of every practice, every match, every moment of doubt came rushing out in a flood. He bent forward, shoulders shaking, and buried his face in his hands.

Osamu didn’t move away. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there, solid and warm, and let Atsumu fall apart.

And Atsumu—Atsumu crashed into him.

He turned and wrapped his arms around his twin, clinging to him like Osamu was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His fingers dug into the fabric of Osamu’s jacket, and he pressed his face into Osamu’s shoulder, sobbing like he hadn’t cried since he was a child.

Osamu’s arms came around him slowly. Hesitant at first, then firm. One hand settled on the back of Atsumu’s head, holding him close.

“I’ve got you,” Osamu murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The team had gone quiet.

Atsumu was vaguely aware of the sudden silence, the weight of dozens of eyes on them. He heard Suna’s low whistle, followed by a muffled laugh from Ginjima. Someone—probably Akagi—said, “Is he crying? Atsumu Miya is actually crying?”

But the teasing was soft. Gentle. No malice.

Kita’s voice drifted over, calm as ever. “Let him be.”

Aran added, his tone warm, “He’s earned it. That kid worked himself to the bone this year.”

Atsumu heard it all through the fog of his breakdown. He tried to pull himself together—stop the tears, breathe evenly—but every time he thought he had control, another wave hit him. He tightened his grip on Osamu.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m sorry, I don’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up,” Osamu said, but his voice was soft. “Stop apologizing.”

“But I’m ruining the vibe,” Atsumu managed, his voice cracking.

Osamu let out a small huff of air that might have been a laugh. “You’re always ruining the vibe. This isn’t new.”

Atsumu laughed. It came out wet and broken, but it was a laugh. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at Osamu’s face. His twin’s expression was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes were soft. Softer than Atsumu had seen them in a long time.

“Thanks,” Atsumu whispered.

Osamu didn’t respond with words. He just reached up and wiped a tear off Atsumu’s cheek with his thumb, then let his hand fall back to his lap.

Atsumu scrubbed at his face with both hands. “I probably look like a mess.”

“You always look like a mess.”

“Jerk.”

“Twin.”

A small, shaky smile tugged at Atsumu’s lips.

Someone tossed a crumpled napkin at them. It bounced off Atsumu’s head.

“Oi!” Ginjima called out, grinning from where he sat on the grass. “You’re ruining your makeup, Miya-san! And I don’t even think you’re wearing any!”

The group burst into laughter. Even Atsumu cracked a real smile, his cheeks wet, his eyes red, but the tension draining from his shoulders.

“I’ll have you know,” Atsumu said, his voice still rough but gaining strength, “that my skin is naturally flawless. No makeup needed.”

“Sure it is,” Suna said dryly, and the laughter grew louder.

Atsumu shoved Osamu’s shoulder. “You started this. You and your dumb head-patting.”

“You needed it,” Osamu said simply.

Atsumu didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

Instead, he leaned back, let out a shuddering breath, and looked up at the stars again. The crescent moon seemed brighter now. The air felt lighter.

Kita appeared beside the bench, holding out a bottle of water. “Drink this.”

Atsumu took it, murmuring his thanks. He uncapped it and took a long gulp, letting the cool water soothe his raw throat.

Kita remained standing, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the sky. “You know,” he said, low and thoughtful, “I meant what I said earlier. You did a fine job this year.”

Atsumu looked down at the bottle in his hands. “I still don’t think I was the best choice.”

“Maybe not,” Kita said, and Atsumu’s head shot up. Kita met his eyes, a rare hint of a smile on his lips. “But you were the right one.”

Atsumu blinked. Something warm settled in his chest, loosening the last knots of tension.

Aran appeared on the other side of the bench, dropping down heavily next to Atsumu and slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Hell of a year, captain. Hell of a year. I watched every match, and let me tell you—you were a demon out there. In the best way.”

Atsumu groaned. “Don’t get sappy, Aran-san. I just got my face under control.”

Aran laughed, loud and booming. “Too late! You’re getting the sappy speech whether you like it or not. You dragged that team to victory. You believed in them when they didn’t believe in themselves. That’s what a captain does.”

Atsumu’s eyes started to prickle again, and he blinked rapidly to stop the tears. “I swear to god, if I start crying again—”

“Then cry,” Aran said, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re allowed.”

Atsumu didn’t cry again, but he let Aran’s words sink in. He let the warmth of the team’s presence wrap around him like a blanket. Someone started a new round of stories—this time about the worst practice moments of the year—and the atmosphere shifted back to laughter and good-natured ribbing.

Osamu stayed by Atsumu’s side the entire night. Silent. Present.

At one point, Suna sidled up to them, phone in hand. “I got a picture of the breakdown. Want me to delete it?”

Atsumu’s eyes widened. “You WHAT?”

Suna’s lips curved into a sly smile. “I’m kidding. I didn’t take a picture.”

“You better not have.”

“I didn’t.”

“Suna, I swear—”

“I didn’t take a picture. I recorded it.”

Atsumu lunged, and Suna danced away, cackling. The chase that followed ended with Atsumu tackling Suna onto the grass, demanding his phone, and Osamu sitting calmly on the bench, watching them with the closest thing to fondness he ever showed in public.

The night stretched on. Stars wheeled overhead. The moon continued its slow arc across the sky.

And for the first time in months, Atsumu Miya felt like he could breathe.

Later, as the group began to disband—some heading home, others lingering to talk—Osamu stood and stretched. He looked down at Atsumu, still sprawled on the grass, arms flung wide.

“You coming, or are you gonna sleep here?”

Atsumu groaned. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“And I’ll say it again.”

Osamu reached down and grabbed Atsumu’s hand, hauling him to his feet. Atsumu stumbled, caught himself, and brushed the grass off his clothes. His eyes were still a little puffy, but the dark circles seemed less pronounced. The tension in his jaw had eased.

“Thanks,” Atsumu said again, quieter this time.

Osamu shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”

“I mean it, Samu.”

Osamu paused. He looked at Atsumu—really looked—and something softened in his gaze. “I know.”

They stood there for a long moment, the silence comfortable, the night air cool against their skin.

Then Osamu turned and started walking toward the path. “Come on. Ma’s been texting me about dinner leftovers. She’ll kill us if we don’t show up soon.”

Atsumu laughed. “She’s always like that.”

“Because you never eat.”

“I eat plenty!”

“You ate one skewer tonight.”

“I was saving room for dessert!”

Osamu looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “There was no dessert.”

“There’s always dessert if you believe hard enough.”

Osamu shook his head, but he was smiling. Just barely. Just enough.

Atsumu jogged to catch up, falling into step beside his twin. The team’s voices faded behind them, replaced by the crunch of gravel under their shoes. The streetlights cast their shadows long and lean.

It was a good night.

And for the first time in a long time, Atsumu felt ready for tomorrow.