Four Years of Rain

The autumn rain had been coming down for hours, a steady gray drizzle that turned the city lights into smudged amber on the windows. Osamu sat on the floor, back against the couch, legs sprawled out, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. His phone was dark in his hand, screen showing nothing but his own empty stare.

Suna was leaning in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching with those unreadable jade eyes. He’d been there for twenty minutes without saying much—just let Osamu drink in silence, let whatever was eating him settle between them like fog.

“You’re gonna make yourself sick,” Suna said finally.

Osamu didn’t look up. “Already there.”

“Okay.” Suna stepped forward, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and set it on the counter out of reach. Then he sat down on the floor across from Osamu, close enough to touch but not quite. “Talk to me. You’ve been like this for weeks. Worse, actually.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the phone, knuckles white. When he spoke, his voice was raw, scraped clean.

“I haven’t talked to Atsumu in four years.”

The words hung there, heavy and cold. Suna blinked—once, twice. He didn’t react with shock—Suna never did—but something shifted in his posture, a subtle lean forward.

“Four years?” he said.

“We had a fight.” Osamu laughed, bitter and broken. “A stupid fight. Over some catering thing for his wedding. He wanted me to do the food, I said I was too busy, he said I never supported him, I said he was being a dramatic princess, he hung up on me.” He dragged a hand over his face. “And I just… didn’t call back. And he didn’t either. And then days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and now it’s been four years, Rintarou. Four years.”

Suna was quiet for a long moment. The rain tapped against the glass like impatient fingers.

“You never told me the full story,” he said softly. “I knew you two weren’t close, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“Because I’m a coward.” Osamu’s voice cracked. He pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to push back the pressure. “I blocked his number. Blocked him on everything. Told myself he’d reach out if he really wanted to, but I was the one who cut the line. Now I don’t even have his number anymore. Don’t know where he lives. Don’t know if he’s happy or sad or alive.” His shoulders shook. “I miss him so much it physically hurts, Suna. He’s my twin. My other half. And I made him a stranger.”

Suna watched him crumble, then moved closer, put a hand on Osamu’s knee—firm, grounding.

“Okay,” he said. “So we fix it.”

Osamu looked up, eyes red-rimmed. “How? I don’t even know where to start.”

“We start by finding him.” Suna pulled out his own phone. “Anyone who might have his address? Kita? Your mom?”

“I could call my mom,” Osamu admitted. “But she’ll be so disappointed in me. She’s been hinting for years I should reach out.”

“Then she’ll be happy you’re finally doing it.” Suna’s thumb hovered over the keypad. “Give me the number. I’ll call her. You’re in no state to talk.”

Osamu hesitated, then recited the digits from memory. Suna dialed, put it on speaker, and after a few rings, a warm voice answered.

“Hello? Osamu?”

“Mrs. Miya, it’s Suna Rintarou. I’m with Osamu. He wants to visit Atsumu, but he doesn’t have his address. Could you help us?”

A pause, then a soft sigh. “It’s about time. I’ll text you the address. And Suna? Tell him it’s okay. Atsumu has been waiting.”

The call ended. Suna met Osamu’s gaze. “See? Not too late.”

Osamu’s breath shuddered. “What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

“Then we’ll deal with it. But first we go.” Suna stood and offered a hand. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

The drive took forty-five minutes, winding through the outskirts of Hyogo into a quiet suburban neighborhood with small gardens and streets lined with ginkgo trees shedding golden leaves. Osamu sat in the passenger seat of Suna’s car, hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white.

“You’re going to break your own fingers,” Suna said flatly.

“I’m nervous.”

“Noticed.”

They pulled up to a modest two-story house with a cream-colored facade and a blue front door. A child’s tricycle lay on its side in the driveway. A stroller was parked by the steps. The curtains were drawn in the front window, but warm light spilled through the gap.

Osamu stared at the house. His heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his throat.

“I can’t do this.”

“You can.” Suna turned off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’ll be right here. If you need to leave, we leave. But at least knock.”

Osamu’s hands trembled as he opened the car door. The cold air hit him, carrying the scent of wet earth and fallen leaves. He walked up the path on unsteady legs, each step feeling like a mile. Suna followed a few paces behind, a silent anchor.

At the door, Osamu raised his hand. Hesitated. Lowered it.

He looked back at Suna, who gave a small nod.

He knocked.

The sound was too loud in the quiet evening. Footsteps approached from inside—soft, shuffling. A muffled voice: “Coming.”

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Atsumu Miya stood in the doorway, and Osamu almost didn’t recognize him. His hair was longer, pulled back in a loose ponytail. His face was softer, fuller, but it was the bump that stole Osamu’s breath—a large, prominent swell under a loose sweater, unmistakably pregnant. His eyes went wide, his lips parted.

For a long, agonizing second, neither of them moved.

Then Atsumu’s face crumpled. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he let out a sound—a broken, keening sob—and lunged forward. His arms wrapped around Osamu’s neck, the bump pressing against him, and he buried his face in Osamu’s shoulder.

“Osamu,” he choked out. “Osamu, Osamu, Osamu.”

Osamu’s arms came up automatically, holding his brother as tight as he dared. Atsumu was trembling, shaking with sobs, and Osamu felt his own tears break free, hot and unstoppable.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Atsumu’s hair. “I’m so sorry, ‘Tsumu. I’m here. I’m here.”

They stood like that for a long time, the autumn wind rustling the leaves, the porch light flickering overhead. Suna hung back, hands in his pockets, watching with an expression that was almost soft.

Finally, Atsumu pulled back, sniffling, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “Come in. Please. Come in.”

He led them inside, one hand cradling his belly. The house was warm, smelled faintly of miso soup and laundry. Toys were scattered across the living room floor—blocks, stuffed animals, a half-finished puzzle. And then Osamu saw them.

Two small children sat on the rug, looking up with curious eyes. A boy and a girl, maybe four years old, with matching dark hair and Atsumu’s amber eyes. The boy was holding a toy car; the girl clutched a plush fox.

“Osamu, Adami,” Atsumu said, his voice wavering but gentle. “This is your uncle. Can you say hi?”

The boy—Osamu—scrambled to his feet and ran to Atsumu, wrapping his arms around his leg. “Mommy, who’s that?”

Osamu’s heart stopped. Mommy.

Atsumu laughed, watery and embarrassed. “I told you, this is your uncle. My brother.”

The little girl, Adami, stayed on the rug, hugging the fox and staring at Osamu with wide eyes. “How come we never met him?”

“Because he’s been busy,” Atsumu said, but his voice cracked. “But he’s here now.”

From another room, footsteps pattered, and two more children appeared—another pair of twins, younger, maybe two years old. A boy and a girl, round cheeks and tiny fingers reaching out.

“Himari, Rin,” Atsumu said, gesturing. “These are your uncles.”

The little boy—Rin—waddled over to Suna and tugged at his pant leg. Suna looked down, utterly out of his depth, but he crouched and said, “Hey, kid.”

The girl, Himari, hid behind Atsumu’s skirt, peeking out.

Osamu was reeling. Four children. Four children he had never met. And Atsumu was pregnant again.

“Atsumu,” he said, voice hoarse. “How many…?”

Atsumu placed a hand on his bump. “Three. Triplets. Due in two months.”

Osamu felt the ground tilt. He sank onto the edge of the couch, legs giving out. “Triplets.”

“I know.” Atsumu sat beside him, carefully, with a wince. “It’s a lot. But we’re managing.”

The four-year-old Osamu climbed onto the couch next to Atsumu, leaning against him. “Mommy, are you okay? You’re crying.”

“Mommy’s just happy,” Atsumu said, kissing the top of his head. “This is your namesake, sweetie. I named you after him because he’s the most important person in the world to me.”

Osamu’s breath caught. He looked at the little boy—his namesake—and saw Atsumu’s features in every line of his face.

“He cried a lot about you,” the boy said innocently. “He said he missed you and you weren’t coming back.”

Atsumu’s face flushed. “Osamu—”

“And when he was sad, he’d hold our bellies and say your name in his sleep,” added Adami, matter-of-factly. “Sometimes he’d say ‘I wish Samu was here.’”

Osamu’s chest constricted. He turned to Atsumu, who was staring at the floor, lips trembling.

“Is that true?” Osamu whispered.

Atsumu nodded, a single tear slipping down his cheek. “Every single day, Samu. Every single day.”

The confession cracked something open inside Osamu. He reached out, took Atsumu’s hand, and held it tight.

“Tell me everything,” he said. “Tell me what I missed.”

So Atsumu did.

He told him about the wedding—small, in a Shinto shrine, only family and close friends. Kita had been so patient, so kind. He told him about the first pregnancy, the twins, the joy and the terror. He told him about the postpartum depression that swallowed him whole after the first birth, how he’d lie awake at night staring at the ceiling, convinced he was a failure, that he didn’t deserve his children.

“I wanted to call you so badly,” Atsumu said, voice barely above a whisper. “Every night. But I didn’t have your number. And I thought—I thought you hated me.”

“Never hated you,” Osamu said fiercely. “Just too proud and too scared.”

Atsumu nodded, wiping his eyes. “I figured it out. Eventually. But it was hard. After the second set of twins, it happened again. The depression. Couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. Only thing that kept me going was the kids and Shinsuke.” He paused, placing a hand on his bump. “And I was so alone, Samu. Had Shinsuke, but I missed my brother. Missed you.”

Osamu pulled him into another hug, careful of the bump. “I’m here now. Not going anywhere.”

The front door clicked open, and a calm voice said, “I’m home.”

Kita Shinsuke stepped into the living room, still in his work clothes—a neat button-down and slacks. He looked at the scene: his wife crying in the arms of his brother-in-law, two children on the floor, two more on the couch, and a tall, lanky stranger standing awkwardly by the wall.

Kita’s expression didn’t change. He set down his bag, walked over, and placed a gentle hand on Atsumu’s shoulder.

“Atsumu. You okay?”

Atsumu looked up, tear-streaked and smiling. “Shinsuke. Look who came.”

Kita’s gaze met Osamu’s. No judgment, no anger. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“Welcome, Osamu,” he said. “Glad you’re here.”

Osamu managed a strangled, “Thank you.”

Kita nodded, then turned to the children. “Alright, little ones. Let’s give your mom and uncle some space. Come help me set the table.”

The children obediently scrambled up and followed Kita into the kitchen, chattering about dinner. Suna dawdled a moment, then gave Osamu a small nod and followed, leaving the brothers alone.

The room fell quiet. The rain had stopped; the sky outside was turning purple.

Osamu looked at Atsumu—really looked. At the dark circles under his eyes, the soft curve of his belly, the way his hand rested protectively over it. He looked tired, but also at peace.

“You’re a good mom,” Osamu said quietly.

Atsumu laughed wetly. “I’m trying.”

“No, I mean it.” Osamu took his hand again. “You’ve got four kids and three more on the way. Whole baseball team. And you’re doing it without me. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

“You’re here now,” Atsumu said. “That’s what matters.”

Later, after dinner—a simple but delicious curry that Kita whipped up in twenty minutes—the children were put to bed. Little Osamu insisted on giving his uncle a hug before sleep, wrapping his tiny arms around Osamu’s neck and whispering, “Don’t make Mommy cry again, okay?”

Osamu promised.

They settled in the living room, cups of tea in hand. Atsumu was curled up on the couch, arm around his bump. Kita sat beside him, one hand on his back. Suna and Osamu took the armchairs.

The conversation was slow, gentle. They talked about the future—the triplets, Onigiri Miya that Osamu had opened in Osaka, the new season. They talked about the past, too. Not to dwell, but to understand.

“I should have swallowed my pride,” Osamu said. “Should have called you the next day.”

“Should have called you too,” Atsumu said. “Just as stubborn.”

Kita spoke then, voice even. “Important thing is you’re both talking now. Past is past. Can’t change it, but you can decide what comes next.”

Osamu nodded. He pulled out his phone. “Give me your number. For real this time.”

Atsumu grinned, a flash of the old spark, and rattled off the digits. Osamu saved it with a heart emoji. Then Atsumu took his phone and did the same.

“I’ll visit every week,” Osamu said. “I promise.”

“You better,” Atsumu said, but his voice was soft. “Kids are already asking when you’re coming back.”

The night deepened. Kita excused himself to check on the children. Suna stood and stretched.

“I’ll wait in the car,” he said. “Take your time.”

He left, and the brothers were alone again. Atsumu shifted, wincing as he tried to get comfortable. Osamu moved to help him, propping pillows behind his back.

“Thanks,” Atsumu murmured. He looked at Osamu, eyes glistening. “Samu. I’m really glad you came.”

“Me too.” Osamu’s voice was thick. “I missed you, ‘Tsumu. More than I can say.”

Atsumu’s face crumpled again. He leaned forward, and Osamu met him halfway, arms wrapping around him, holding him close. Atsumu sobbed into his shoulder—all the relief, all the grief, all the love that had been dammed up for four years.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Atsumu choked out. “Thought I’d have to raise all these kids without my twin. Thought—thought you hated me.”

“Don’t hate you,” Osamu whispered, his own tears falling. “Could never hate you. I love you. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

They held each other, rocking slightly, the silence broken only by their quiet cries. The house felt whole again, the empty space where Osamu had been finally filled.

After a long while, Atsumu pulled back, sniffing. He laughed at how messy they both were. “We’re a mess.”

“Yeah, but a mess together,” Osamu said, and he smiled—a real smile, the first one in years.

Atsumu smiled back, bright and tear-streaked.

“Together,” he echoed.

When Osamu finally stepped outside, the night air was crisp and clean. Suna was leaning against the car, looking up at the stars.

“You okay?” he asked.

Osamu nodded. “Better than I’ve been in four years.”

Suna opened the passenger door. “Good. Let’s go home.”

Osamu got in, but before Suna started the engine, he looked back at the house. The light in the living room was still on. Through the window, he could see Atsumu standing with Kita, holding his bump, smiling.

Osamu waved, even though Atsumu couldn’t see him.

Then he turned forward, and the car pulled away, leaving the quiet suburban street behind.

But this time, he knew the way back.