Pancakes and Unspoken Words

Sunday morning light slipped through the thin curtains of Atsumu Miya’s bedroom, making everything look washed out and gold. The room was a disaster zone—clothes everywhere, practice jerseys mixed with crumpled jeans, one sock under the desk like it had crawled there to die. The sheets on the bed were a tangled mess that proved he’d spent the whole night tossing.

Osamu stood in the hallway, still catching his breath from his jog. Same route as always—past the convenience store, around the park, back through the quiet streets where the only noise was birds and a distant lawnmower. Sweat was dripping down his temples, and his gray T-shirt was soaked across the chest. He’d planned to grab a shower, maybe whip up some onigiri with last night’s leftover salmon. But the silence coming from Atsumu’s room made him stop.

Their parents were gone for the weekend, visiting their grandparents in Osaka. Which meant the house was theirs. Usually that meant Atsumu would be loud—blasting his obnoxious pop music, serving volleyballs in the backyard at ungodly hours, or yelling through the walls for Osamu to make him breakfast. But this morning? Nothing.

Osamu knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

He frowned. Atsumu woke up if you crinkled a candy wrapper two rooms away. Three knocks should’ve woken the dead.

“Oi, Atsumu?” His voice was still rough from the run. “You alive in there?”

Silence.

Something cold settled in his stomach. Twin instinct, maybe. He turned the knob and pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.

The room was dim, curtains mostly drawn. Atsumu was a dark lump on the bed, sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging off the edge. His blond hair was a wreck, half-hidden under the pillow. The sheets were kicked down around his calves, so Osamu could see he was only wearing black athletic shorts and—his eyes snagged on the strap—a black bra.

He didn’t look away because it was scandalous. They were twins, they’d seen each other in every state of undress. But the bra plus the morning light plus his brother’s lean back felt... intimate. His face went warm. The bra was simple, nothing fancy, but on Atsumu’s muscular back it traced the curve of his shoulder blades, the dip of his spine.

Osamu looked away fast, fixing his gaze on a volleyball poster on the wall. Some Italian player. He cleared his throat loudly.

“Atsumu!”

The lump stirred. A grumble came from under the pillow.

“Go ’way.”

“I ain’t goin’ ‘way.” Osamu stepped inside, careful not to look directly at him. He focused on the dresser, the window, the ceiling—anything but his brother. “I’m goin’ to the store. Need anythin’?”

Atsumu shifted, rolling onto his side. More skin—his stomach, the waistband of his shorts, the edge of the bra strap cutting across his shoulder blades. Osamu stared at a crack in the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Store?” Atsumu’s voice was thick with sleep, groggy and annoyed. “Why’re you goin’ to the store at—what time is it?”

“Almost eight.”

“Eight in the mornin’? On a Sunday? You’re insane.”

“I went for a run. We got no rice. And I want eggs.” Osamu finally let himself look at Atsumu’s face—the only safe zone now that his brother was semi-upright. Atsumu was glaring at him, blue eyes puffy and narrowed, hair sticking up in seventeen directions. He looked like a cranky, pretty hedgehog.

“Buy me some-a that melon bread,” Atsumu muttered, yanking the pillow over his head.

“They got new flavors. And I ain’t your personal shopper.” Osamu crossed his arms. “Tell me what you want or I’m buyin’ nothin’.”

Atsumu made an irritated noise. Then he went still. His hand, clutching the pillow, slowly lowered. He stared at Osamu with an expression that flickered—nervous, embarrassed. His cheeks, already flushed from sleep, got darker.

“Uh,” Atsumu said. He bit his lip. “Actually… there is somethin’.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

A long pause. Atsumu sat up fully, pulling the sheet up to his chest like a shield. The gesture was so unlike him—the Atsumu who walked around the locker room without a care, who preened in front of mirrors, who never missed a chance to flash a cocky grin—that Osamu’s stomach tightened.

“If you’re gonna be weird, don’t bother,” Atsumu mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

“I ain’t bein’ weird. You’re bein’ weird.” Osamu softened his tone. “What is it?”

Atsumu took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. The words blurred together. “I need a pregnancy test.”

The world tilted.

Osamu blinked. The crack in the ceiling suddenly became very, very interesting. “A… what?”

“A pregnancy test.” Atsumu’s voice was barely above a whisper now. He was bright red, all the way down his neck. “Okay? Can you just—can you get me one? Please?”

Osamu’s mind went blank. Pregnancy test. Atsumu. His twin. They shared the same birthday, the same blood, the same stupid cowlicks. And now this.

“You’re—you’re pregnant?” The words came out strangled.

“I don’t know, that’s why I need the test!” Atsumu snapped, embarrassment flipping into irritation. “Are you gonna get it or not?”

Osamu’s mouth opened and closed. His head spun. Who? When? How—okay, he knew how. But with who? Atsumu hadn’t mentioned anyone. He’d been all about volleyball, the upcoming tournaments, being the best setter in Japan. There wasn’t time for a relationship. There sure as hell wasn’t time for a baby.

But the way Atsumu was clutching the sheet, the way his eyes were glassy—this wasn’t the time for questions.

“Yeah,” Osamu said, surprised his voice came out steady. “I’ll get it.”

Atsumu’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Osamu turned toward the door, then paused. “Uh. Any particular brand?”

“How should I know? Just get one that works.”

Osamu nodded, already running through the logistics in his head. He stepped out, closed the door behind him, and leaned against the hallway wall. Took a long, shaky breath.

Pregnancy test. Atsumu. His twin brother.

He ran a hand through his damp hair. Okay. Fine. Just go to the store, buy it, come back, act normal. He could do normal.

He started for the front door, then stopped. He was still in his sweaty jogging clothes, but screw it. He grabbed his wallet and phone, slipped on his sneakers, and headed out.

The morning air was cool against his heated skin, but it didn’t help. His mind kept circling: who was Atsumu with? Had he been seeing someone secretly? Was it serious? Someone from the volleyball world? A fan? A random hookup? Atsumu was popular, flirty, but he’d never brought anyone home, never mentioned anyone special.

Except for that one time, months ago. Atsumu came back from a training camp in Tokyo acting weird. Quiet. Distracted. Osamu had asked, but Atsumu just shrugged it off. Maybe that was it. Maybe someone got close to him then.

Osamu’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like the thought of Atsumu with some nameless person who might not stick around. His twin was loud and arrogant and insufferable, but he was also loyal and soft under all that bravado. He deserved someone who would stay.

The grocery store was nearly empty. A few old folks shuffled around, and a teenager in a uniform was stocking cereal boxes. Osamu made a beeline for the pharmacy section.

Pregnancy tests. Rows of them. Different brands, different prices, different promises of accuracy. Some said “early detection,” others “99% reliable.” His face burned just looking at them. He grabbed a plain box from the middle shelf—a brand he vaguely remembered from commercials, in a discreet gray package. Least conspicuous one he could find.

He also grabbed a pack of gum and a bottle of water, hoping that made the purchase look casual. At checkout, a bored girl with pink highlights scanned everything without comment. He paid in cash, stuffed it all into his jacket pocket, and walked home at a pace just short of a jog.

Atsumu was still in his room when Osamu got back. The door was cracked open, and he could hear shuffling inside. He knocked lightly.

“Got it.”

The door swung open. Atsumu had changed into a loose T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair was slightly tamer, but he still looked pale and anxious. He took the bag from Osamu’s hand without meeting his eyes.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Atsumu disappeared into the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door clicked shut. Osamu stood in the hallway, arms crossed, staring at the fake wood grain. The silence stretched.

He heard the rustle of the box opening, then the bathroom faucet running. He took a breath. In. Out. In. Out.

He pictured Atsumu in there, alone, staring at a plastic stick that could change everything. His chest ached. He wished he could do something—crack a joke, give a hug, anything. But all he could do was wait.

After what felt like forever, the bathroom door creaked open.

Atsumu stood in the doorway, the test stick clutched in his hand. His expression was unreadable at first, but then a slow, trembling smile spread across his face.

“It’s negative,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m not pregnant.”

The relief that hit Osamu was almost physical. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Good. That’s good.”

Atsumu laughed—a watery, shaky sound. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s good.”

He walked over to the kitchen counter and set the test down, then leaned against the counter, head bowed. Osamu followed, giving him space.

“You okay?” Osamu asked quietly.

Atsumu nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I was so scared, ‘Samu. I’ve never—this was the first time I didn’t use protection. I don’t know what I was thinkin’. I was stupid.”

Osamu didn’t ask for details. He just walked over to the fridge, pulled out the carton of eggs, and set it on the counter.

“You ain’t stupid,” he said, back to his brother. “You’re human. People make mistakes.”

“But I’m a professional athlete. I’m supposed to be careful.”

Osamu turned, meeting his twin’s eyes. “You’re also nineteen. It happens.” He cracked an egg into a bowl, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. “The important thing is you got the test, and now you know. So it’s fine.”

Atsumu watched him for a long moment, then let out a shaky breath. “You’re not gonna lecture me?”

“Would it help?”

“No.”

“Then I ain’t gonna do it.”

Atsumu’s lips twitched. The tension in his shoulders slowly eased. He pushed himself off the counter and walked over to stand beside Osamu, peering at the eggs.

“What’re you makin’?”

“Omurice. Figured we could use a proper breakfast.”

“With ketchup?”

“Obviously. You think I’m a barbarian?”

Atsumu snorted. For the first time that morning, his smile reached his eyes. “You’re the one who drinks that weird barley tea.”

“It’s healthy.”

“It tastes like dirt.”

Osamu flicked a bit of egg white at him. Atsumu yelped, dodged it, but he was laughing now—a real laugh, not the shaky one from before.

“You’re such a child,” Atsumu said, but there was no bite in it.

“Says the guy who sleeps in his bra.”

Atsumu’s cheeks flushed bright red. “I was hot!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shut up and cook the eggs.”

Osamu smirked and turned back to the stove. Atsumu grabbed two plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter. The usual sounds—dishes clattering, oil sizzling, rice cooking—wrapped around them.

They ate in comfortable silence at the small kitchen table. The morning light grew brighter through the window. Atsumu’s omurice was perfect—fluffy eggs wrapped around seasoned rice, topped with a neat zigzag of ketchup. He ate like he hadn’t in days, and Osamu felt a quiet satisfaction.

Halfway through, Atsumu paused, chopsticks hovering. “‘Samu?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks. For not makin’ a big deal out of it. For—for bein’ there.”

Osamu shrugged, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s what I’m for, ain’t it? Keepin’ your dumb ass out of trouble.”

Atsumu kicked him under the table.

“Ow.”

“You deserved that.”

“Probably.”

They finished eating. Osamu washed the dishes while Atsumu dried them. A routine they’d done a thousand times, but today it felt significant. Grounding.

When the last plate was put away, Osamu dried his hands and turned. “So. You wanna go out for breakfast?”

Atsumu raised an eyebrow. “We just ate.”

“That was a snack. I’m talkin’ about a real breakfast. Somewhere that serves those giant pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries.”

Atsumu’s eyes lit up. “The place on Third Street?”

“The one. My treat.”

“You’re serious?”

“When am I not?”

Atsumu grinned, wide and genuine. “You’re the best twin I got.”

“I’m your only twin.”

“Still counts.”

They grabbed their jackets and headed out. The morning was fully alive now—sun warm, air smelling of fresh bread from the bakery down the street. Atsumu’s laughter rang out as Osamu tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.

“Smooth,” Atsumu teased.

“Shut up.”

“You’re supposed to be the graceful one.”

“I’m a chef, not a dancer.”

They walked side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally, the earlier tension a forgotten shadow. When they reached the breakfast place, the line was out the door. Atsumu didn’t complain. He just bumped his shoulder against Osamu’s and said, “Worth the wait.”

Osamu rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

And somewhere between the second stack of pancakes and the third cup of coffee, Atsumu leaned over and said, so quietly only his twin could hear, “I love you, ‘Samu. You know that, right?”

Osamu pretended to gag. “Gross. Save it for your future boyfriend.”

But under the table, he squeezed Atsumu’s hand once, quick and firm.

And that was enough.