Simmer and Serve

The kitchen smelled like soy sauce and mirin, the warm, savory aroma curling through the small apartment like a promise. Steam rose from the stovetop where Atsumu Miya stood, his bare feet pressed against the cool tile, his weight shifting gently as he stirred the bubbling contents of the pan. He wore a white pleated skirt that swished around his thighs with every movement, paired with a fitted purple tank top that hugged the lean lines of his torso. His hair, usually styled into that perfect quiff, was soft and unstyled, falling into his eyes as he hummed along to a song playing from his phone propped against the windowsill.

The gyudon was coming together nicely. Thin slices of beef had caramelized in the pan, their edges curling and crisping as the sweet and savory sauce reduced around them. He added another splash of dashi, watching the liquid bubble and steam, and then layered a handful of thinly sliced onions over the top. Atsumu loved cooking. It was meditative, a quiet space where his usually loud, competitive mind could settle into something rhythmic and simple. He thought about Suna, about the way he’d be coming home soon, and his stomach fluttered. Maybe tonight, after dinner, they could curl up on the couch and watch something stupid. Maybe Suna would let him rest his head in his lap and play with his hair.

The lock on the front door clicked.

Atsumu’s ears perked up, a smile tugging at his lips. He heard the familiar shuffle of shoes being kicked off, the soft thud of a bag hitting the floor, and then Osamu’s voice, low and gruff, followed by Suna’s quieter, more measured tone. They were talking about something, their words muffled by the hallway. Atsumu turned back to the stove, his shoulders relaxing. He wanted to surprise them. He’d made extra portions, and he’d even picked up some pickled ginger and shichimi on the way home.

The kitchen door swung open.

Osamu stepped in first, his jacket slung over his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his gray eyes. Suna followed a step behind, his phone in his hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips. They’d been planning something on the walk home, something stupid they’d seen on a TikTok video—a prank where you walk in and just act like an absolute jerk to see how the other person reacts. Osamu had thought it would be hilarious. Suna had been skeptical, but Osamu had insisted, and Suna never really said no to him.

“What’s for dinner, bitch?”

The words cut through the warm kitchen air like a cold blade.

Osamu’s tone was harsh, dismissive, deliberately rude in a way that was jarring coming from him. It wasn’t the usual playful banter they shared, the teasing jabs that always came with a hidden smile. This was flat, mean, pointed.

Atsumu froze.

His hand, still holding the wooden spatula, stopped mid-stir. The steam from the pan curled up around his wrist, but he didn’t seem to notice. His back went rigid, his shoulders drawing up toward his ears as if bracing for a blow. The song from his phone played on, oblivious, a cheerful pop beat that now felt grotesquely out of place.

Suna’s smirk wavered. He looked at Osamu, then back at Atsumu, waiting for the usual retort, the sharp comeback, the indignant “What the hell did you just call me?” But it didn’t come.

Atsumu’s voice when it finally came was small, fragile, like a cracked bell.

“Gyudon.”

It was just one word, but it trembled on the way out, catching in his throat. He didn’t turn around. He just stood there, staring into the pan, his knuckles white where he gripped the spatula. His jaw was tight, and his eyes, those bright, mischievous eyes that usually sparkled with mischief or flared with competitive fire, were glassy, threatening to spill over.

Osamu’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Tsumu?”

Atsumu didn’t answer. He just blinked, hard, and a tear slipped down his cheek, catching the warm kitchen light. He wiped at it quickly with the back of his hand, a jerky, embarrassed motion, and went back to stirring the gyudon as if nothing had happened. As if his whole world hadn’t just tilted off its axis.

Suna’s phone screen went dark in his hand, forgotten. He stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the shuddering line of Atsumu’s shoulders, the way his breath was coming in short, uneven gasps. “Atsumu.”

“I’m fine.” The words were thick, watery. He stirred the beef harder, faster, the liquid splashing over the edge of the pan and sizzling on the burner. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go sit down. I’ll bring it over.”

Osamu’s face had gone pale. The prank, the stupid fucking prank, crumbled in his mind like ash. He took a step forward, then another, his footsteps heavy on the tile. “Atsumu, I didn’t mean—”

“I said I’m fine.” Atsumu’s voice cracked, the word splintering into two syllables. He pressed his lips together, a stubborn line, and refused to turn around. His chest ached, a hot, tight knot that made it hard to breathe. He knew it was just a joke. He knew Osamu didn’t mean it. But the tone, the cold, flat tone, had hit something deep and raw inside him, something he didn’t even know was there. It reminded him of all the whispers in high school, the snickers behind his back, the way some people looked at him when he wore skirts or painted his nails. You’re strange. You’re wrong. What’s wrong with you, Miya?

It wasn’t Osamu. He knew it wasn’t Osamu. But his body hadn’t known that. His body had just remembered.

Osamu reached him in two quick strides. He turned off the stove with a decisive click, and then his hands were on Atsumu’s shoulders, gentle but firm, turning him around. Atsumu resisted for a second, his muscles rigid, but Osamu didn’t let go. He guided him until they were face to face, and what he saw made his chest constrict.

Atsumu’s eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes clumped with tears. His cheeks were blotchy, and his lips were pressed into a tight, trembling line. He looked small, younger, the usual bravado stripped away, leaving something raw and vulnerable underneath.

“Hey,” Osamu said, his voice barely a whisper now. “Hey, Tsumu.”

He lifted his hands, cradling Atsumu’s face, and his thumbs brushed across his cheekbones, wiping away the tears that kept falling. His touch was achingly gentle, a stark contrast to the harshness of his earlier words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was a prank. A stupid, fucking TikTok prank. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”

Atsumu shook his head, a jerky, frantic motion. “I know. I know, ‘Samu. I just—I don’t know why I—” He broke off, a sob catching in his throat, and he pressed his hands over his face, ashamed.

Osamu pulled him into a hug, wrapping his arms around his twin’s shoulders and holding him tight. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice rough with regret. “If I ever talk to you like that again, you smack me. You hear me? You smack me right across the face.”

A sob-laugh escaped Atsumu’s lips, muffled against Osamu’s shoulder.

“I mean it,” Osamu insisted. “I don’t care where we are or who’s watching. You knock my teeth out. I deserve it.”

Suna moved closer, his approach quieter, more hesitant. He placed a hand on Atsumu’s back, his palm warm and steady against the thin fabric of the tank top. “He’s right,” Suna said, his voice low and serious. “You shouldn’t let anyone talk to you that way, Atsumu. Not even him.”

Atsumu pulled back, blinking at Suna through watery eyes. “I know.” He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I just—it caught me off guard.”

“It was stupid,” Osamu said, his jaw tight. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even further. “I’m an idiot. I thought it would be funny.”

“It wasn’t,” Suna said flatly.

“I know it wasn’t!” Osamu snapped, but there was no heat in it. He turned back to Atsumu, his expression softening. “I’m sorry, Tsumu. Really.”

Atsumu took a shaky breath, his shoulders rising and falling. He looked at Osamu, at the genuine remorse etched into his twin’s features, and then at Suna, whose hand was still resting on his back, rubbing small, soothing circles. The knot in his chest started to loosen, just a little.

“‘S okay,” he said, his voice still a little wavery. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” Osamu promised. He reached up and ruffled Atsumu’s hair, messing it up completely. “There. Now you look like a proper mess.”

Atsumu laughed, a real one this time, though it was watery and weak. “You’re one to talk. Your hair looks like a bird’s nest.”

“Yeah, well, at least I’m not the one crying over beef.”

“I wasn’t crying over the beef!”

Suna snorted, and both twins turned to look at him. He shrugged, a lazy motion, but his eyes were soft, watching Atsumu with an affection he didn’t bother to hide. “You two are ridiculous.”

“You love it,” Atsumu said, his voice gaining back some of its usual lilt.

“Maybe,” Suna said, and he leaned in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Atsumu’s temple. “Now, are we going to eat that gyudon or are you going to let it burn?”

Atsumu’s face flushed, the tears forgotten. He ducked his head, hiding a smile, and turned back to the stove. “It’s not burned. I’m a professional.”

“You almost set the apartment on fire last week.”

“That was one time!”

“It was three times.”

“Two of those were your fault.”

They fell into their usual rhythm, the easy banter wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. Osamu grabbed bowls from the cabinet while Suna set the table, their movements synchronized from years of shared space. Atsumu finished the gyudon, his hands steadier now, and served it into the bowls, topping each one with a soft-cooked egg and a sprinkle of shichimi.

They sat down at the small table, knees brushing underneath, the warm steam from the bowls rising between them. For a moment, no one spoke. They just ate, the silence comfortable, the flavors of the gyudun—rich, sweet, savory—filling the space left by the earlier tension.

Osamu broke the silence first. “I really am sorry.”

Atsumu looked up, a piece of beef halfway to his mouth. “I know, ‘Samu. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Osamu said, his chopsticks poking at his rice. “I should have known better. You’ve always been sensitive about that kind of stuff.”

Atsumu set his chopsticks down, his expression thoughtful. “I’m not sensitive. I just—it caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting it. From you.”

“Still,” Osamu said. “I fucked up.”

“You did,” Suna agreed, taking a sip of water. “But you’re making up for it with the apology. And the fact that you turned off the stove.”

“I was trying to get him to stop crying.”

“It was a good instinct.”

Atsumu laughed, shaking his head. “You two are impossible.”

“Takes one to know one,” Osamu shot back, a grin finally creeping onto his face.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of easy conversation and stolen bites from each other’s bowls. Suna told them about a weird guy he’d seen at the library, a middle-aged man who kept muttering to himself while reading a book about conspiracy theories. Osamu recounted a failed attempt at a new onigiri recipe that had ended with rice all over the ceiling. Atsumu, his voice still a little hoarse, told them about the stray cat he’d seen on his way home, a scraggly orange thing that had let him pet it for a solid ten minutes.

“You’re going to bring it home, aren’t you?” Osamu said, narrowing his eyes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. I can see it in your eyes.”

“The cat might need a home.”

“The cat is fine. It’s a stray. They’re tough.”

“So was I, once.”

Osamu paused, a piece of beef halfway to his mouth. He looked at Atsumu, at the soft, earnest expression on his face, and his chest ached. “You’re still tough, Tsumu.”

Atsumu smiled, a small, genuine thing. “I know. But I don’t have to be, with you guys.”

Suna reached under the table, his hand finding Atsumu’s knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. Atsumu’s smile widened, and he turned his hand over, threading his fingers through Suna’s.

“Alright, enough of this mushy crap,” Osamu said, though his voice was thick. “Who’s doing the dishes?”

“Not it,” Atsumu and Suna said in unison.

Osamu groaned. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” Osamu admitted, and he stood, gathering the empty bowls. “But you’re still doing the dishes tomorrow.”

“Deal.”

The evening wound down like this, soft and warm, the earlier tension dissolving into the familiarity of shared space and comfortable silence. Osamu washed the dishes, grumbling under his breath, while Atsumu and Suna lounged on the couch, Suna scrolling through his phone and Atsumu resting his head on his shoulder.

“Hey, Suna?” Atsumu said, his voice quiet.

“Hm?”

“Thanks. For earlier.”

Suna didn’t look up from his phone, but his hand found Atsumu’s hair, his fingers carding through the strands with practiced ease. “Don’t mention it.”

“I mean it,” Atsumu said, tilting his head to look up at him. “You didn’t have to say that. But it helped.”

Suna’s fingers stilled for a moment, and then he set his phone down, turning to look at Atsumu fully. His golden eyes were serious, but soft, the way they only ever were when he looked at Atsumu. “You matter, Atsumu. What you feel matters. And if anyone ever makes you forget that, even for a second, I’ll make sure they remember.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. He stared at Suna, at the quiet intensity in his gaze, and his heart swelled, pushing against his ribs. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Don’t. I don’t have the energy to deal with Osamu’s guilt complex again.”

Atsumu laughed, a bright, genuine sound, and he leaned up, pressing a kiss to Suna’s cheek. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Suna said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I know.”

From the kitchen, Osamu’s voice rang out, dripping with mock disgust. “Get a room, you two!”

“We’re in the living room!” Atsumu yelled back.

“Then get a closet!”

“You’re just jealous!”

“Of what? Your terrible taste in men?”

Suna raised an eyebrow, looking at Atsumu. “He’s calling me terrible.”

“He’s just bitter because he’s single.”

“I can hear you!” Osamu shouted.

“Good!” Atsumu shouted back.

They dissolved into laughter, the sound filling the small apartment, warm and alive. Osamu came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel, and flopped down on the other end of the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Suna threw a pillow at him, which he caught and tucked under his head.

“You’re both insufferable,” Osamu said, closing his eyes.

“And yet you love us,” Atsumu said, snuggling deeper into Suna’s side.

“Debatable.”

“Your face is debatable.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It made sense in my head.”

Suna snorted, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “You’re both idiots.”

“Takes one to know one,” Atsumu and Osamu said in unison, and then they exchanged a look, the kind that only twins could share, and burst out laughing.

The night stretched on, soft and unhurried, the three of them tangled together on the couch, talking about nothing and everything. The earlier tears had dried, leaving no trace behind except for a deeper understanding, a reaffirmation of the bond that held them together. They were a strange family, Atsumu thought, looking at his brother’s relaxed face and Suna’s steady warmth beside him. But they were his family. And that was all that mattered.

When sleep started to pull at the edges of his consciousness, Atsumu’s eyes fluttered closed, his head resting on Suna’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a lullaby. Suna’s fingers were still in his hair, tracing lazy patterns against his scalp.

“‘Samu?” Atsumu murmured, his voice thick with drowsiness.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the apology.”

Osamu’s hand reached out, finding Atsumu’s ankle and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Anytime, Tsumu. Anytime.”

Atsumu smiled, small and content, and let himself drift, wrapped in the warmth of the people he loved most in the world. The kitchen still smelled like gyudon and soy sauce, the faint steam from the stove long since dissipated. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the even softer rhythm of three people breathing in sync.

Tomorrow, there would be more bickering, more teasing, more stupid pranks that went wrong. But tonight, there was just this. Just them. And that was enough.