The First Snow on Rue des Lombards

The first snow of winter dusted the cobblestones of Paris in a thin, powdery layer that crunched under Osamu Miya’s boots. He stopped at a patisserie on Rue des Lombards, steam fogging the glass from the ovens inside, let his breath cloud in the cold air. His phone buzzed. He fished it out with numb fingers, already knowing who it was.

[13:02] Atsumu: Samu! Guess what! I finally did it!! I scored the winning serve against Shiratorizawa in the exhibition match. Coach said I’m the best setter he’s ever seen. Not that I needed him to tell me.

Osamu snorted, shook his head. He typed back one-handed while balancing a bag of fresh baguettes against his chest.

[13:03] Osamu: Congrats. Try not to let it go to yer thick skull.

Reply came almost instantly.

[13:03] Atsumu: Too late!! Skull=thick. Miss you. Wish you were here to see it. The team got drunk after and I kept looking for you in the crowd like an idiot.

Osamu’s chest tightened. He leaned against the cool stone wall of the patisserie, ignoring the stares of a passing couple. Eight months since he’d left for culinary school in France. Eight months of time zones that never lined up, missed calls, texts that felt like whispers into a void. But Atsumu’s messages were always bright—loud, unapologetic, full of exclamation points and heart emojis. The only thing that kept the homesickness from swallowing him whole.

[13:04] Osamu: I wish I was there too. But yer doing great. Keep settin’ ‘em down.

[13:04] Atsumu: I love you, Samu. Don’t forget to eat real food, not just croissants.

Osamu laughed quietly, tucked the phone away. He had a final exam in two hours—practical on classic French sauces—and then an endless shift at the restaurant. But for a moment, he let himself stand still in the cold Paris air, imagining Atsumu’s voice, loud and brash and full of warmth.

---

Months rolled on. Spring turned to summer, days in the kitchen grew longer, sweatier, more punishing. Osamu learned to temper chocolate, debone a duck in under four minutes. Learned to keep his shoulders back and his mouth shut when the head chef screamed at him. And every night, he fell into his narrow dorm bed and scrolled through Atsumu’s messages—photos of the team, of Onigiri Miya’s new menu (sent by their mother, forwarded by Atsumu), of a strange alpha with kind eyes standing next to Atsumu at a post-match party.

[22:45] Atsumu: Met someone!! His name is Kenji. He’s an omega like me but he’s a banker?? Boring job but he’s so sweet. Brought me flowers. Made me blush. You’d hate him, he’s too nice.

[22:46] Osamu: If he makes you happy, I’ll tolerate him. But if he breaks yer heart, I’ll fly home and gut him.

[22:47] Atsumu: That’s the Samu I know. Love you.

Osamu’s thumb hovered over the screen. He typed, erased, typed again.

[22:48] Osamu: Love you too. Send me a picture of his face so I know who to kill.

Atsumu sent a laughing emoji, then a selfie with his arm around the alpha—Kenji. Dark hair, soft jaw, a smile that looked genuine. Osamu saved the photo without thinking.

---

The engagement text came on a Tuesday afternoon, during Osamu’s break between pastry and butchery. He was elbow-deep in flour when his phone vibrated against the metal counter. He wiped his hands on his apron to check it.

[14:02] Atsumu: SAMU. KENJI PROPOSED. I said yes. I’M ENGAGED. Can you believe it? Me? Married? I’m gonna be an old married omega with a ring and everything. The wedding is in three months. Please come. I need you here. I can’t do it without you.

Osamu stared at the screen, flour sticking to his lashes. His heart did something complicated—a swell of joy that twisted into a knot of guilt. Three months. His final term was the most intense of the entire program. The head chef had already warned him: miss one day, the apprenticeship was forfeited. He couldn’t afford to fail. Not when he’d come so far.

He called. Went to voicemail. He called again. On the third try, Atsumu picked up, breathless.

“Samu? Is everything okay? You never call during the day.”

“Are you serious?” Osamu’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “Yer gettin’ married?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s voice was soft, shy. “Is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay, ‘Tsumu. I’m so proud of you. I just—” Osamu closed his eyes, leaning against the walk-in cooler door. “I can’t come. My final term. The chef said I can’t miss a day.”

Silence stretched. Osamu could picture Atsumu perfectly: bottom lip wobbling, eyes bright with unshed tears, hand clutching his phone like a lifeline.

“I understand,” Atsumu said finally, voice breaking. “No, really, I do. You worked so hard. I’m proud of you too. Just… promise me you’ll call that morning. I don’t think I can walk down the aisle without hearing your voice.”

Osamu’s throat closed. He gripped the phone so hard his knuckles ached. “I promise.”

---

Wedding day dawned clear and warm, a perfect October afternoon in Hyogo. Osamu set three alarms, but he was already awake, sitting on the edge of his dorm bed, early morning light filtering through the cheap blinds. He dialed Atsumu’s number before the sun was fully up in Japan.

Rang six times. Then seven. Osamu’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.

“Hello?” Not Atsumu. Their mother, voice strained.

“Ma? Where’s ‘Tsumu? I was supposed to talk to him before the ceremony.”

“Oh, Samu. He’s in a state. Locked himself in the bathroom, won’t come out. Keeps saying he can’t do it without you. That it’s not right. That you’re supposed to be his best man.” She let out a shaky breath. “Can you talk to him? Maybe you can calm him down.”

Osamu was already on his feet, pacing the narrow room. “Put him on. Please.”

Muffled sounds—a knock, a sob, the click of a lock. Then Atsumu’s voice, raw and wrecked.

“Samu?”

“Hey, ‘Tsumu.” Osamu forced his voice steady, gentle, the way he used to talk Atsumu down from panic attacks before matches. “I hear you’re bein’ a brat.”

“I’m not a brat!” Atsumu sniffled. “I just—you’re supposed to be here. We’re supposed to do everything together. That’s the deal. We’re twins. You can’t miss my wedding.”

“I know.” Osamu’s eyes burned. “I know, ‘Tsumu. And I’m so sorry. But listen to me. You love Kenji, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he loves you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you get out of that bathroom, you put on the fancy omega clothes you’ve been stressin’ about for months, and you marry him. I’ll be there in spirit. I’ll be watchin’ from here. And when I get home, I’m gonna meet him properly, and if he’s not good enough for you, I’ll tell you straight.”

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. “You promise?”

“I promise. Now go. Make me proud.”

Long pause, then Atsumu whispered, “I love you, Samu. Always.”

“Always,” Osamu echoed.

Line went dead.

---

The wedding gift arrived two weeks later, a small padded envelope with French postage and Osamu’s careful handwriting. Atsumu opened it on the kitchen counter, still in his honeymoon glow, and pulled out a velvet box. Inside lay a set of platinum earrings and a matching necklace, each piece set with tiny sapphires that caught the light like fragments of the ocean.

A note was tucked beneath the foam:

For my twin, who finally found someone who sees him as the star he always was. Wear these when you need me close. Love, Samu.

Atsumu pressed the necklace to his lips and cried happy tears.

---

Two years passed in a blur of morning sickness, midnight feedings, and the soft, wet weight of a newborn against Atsumu’s chest. Their daughter, Hana, arrived in the middle of a summer thunderstorm, all dark hair and tiny fists and a cry that could rattle the windows. Atsumu fell into motherhood with the same fierce intensity he brought to volleyball—exhausting, beautiful, relentless.

He sent Osamu pictures every day.

[09:12] Atsumu: Look at her little toes. They’re perfect. She got Kenji’s nose but my eyebrows.

[14:45] Atsumu: She smiled at me today. I swear it was a real smile. Not gas. She already knows I’m her favorite.

[22:03] Atsumu: She won’t sleep. I’ve been up since 4am. I look like a zombie. Send coffee from France??

Osamu replied when he could, often late at night after his shift, the glow of his phone the only light in his tiny apartment. He saved every photo, zooming in on Hana’s face, trying to find traces of Atsumu in the curve of her cheek, the stubborn set of her jaw. He felt a profound, aching pride—and a quieter, more selfish loneliness. He was missing everything.

But the end was in sight. His final practical was scheduled for the first week of December. By Christmas, he would be on a plane home.

---

Osamu landed at Kansai International Airport on a gray December morning, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a stuffed rabbit tucked carefully inside his coat pocket. The air smelled familiar—salt and rain and miso from a nearby shop. His body was still on Paris time, but he forced himself to stay awake, riding the train through the familiar landscapes, watching the suburbs blur past.

He didn’t go home first. Didn’t even text their mother to say he’d arrived.

His feet carried him to Atsumu’s house—a modest two-story with a small garden, a bicycle propped against the fence, a wind chime that sang as he pushed open the gate. The living room light was on. Curtains half-drawn. Osamu’s heart hammered against his ribs.

He knocked.

Footsteps. Slow, heavy, then a voice—softer than he remembered—calling, “I’m coming, hold on.”

Door swung open.

And Osamu forgot how to breathe.

Atsumu stood in the doorway, haloed by warm light from inside. His hair was longer, pulled into a messy bun with strands escaping to frame his face. He was wearing a loose cardigan over a nursing tank, and his skin had that particular glow of a new parent—tired, yes, but luminous. His body had changed: softer curves, wider hips, the gentle swell of a chest that had been feeding a baby. He looked beautiful in a way that gutted Osamu, because it was a version of his twin he had never seen, a version that belonged to a life he had only glimpsed through a phone screen.

And nestled against Atsumu’s chest, latched onto his breast with tiny, contented noises, was Hana.

Baby’s dark lashes fanned against her plump cheeks, one tiny hand curled against Atsumu’s collarbone. She stirred, unlatched for a second, murmured, “Mama…”

Atsumu shifted her gently, cupped the back of her head with a practiced tenderness that made Osamu’s throat close. He looked up, eyes meeting Osamu’s, and his face crumpled.

“Samu?”

“Hey, ‘Tsumu.” Osamu’s voice came out hoarse.

Atsumu laughed—a wet, broken sound—and then he was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks, his free arm reaching out. “You’re here. You’re actually here.”

Osamu stepped forward, dropped his duffel to the ground, wrapped his arms around both of them—Atsumu and the baby, careful not to jostle Hana. Atsumu buried his face in Osamu’s shoulder, sobbing quietly, the baby oblivious and still nursing, her little hand now gripping a fold of Osamu’s coat.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu whispered into Atsumu’s hair. “I’m sorry I missed it. The wedding, the birth, her first smile, her first everything. I’m here now.”

Atsumu pulled back, swiping at his eyes with his free hand. “Don’t be sorry. You’re here. That’s all that matters.” He sniffled, looked down at Hana, who had finally unlatched and was staring up at them with wide, curious eyes. “Hana-chan, this is your uncle. The one I told you about. The one who sends all the pretty jewelry.”

Hana blinked, then stuck her fist in her mouth, utterly unimpressed.

Osamu laughed, the sound surprising him. “She’s got your attitude.”

“She has my everything,” Atsumu said, beaming. Then his face softened. “Come inside. Please. I’ll make you tea. Kenji’s at work, but he’ll be home later. He’s been dying to meet you properly.”

Osamu followed him into the house, paused to toe off his shoes. The living room was cozy, cluttered with baby toys, a nursing pillow on the couch, a laundry basket overflowing with tiny pastel onesies. Atsumu settled into the corner of the sofa, adjusted Hana against his chest, gestured for Osamu to sit beside him.

“You look good,” Osamu said, meaning it. “Motherhood suits you.”

“I look like I haven’t slept in eighteen months,” Atsumu snorted, but his cheeks flushed pink. “But thanks. You look like a French chef. All sophisticated and broody.”

“I’m not broody. I’m tired.”

“Same thing.”

They fell into easy banter, the years of distance melting away. Atsumu showed him the photo albums, videos of Hana’s first steps (wobbly, determined), the recording of her first word (“Mama,” of course). Osamu produced the stuffed rabbit from his coat, a soft cream-colored thing with floppy ears and a tiny chef’s hat.

“I made it myself,” he said, pushing it toward Hana. “From the same fabric we used in pastry school. It’s clean.”

Hana grabbed the rabbit by the ear and shoved it into her mouth.

“She loves it,” Atsumu said, eyes bright.

Later, after Hana had fallen asleep in Osamu’s arms—a warm, fragile weight that made his chest ache with a new kind of love—Atsumu leaned his head on Osamu’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” he murmured. “Every day. Every single day.”

Osamu pressed his cheek to the top of Atsumu’s head, inhaling the familiar scent of his twin—laundry detergent, baby powder, and underneath it all, the same warmth he’d known since birth. “I missed you too. More than I knew how to say.”

“You don’t have to say it,” Atsumu whispered. “You’re here.”

The wind chime outside sang softly. The house smelled like dinner—Atsumu had put a pot of miso soup on the stove, and Kenji would be home soon. Osamu looked down at Hana, her tiny chest rising and falling, and felt something settle deep in his bones.

He was home.

And he was never going to miss another moment.