The Perfect Toss

The Inarizaki gym smelled like sweat and rubber. Shoes squeaked, balls thumped, guys grunted. Practice was rolling like normal—except for one thing that’d been off for weeks.

Atsumu Miya stood at the service line, bouncing the ball. Once. Twice. He pulled back for a jump serve, tossed high, approached hard, but the second his palm hit the ball, something felt wrong. It sailed long and smacked the back wall. Dull thud.

"Again," Kita said from the sideline. Calm as ever.

Atsumu growled under his breath and grabbed another ball. His teammates traded looks. This wasn't the first time today. Hell, it wasn't the first time this week. Or this month.

He served again. Hit the net.

"Oi, 'Tsumu, what the hell?" Osamu called from across the court, voice flat. "You've been off for ages. Get it together."

"Shut up, Samu! I don't need yer commentary!" Atsumu's voice cracked. His eyes stung. He blinked fast, horrified to feel tears threatening. What the hell is wrong with me? He turned away, pressing his palm against his eye.

The gym went quiet. Suna raised an eyebrow. Ginjima stared at his shoes. Kita sighed from the bench.

Atsumu took a shaky breath and turned back. "Let's just—let's keep goin'," he said, small.

Practice resumed, but the tension stuck around. Every spike, every receive, every set from Atsumu was forced. He fumbled a simple pass, then screamed—not at anyone in particular, just a raw, guttural sound that made everyone freeze.

Kita stood. "That's enough for today. Take a break."

Atsumu dropped the ball and walked off, disappearing into the locker room.

Osamu watched him go, jaw tight. He wanted to follow, wanted to shake his twin and demand what the hell was going on. But something held him back. He'd noticed things. Atsumu barely touched his food, left meals half-finished. He'd heard him vomiting in the bathroom twice this week. He was always tired, always snapping. And he wore hoodies even when the gym was sweltering, hiding his body like he was ashamed.

But when Osamu tried to ask, Atsumu would snap: "None of yer business, Samu. Leave me alone."

So Osamu left him alone. But the worry festered.

---

Two days later, Osamu woke at dawn to the sound of retching from the bathroom. He groaned, rubbed his eyes, padded down the hall. The door was cracked. He pushed it open.

Atsumu was on his knees, gripping the toilet bowl, shoulders heaving. His face was pale, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like hell.

"Yer doin' that a lot lately," Osamu said quiet.

Atsumu startled, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's nothin'. Stomach flu."

"Yer lyin'."

Atsumu's eyes flashed—panic, then anger. "What do ya want me to say, Samu? That I'm dyin'? That I'm sick? That I dunno what's happenin' to me?" His voice broke. He buried his face in his hands.

Osamu crouched beside him, hesitating. He wasn't good at this. Being soft. Being the one to comfort. That was supposed to be Atsumu's job—the more emotional twin. But Atsumu was falling apart, and Osamu realized with a sinking feeling that he had to pick up the pieces.

"Talk to me," Osamu said, rough but gentler than usual. "Yer my twin. Whatever it is, I ain't gonna judge."

Atsumu's shoulders shook. He sat back, leaned against the wall, pulled his knees to his chest under the oversized hoodie he even slept in. His hands trembled.

"I can't," he whispered. "It's too much."

Osamu sat down next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "Try."

Silence stretched. The bathroom tile was cold. Smelled like toothpaste and vomit.

Then, in a voice so small it barely existed, Atsumu said, "I missed my heat."

Osamu's blood went cold. "What? When?"

"Two months ago. Maybe three. I dunno. I've been so busy with practice and—" Atsumu's breath hitched. "And I've been sick. And tired. And I keep cryin' over stupid stuff. And my body..." He pulled the hoodie tight around him. "I can't hide it much longer."

Osamu stared at his twin, at the way the fabric stretched over his middle. Atsumu had always been lean, wiry. But now there was a softness. A curve. A bump.

"Oh," Osamu breathed.

"Don't," Atsumu begged, tears streaming. "Don't say it. Please."

Osamu's mind raced. An omega pregnancy. Atsumu, his wild, reckless, brilliant brother, was carrying a baby. The last time Atsumu had mentioned anyone, it was Kita Shinsuke—ex-boyfriend from last year. They'd broken up before spring interhigh, amicably, because Kita wanted to focus on his future and Atsumu on volleyball. But they'd been close. Very close.

"Is it Kita-san's?" Osamu asked soft.

Atsumu nodded, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. "I haven't told him. I haven't told anyone. I was gonna—I was gonna deal with it on my own. But I can't. Samu, I'm scared."

Something cracked in Osamu's chest. He wrapped an arm around his brother, pulled him close. Atsumu sobbed into his shoulder, ugly and raw.

"I'm scared," Atsumu repeated. "What if the team finds out? What if I can't play anymore? What if I'm a terrible parent? What if—"

"Stop," Osamu interrupted. "Yer not gonna face this alone. I got ya."

Atsumu pulled back, eyes red-rimmed. "Yer not mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad?"

"Because I've been a nightmare. Ignorin' everyone. Screamin' at practice. Yellin' at you."

Osamu snorted. "Yer always yellin' at me. That's not new." He paused, squeezed Atsumu's shoulder. "But yer gonna have to tell the team eventually. And Kita-san. They deserve to know."

Atsumu's face crumpled. "I can't. They'll hate me. They'll think I'm weak."

"They'll think yer their teammate," Osamu said firmly. "And if anyone gives ya crap, I'll beat 'em up."

Atsumu let out a watery laugh. "Yer a terrible fighter."

"Yer still my brother."

---

The weeks that followed were a careful dance. Atsumu kept going to practice, but his body was changing, and hiding got harder. He avoided close-contact drills, begged off conditioning runs, snapped at anyone who asked questions.

Ginjima cornered Osamu after practice one day. "Oi, Miya. What's up with your brother? He's been acting weird."

"He's fine," Osamu said flat.

"He's not fine," Suna added, appearing out of nowhere. "He's losing weight, then gaining it weird. He's wearing hoodies in July. And he smells... different."

Osamu stiffened. Alphas could sense omegas, but Atsumu had always been good with scent blockers. Pregnancy changed things.

"He's just stressed," Osamu said. "Leave him alone."

Suna's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

The secret held for another month. Then, one evening, Atsumu tripped during a warm-up drill. His hoodie rode up, revealing the unmistakable swell of his belly. The gym fell dead silent.

Ginjima dropped the ball. Suna's jaw went slack. Even the first-years froze.

Atsumu scrambled to pull his hoodie down, face burning. He looked at Osamu, eyes pleading.

"Okay," Osamu said, stepping in front of his brother. "Everyone, listen up. We need to talk."

They gathered in a circle. Atsumu sat on the floor, arms wrapped around himself, while Osamu stood beside him like a guard dog.

"First of all," Osamu began, "nothin' changes. Atsumu is still part of this team. So if anyone has a problem with what I'm about to say, say it now and then shut up."

Kita, who had been standing quietly at the edge of the circle, stepped forward. "What's going on?"

Atsumu flinched at the sound of his voice.

Osamu took a deep breath. "Atsumu's pregnant."

The silence was deafening. Then a wave of reactions: shock, confusion, a few startled exclamations. Ginjima's jaw dropped. Suna's expression shifted to something unreadable. The first-years whispered.

But Kita's face went pale. "Pregnant?" he repeated, hollow.

Atsumu finally looked up, tears spilling. "It's yours, Shinsuke. I'm sorry. I shoulda told ya. I was scared."

Kita was quiet for a long moment. Then he knelt in front of Atsumu, his expression shifting from shock to something softer. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"I didn't want ya to feel trapped," Atsumu whispered. "Yer got yer dreams. Yer gonna be a farmer. I'm gonna play volleyball. It wasn't supposed to be like this."

Kita reached out and took Atsumu's hand. "It doesn't matter what was supposed to happen. What matters is now. And I'm here."

Ginjima cleared his throat. "So... we're having a baby?"

"That's what pregnant means, dumbass," Suna said dry.

Ginjima threw a towel at him. "I mean—how can we help?"

Osamu looked around at his teammates. They weren't disgusted. They weren't angry. They looked concerned. Protective. A few of the second-years were already talking about setting up a baby fund.

Atsumu blinked. "Ya... ya ain't mad?"

"Why would we be mad?" Suna said, crossing his arms. "You're still our setter. You're just gonna be a setter with a kid."

"But I'm an omega," Atsumu said, voice cracking. "I'm supposed to—"

"Supposed to nothing," Osamu interrupted. "Yer Atsumu Miya. Yer a pain in the ass and the best setter in the country. And yer gonna be a great parent."

The knot in Atsumu's chest loosened, just a fraction. He looked at his team, at his brother, at Kita, and for the first time in months, he felt like he could breathe.

---

Months passed. The volleyball season ended with Inarizaki making it to nationals but falling short of the championship. Atsumu played through his second trimester with a belly bump that grew more pronounced every day. He was slower, clumsier, but his sets were still sharp. The team adjusted. They covered for him. They protected him.

By the time his third trimester hit, Atsumu was put on modified practice. He sat on the bench during drills, offering commentary, yelling criticism, and sometimes crying over nothing. The team had learned to ignore the tears. Hormones, they called it. Atsumu called it a nightmare.

Osamu was his constant. He cooked for him, made sure he ate, forced him to rest. He became the guardian Atsumu never knew he needed.

And Kita stepped up in his quiet way. He visited after practice, bringing food from his family's farm. He went to every doctor's appointment. He talked to the baby, placing his hand on Atsumu's belly, speaking in that calm, steady voice.

Atsumu watched Kita with a mix of gratitude and fear. "Yer doin' a lot," he said one evening, as they sat on the porch of the Miya house.

"You're carrying my child," Kita replied simply. "I should be here."

"But what about yer future? Yer plans?"

Kita turned to him, his eyes soft. "The baby is part of my future now. So are you."

Atsumu's heart ached. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to trust that this would work. But the fear never fully went away.

---

At 39 weeks, Atsumu was enormous. He waddled. He groaned. He complained. And he couldn't sleep. On a quiet Tuesday night, he sat in the living room, staring at the wall, his hands resting on his belly.

Osamu found him there, bleary-eyed, a glass of water in hand. "Yer still up?"

"Can't sleep. Baby's kickin' like crazy."

Osamu sat down beside him. "Must be a future volleyball player. Practicing jump serves in there."

Atsumu laughed softly, then winced as a foot pressed against his ribs. "They're gonna be trouble. Just like their parent."

"Which one? You or Kita-san?"

"Both."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Atsumu spoke, his voice quiet and raw.

"Samu, I'm carryin' life."

Osamu turned to look at him, confused. "Yeah. I know. Yer real big."

"No, I mean..." Atsumu's hand trembled as he pressed it to his belly. "There's a whole person in here. A little one. Half me, half Kita. And I gotta keep 'em safe. I gotta be their parent. I gotta—" His voice broke. "I can't do this without you."

Osamu's throat tightened. He reached out and pulled his brother into a hug, careful of the bump. "Yer not alone. Yer never been alone. I'm yer twin, remember? We came into this world together. We're gonna figure this out together."

Atsumu clung to him, his tears soaking Osamu's shirt. "Promise?"

"Promise."

---

The team found out the truth from Osamu after Atsumu's confession. Kita had already known. The other teammates rallied behind Atsumu with a fierceness that surprised even Osamu. They brought food. They offered to babysit. Suna researched the best parenting books. Ginjima knitted a tiny volleyball-themed blanket—badly, but with love.

When Atsumu went into labor, the entire team showed up at the hospital waiting room, pacing and worrying. Kita was in the delivery room, holding Atsumu's hand. Osamu was there too, standing by his brother's side, telling him to breathe.

The baby came into the world with a wail that echoed through the room. A tiny girl, with a tuft of blonde hair and Kita's calm eyes.

Atsumu held her against his chest, his tears falling freely. "She's perfect," he whispered.

Kita leaned down, pressing a kiss to Atsumu's forehead. "She is."

Osamu looked at the three of them—his brother, ex-captain, and a newborn—and felt something settle in his chest. This was family. Messy, unexpected, but unshakable.

When the team finally got to see the baby, the room filled with laughter and cooing. Ginjima presented his lumpy blanket. Suna handed over a onesie that said "Future Setter." The first-years awkwardly presented a stuffed fox.

Atsumu laughed, exhausted but happy. "Ya guys are such dorks."

"Takes one to know one," Osamu said, grinning.

And as the sun set over the hospital, casting warm light through the window, Atsumu looked at his daughter, his brother, his ex-boyfriend, his team.

He wasn't scared anymore.

He was home.