Extra Onigiri

The first sign something was off was the rice.

Osamu stood in the doorway of their shared kitchen, still half-asleep in his sleep shirt, watching his twin brother move around the stove like he was running a serve-and-receive drill. Atsumu had been up for at least an hour—Osamu could tell from the perfectly seasoned chicken thigh on the cutting board, the julienned carrots stacked in neat little piles, the tamagoyaki already rolled and sliced into identical golden rectangles.

“Did ya get possessed by someone’s grandma?” Osamu asked, voice rough.

Atsumu didn’t even flinch. He just hummed some pop song Osamu didn’t recognize and kept fanning the rice in its wooden bowl. Steam curled around his face, and when he turned to grab the nori, there was something soft in his expression that made Osamu stop mid-yawn.

“Mornin’, Samu,” Atsumu said, not quite meeting his eyes. “Coffee’s ready if ya want. Made extra onigiri for ya.”

That was the second sign. Atsumu never made extra anything. He was a man of precise calculations—six onigiri meant he planned to eat all six. Voluntarily giving one up? Alarming.

Osamu shuffled to the counter, poured himself a coffee, and watched his brother work. The lunchbox Atsumu was packing was beautiful—layers of color, careful arrangements, a tiny octopus-shaped sausage smiling up from a bed of lettuce. The kind of lunchbox you make for someone you're trying to impress.

“Who’s that for?” Osamu asked, trying to sound casual.

Atsumu’s ears went pink. “Just tryin’ somethin’ new. Coach said we gotta eat well durin’ the joint practice.”

“Coach said no such thing.”

“Well, I’m sayin’ it.”

Osamu let it drop. For now.

But over the next three days, the signs multiplied like mushrooms after rain. Atsumu stopped picking fights with the first-year who kept messing up the rotation. He laughed at one of Suna’s dry jokes—actually laughed, not the sharp bark he usually used. He walked past a group of students from another school trash-talking Inarizaki’s setters and just smiled, kept walking.

The phone was the worst. Atsumu had always been attached to it, but usually for scouting videos or texting their mom. Now he kept it face-up on the bench during breaks, checking it every few minutes with this dopey expression that made Osamu’s stomach turn.

“He’s been textin’ someone,” Osamu said to Suna during a water break on day four.

Suna raised an eyebrow. “Observant as always, Miya.”

“I’m serious. He’s actin’ weird.”

“He’s acting happy.” There was something pointed in Suna’s tone. “Maybe that’s what’s throwing you off.”

Osamu didn’t have an answer for that.

The truth came out on day five, and it came out bad.

Osamu was looking for a pen—the good gel pen Atsumu had stolen from him weeks ago. He went through Atsumu’s bag without thinking, because that’s what twins do, and his fingers brushed against paper.

A note. Folded carefully, tucked into the outer pocket of Atsumu’s lunchbox bag. And Osamu, who had never respected a boundary in his life, opened it.

The handwriting was Atsumu’s—messy, hurried, in the purple ink he’d been obsessed with since middle school.

Omi-kun, I hope you like today’s lunch. I tried that tamagoyaki recipe your mom mentioned. Don’t skip the pickles this time. They’re good for your digestion.

See you at lunch. Yours, Atsumu

Underneath, in smaller letters, surrounded by a border of tiny hearts: I miss you already. (Even though I just saw you an hour ago. Don’t laugh at me.)

Osamu stared at the note. Then he read it again. Then he folded it very carefully and put it back exactly where he found it, because if he didn’t, he was going to crumple it into a ball and throw it across the room.

Yours, Atsumu.

Since when did Atsumu belong to anyone?

The joint practice had brought together five schools, so the gym was chaos—different jerseys, flying volleyballs, the particular brand of testosterone that comes from putting a hundred teenage boys in one space. Osamu had been too focused on his own team to pay attention to the others, but now he started looking.

It didn’t take long to find the answer.

Kiyoomi Sakusa was impossible to miss. He moved like water—smooth, efficient, precise. His serve was a weapon, his spikes surgical, and his presence made other players instinctively back up. He was also, Osamu noted with growing displeasure, sitting alone on the bench during a break, mask pulled down just enough to drink water, dark eyes scanning the gym with mild disgust.

And then Atsumu walked over.

Osamu watched from across the gym as his brother sat down next to Sakusa—not across from him, not at a respectful distance, but right next to him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Sakusa didn’t move away. Atsumu said something, and Sakusa’s lips twitched. Atsumu laughed, bright and genuine, and reached out to tap Sakusa’s knee.

Then Atsumu clicked his fingers.

It was a small sound, barely audible over the noise, but Sakusa turned his head immediately. Atsumu pointed at his own water bottle, then at Sakusa’s empty one. Without a word, Sakusa handed it over. Atsumu took it, unscrewed the cap, filled it from his own bottle, and handed it back with a smile so soft it made Osamu’s teeth hurt.

Sakusa drank. Atsumu watched him. The world kept turning, and Osamu felt like he was going to be sick.

He found his opportunity to eavesdrop on day six.

The cafeteria was crowded, so Osamu squeezed into a corner table near the back. Atsumu and Sakusa were three tables away, partially hidden by a pillar. Osamu told himself he was just sitting down, that it was coincidence, that he wasn’t actively hiding behind his tray of curry to listen.

“—and then I told Samu that the onigiri was for me, but he didn’t believe me,” Atsumu was saying, voice light and teasing. “He’s been followin’ me around like a lost puppy. It’s kinda cute, actually.”

Sakusa said something Osamu couldn’t hear, but Atsumu laughed and reached across the table to steal a piece of tomato from Sakusa’s plate.

“He doesn’t get it,” Atsumu said, quieter. “He thinks I’m givin’ up or somethin’. Like I’m gonna turn into some housewife and forget about volleyball.”

“Are you?”

“No.” Atsumu’s voice was firm. “Volleyball’s still everything. But you’re also somethin’. And I don’t see why I can’t have both.”

Pause. Osamu leaned forward.

“You know I’m gonna marry you someday, right?” Atsumu’s voice had that edge of bravado that meant he was half-joking. “I’m gonna play for MSBY, and you’re gonna be there, and I’m gonna take care of you and make you lunches and—and we’re gonna win championships together. And then I’m gonna live off your salary and be a kept man.”

Sakusa’s response was too quiet, but Atsumu’s laugh echoed through the cafeteria.

Osamu set down his chopsticks. His curry was suddenly unappetizing.

Live off your salary.

Kept man.

Give up volleyball.

He stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor. A few people looked over. He didn’t care.

That night, after practice, Osamu cornered Atsumu in the hallway outside their shared room.

“We need to talk.”

Atsumu blinked at him, still flushed from the shower, a towel around his neck. “Can it wait? I gotta text Omi-kun goodnight—”

“No, it can’t wait.” Osamu stepped into his space, blocking the door. “What the hell are ya doin’, ‘Tsumu?”

Atsumu’s expression shifted from confusion to wariness. “What d’ya mean?”

“I saw ya. With him. With Sakusa.” Osamu’s voice was low, barely controlled. “Ya click yer fingers and he hands ya his bottle like a trained dog. And ya just—ya fill it for him. Like a maid. Like yer his servant.”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. “It’s called takin’ care of someone, Samu. Ever heard of it?”

“There’s takin’ care of someone, and then there’s losin’ yerself.” Osamu stepped closer. “I read the note. In yer bag. Yours, Atsumu. What’s that supposed to mean? Since when are ya anyone’s?”

Atsumu’s face went pale, then red. “Ya went through my bag?”

“I was lookin’ for a pen.”

“Ya had no right—”

“I had every right!” Osamu’s voice cracked, loud in the empty hallway. “Yer my brother. And yer actin’ like yer gonna throw everythin’ away for some guy who can’t even be bothered to fill his own water bottle.”

Atsumu was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was steady, but his hands were shaking. “Yer wrong. About all of it. But I’m not gonna yell at ya about it. I’m just gonna go to bed, and tomorrow, I’m gonna make him lunch, and I’m gonna be happy. And ya can either deal with it or not.”

He pushed past Osamu and closed the door.

Osamu stood in the hallway, fists clenched, heart pounding.

He wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t be wrong.

But Atsumu had looked at him like he was the enemy, and that hurt worse than any argument they’d ever had.

The next day, the team noticed.

“You’re in a mood,” Suna said, not looking up from his phone.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re glaring at Sakusa like he personally killed your dog.”

Osamu didn’t dignify that with a response. He was, in fact, glaring at Sakusa, who was standing at the edge of the court talking to Atsumu. Atsumu was laughing at something, his hand resting casually on Sakusa’s forearm, and Sakusa was letting him.

“He’s got him wrapped around his finger,” Osamu muttered.

“Or maybe,” Suna said, “they’re just in love and you’re being dramatic.”

Osamu turned to snap at him, but Kita appeared out of nowhere, calm and steady as always.

“Osamu,” Kita said, “can I talk to you for a moment?”

It wasn’t a question.

They walked to the corner of the gym, away from the noise. Aran followed, and Suna trailed with the kind of casual interest that meant he was definitely listening.

“I’ve noticed you watching your brother,” Kita said, folding his arms. “What’s going on?”

Osamu explained. The lunches, the notes, the clicking fingers, the marriage joke. How Atsumu was changing, and how scared he was that his brother was going to give up everything for a relationship that looked one-sided.

When he finished, Aran rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean… it does sound kinda strange. Atsumu’s not exactly the domestic type.”

“He’s not,” Osamu agreed. “That’s my point.”

Suna, predictably, was less concerned. “Have you considered that maybe he just likes taking care of someone? That it makes him happy?”

“It makes him look desperate.”

“It makes him look in love,” Kita said quietly, and the conversation ground to a halt.

Osamu opened his mouth to argue, but Kita held up a hand.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong to be worried. You’re his brother. It’s your job to worry.” Kita’s gaze was steady. “But I’ve watched Atsumu with Sakusa. And I’ve watched Sakusa with Atsumu. And I don’t see what you see.”

“Then what do you see?”

Kita was quiet for a moment. “I see two people who are very different, choosing to understand each other anyway. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”

Osamu wanted to believe him. He really did.

But that evening, he saw Atsumu walk past the vending machine without buying anything, even though he’d been craving a soda all day. And he saw Sakusa glance at him, then walk over himself, buy two bottles, and hand one to Atsumu without a word.

And Osamu saw Atsumu’s face light up like Sakusa had handed him the moon.

It was such a small, stupid thing.

But it made Osamu’s stomach churn, because it looked like Atsumu was so starved for affection that he’d be grateful for anything, even a bottle of Coke from a guy who couldn’t be bothered to say thank you for the elaborate lunches he’d been getting all week.

The confrontation came on day eight.

Practice had ended late. The gym was emptying out, the echoes of volleyballs fading into silence. Osamu had waited, hidden behind a stack of storage bins, watching Sakusa do his cool-down stretches alone.

When Sakusa finally stood up and reached for his bag, Osamu stepped out.

“We need to talk.”

Sakusa turned. His mask was in place, but his eyes were sharp, assessing. He didn’t look surprised. “About what?”

“About my brother.”

Sakusa’s shoulders relaxed slightly. Not with relief—with resignation. “I was wondering when you’d approach me.”

“What are yer intentions?”

It was a blunt question, deliberately old-fashioned. Osamu wanted to throw Sakusa off balance.

But Sakusa just met his gaze. “I intend to keep him happy.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.” Sakusa’s voice was calm, measured. “I care about Atsumu. He cares about me. We’re both aware that it looks unusual from the outside. But I’m not manipulating him, and I’m not taking advantage of him.”

“Then why does he do everythin’ for ya?” Osamu stepped closer, his voice rising. “Why does he make yer lunch? Why does he fill yer water? Why does he click his fingers like yer some kind of—of pet, and ya just—ya just let him?”

Sakusa was silent for a moment. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out his phone.

“Do you know what he texts me every morning?”

Osamu blinked. “What?”

Sakusa turned the phone around. The screen showed a conversation. Atsumu’s contact photo was a blurry selfie of him making a peace sign.

Omi-kun! Big day today. You’re gonna crush it. Remember to eat breakfast. I put extra protein in yer lunch. Love you.

And below that, from Sakusa: I love you too. Thank you for taking care of me.

Sakusa scrolled up. There were dozens of messages—Atsumu sending pictures of his practice notes, Sakusa sending scouting reports on opposing teams. Atsumu complaining about a cramp, Sakusa replying with a link to a stretching guide. Atsumu saying he was nervous about a drill, Sakusa calling him twenty minutes later, the call lasting nearly an hour.

“I don’t just take,” Sakusa said quietly. “I give too. It’s just not as visible.”

“But the water—”

“He does that because he wants to. And I let him because it makes him happy.” Sakusa’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need him to do those things for me. I’m perfectly capable of filling my own water bottle. But he likes feeling needed. And I like being the person he needs.”

Osamu’s resolve was cracking, but he held on. “He said he was gonna marry ya and live off yer salary. He said he was gonna give up volleyball.”

Something flickered in Sakusa’s eyes. Pain, maybe. Or anger.

“He said that as a joke. And even if he meant it—which he didn’t—I would never let him give up his dreams.” Sakusa’s voice dropped. “Do you know what I did last week, after he told me he was worried about his setting technique?”

Osamu shook his head.

“I stayed up until 2 a.m. looking up drills from professional setters. I sent him a list of ten exercises to try. And then I got to practice early the next day so I could spot him while he worked on them.”

Osamu’s mouth opened, then closed.

“I love your brother,” Sakusa said, and the words were simple, unadorned, devastating in their honesty. “I love him, and I want him to succeed. He’s the most talented setter I’ve ever met, and I would never, ever ask him to give that up. If anything, I’m trying to help him get better.”

The silence stretched between them.

And then, from behind Osamu, a voice:

“Omi-kun?”

They both turned. Atsumu was standing in the doorway of the gym, still in his practice clothes, hair damp. He looked from Sakusa to Osamu, and his expression shifted from confusion to understanding to something raw and vulnerable.

“Ya were gonna confront him without me?” Atsumu asked, voice quiet, not accusatory. “Samu, I told ya I was happy.”

“I know.” Osamu’s throat felt tight. “I just—I didn’t believe ya.”

Atsumu walked over to Sakusa and slid his hand into his. Sakusa squeezed it, once, and the gesture was so natural, so practiced, that Osamu felt something crack in his chest.

“I’m not givin’ up volleyball,” Atsumu said, looking at Osamu with steady eyes. “I’m not losin’ myself. I’m not gonna be a kept man. I was jokin’ when I said that, and even if I wasn’t, Omi-kun wouldn’t let me.”

“He wouldn’t,” Sakusa confirmed.

“I love him,” Atsumu continued, “and yeah, I like takin’ care of him. I like makin’ him lunch. I like fillin’ his water bottle. I like that he lets me. But it’s not because I’m becomin’ his servant. It’s because I’m in love with him, and this is how I show it.”

He took a step forward, still holding Sakusa’s hand.

“And he shows it back. Just not in ways ya see.” Atsumu’s voice softened. “He stays up late lookin’ up drills for me. He calls me when I’m nervous. He tells me I’m good enough when I don’t believe it myself. He makes me better, Samu. He makes me wanna be better.”

Osamu’s eyes were stinging.

“I’m scared of losin’ ya,” he admitted, and his voice cracked. “I’m scared that one day, I’m gonna wake up and ya won’t be the same person anymore. Ya won’t be my twin. Ya won’t be a setter. Ya’ll just be… his.”

Atsumu’s expression crumbled.

“I’ll always be yer twin,” he said, letting go of Sakusa’s hand to step into Osamu’s space. “I’ll always be a setter. And I’ll also be his. All three things can be true at once.”

He reached out and grabbed Osamu’s wrist, the same way he’d done since they were kids, tugging him closer.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Samu. I’m just addin’ someone to my life. Not replacin’ anyone.”

Osamu let out a shaky breath. He looked over Atsumu’s shoulder at Sakusa, who was watching them with an expression that was gentle, patient, understanding.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu said, and he meant it. “I misjudged ya.”

Sakusa inclined his head. “You were protecting your brother. I can’t fault you for that.”

“Still. I was a jerk.”

“Yes,” Sakusa agreed, and there was the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “You were.”

Atsumu laughed, watery and relieved, and punched Osamu’s shoulder.

“Dumbass,” he said, but it was affectionate.

“Jerk,” Osamu shot back, but it was the same.

They stood there for a moment, the three of them, in the empty gymnasium. The lights were dimming, the janitor was somewhere in the building, and outside, the sun was setting in shades of orange and pink.

“I’ll work on bein’ better about this,” Osamu said finally. “About trustin’ yer judgment.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Atsumu said.

“And maybe… I could make lunch for ya sometime,” Osamu added, looking at Sakusa. “As a peace offerin’.”

Sakusa’s eyes widened slightly. “You cook?”

“Better than ‘Tsumu.”

“I do not—”

“Ya put salt instead of sugar in yer cookies last week.”

“That was one time—”

“It was three times.”

Sakusa looked between them, and for the first time, a real smile crossed his face—small, shy, but there.

“I would like that,” he said. “The peace offering.”

Osamu nodded, and something eased in his chest.

Later that night, Osamu stood at the window of his room, looking out at the darkened campus. He heard Atsumu’s voice from down the hall, soft and laughing, talking to Sakusa on the phone.

He wasn’t eavesdropping this time. He was just listening.

“—and then Samu actually apologized. Can ya believe it? I think he might be gettin’ soft in his old age.”

Pause.

“Yeah, I know. He’s a good brother. Just a little overprotective.”

Another pause, longer.

“I love ya too, Omi-kun. See ya tomorrow.”

The line went dead.

Osamu heard Atsumu’s footsteps approach, and then a soft knock on his door.

“Samu? Ya awake?”

“Yeah.”

The door opened. Atsumu stood there in his pajamas, hair messy, eyes tired but happy.

“I just wanted to say,” Atsumu said, “that I know ya were scared. And I get it. I’d be scared too, if the roles were reversed.”

Osamu nodded.

“But I’m okay,” Atsumu continued. “I’m more than okay. I’m happy. And I still want to play volleyball. I want to go pro. I want to be the best setter in the world.” He paused. “I just also want to make him lunch while I do it.”

Osamu snorted. “That’s really domestic of ya.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m happy for ya, ‘Tsumu.” The words came out easier than Osamu expected. “Really. I just needed to see it for myself.”

Atsumu’s smile was soft, genuine. “I know.”

They stood there for a moment, the way they had a thousand times before, in a thousand different rooms. Twins. Brothers. Always.

“Go to bed,” Osamu said finally. “Ya got practice tomorrow.”

“So do ya.”

“Then we both better get some sleep.”

Atsumu laughed and shut the door.

Osamu turned back to the window. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like a thousand tiny promises.

He thought about Sakusa’s calm voice, about the way he’d looked at Atsumu, about the drills he’d stayed up researching. He thought about the lunchboxes, the notes, the clicked fingers.

Maybe he’d been wrong.

Maybe Atsumu wasn’t losing himself at all.

Maybe he was just learning how to share himself with someone else.

And maybe, Osamu thought, as he finally climbed into bed, that wasn’t something to be afraid of.

It was something to be happy about.