Sunset Over Everything We Left Behind

The house had always been too quiet after Mother died, but tonight the silence felt heavier. Atsumu sat at the dinner table, tracing patterns in his rice with his chopsticks—had no intention of eating it. Osamu glanced over, curious, but didn't say anything. Their father sat at the head of the table, a document folder beside his plate he hadn't touched since they sat down.

"The Tanaka Corporation," Father said, breaking the stillness. Same voice he used for quarterly reports. "They've expressed interest in a union."

Atsumu's hand went still. Osamu's did the opposite—his grip on his chopsticks tightened till his knuckles went white.

"CEO Tanaka's eldest son. Good family. Respected." Father slid a photograph across the table. A man in his mid-thirties, severe features, hair already thinning at the temples. "The engagement would benefit both houses significantly."

The photograph sat between them like a grenade. Osamu opened his mouth, but Atsumu spoke first.

"When?"

"Three months. The Tanaka family wants a spring wedding."

Atsumu nodded slowly. His face was a mask—carefully constructed, the kind Osamu had seen him practice in the mirror when they were thirteen, when their mother first started the lessons about what it meant to be an omega. You're not like other omegas, Osamu had told him back then. You're Atsumu. You're different.

Atsumu had smiled that bright, arrogant grin that could start a fight in an empty room. Course I am. I'm the best setter in the prefecture.

That was before. Before the suppressants, before the heats became something Atsumu couldn't hide, before their father looked at his omega son with the same gaze he used on livestock.

Atsumu rose from his chair, walked around the table, and pressed a kiss to their father's cheek. The gesture was so soft, so docile, so utterly wrong that Osamu's stomach turned.

"I'll make you proud, Father."

The folder crinkled as Father handed it over. "The terms are inside. You'll begin your preparations next week."

Atsumu took it with both hands, head bowed. "Yes, Father."

Osamu watched him retreat to his room, the folder clutched to his chest like something precious. When their father left for his study, Osamu followed the trail of Atsumu's footsteps, not bothering to announce himself when he pushed open the door.

Atsumu sat on his bed, the folder open, eyes scanning pages he couldn't possibly be reading because he wasn't blinking.

"Don't."

One word. Osamu's voice cracked.

Atsumu looked up. For a second, something raw and desperate flashed in his eyes, then vanished so quick Osamu might've imagined it. "Don't what, Samu?"

"Don't do this. We can fight it. We can—"

"Fight it?" Atsumu laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Fight what, exactly? The law? The system? Father?" He set the folder down carefully. "I'm an omega, Samu. This is what omegas do."

"That's not who you are."

"Who I am doesn't matter." His voice dropped, almost kind. "But you. You're going to take over Onigiri Miya someday. Open your own shop, make the best onigiri in Japan. You don't need this hanging over you."

Osamu's fists clenched. "I don't care about the shop if it means—"

"I care." Atsumu stood, crossed the room, placed his hands on Osamu's shoulders. Firm grip. Grounding. "I care about the shop. I care about your dreams. And if marrying some CEO's son means you get to have yours, then I'll do it. That's my choice."

"Since when do you get to make choices?"

The words came out sharper than Osamu intended. Atsumu flinched, but recovered quick, the mask sliding back into place.

"Since I decided to be a good son. A good omega." He stepped back, already closing the door. "Goodnight, Samu."

The door clicked shut between them.

---

The volleyball club had been Atsumu's sanctuary. The squeak of shoes on polished wood, the slap of the ball against palms, the weight of the net stretching above him—these made him feel real. Made him feel like more than just a body waiting to be claimed.

Coach Kurosu had been the one to break the news to the team. Atsumu asked him to. Couldn't do it himself, he'd said. Wouldn't make it through the words.

Now he stood at the gymnasium doors, his practice bag at his feet, watching the team run drills through the small window. Kita-san setting a perfect toss. Suna spiking with brutal precision. Ginjima calling formations. Familiar, beautiful, already slipping through his fingers like sand.

He pressed his palm flat against the glass.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I can't stay."

The tears came before he could stop them. He pressed his fist to his mouth, muffling the sound, shoulders shaking. The gym door opened behind him.

"Atsumu-san?"

Ginjima, towel around his neck, sweat still drying on his forehead. "We heard you were leaving." Careful voice, like handling something fragile.

Atsumu wiped his face with his sleeve. "Yeah. Family stuff."

"The wedding?"

Of course everyone knew. Impossible to keep secrets in a town this small.

"Yeah."

Ginjima was quiet for a long moment. Then: "We'll miss you on the court."

Atsumu's throat closed up. He managed a pathetic nod. "Tell the others I said—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Tell them I said good luck at Nationals."

"Tell them yourself." Kita-san appeared in the doorway, expression unreadable. "You're still a member of this team until you officially withdraw. Don't sneak out like a coward."

Atsumu's eyes burned. "Kita-san..."

"If you're going to leave, do it properly." Kita held open the gym door. "Say goodbye."

So Atsumu went inside. Walked onto the court one last time, picked up a ball, and served it with every ounce of strength he had left. It hit the opposite wall with a crack that echoed through the empty gym.

"Good serve," Suna said quietly.

Atsumu dropped the ball. It rolled away, coming to rest against the baseline. He didn't pick it up.

"Thank you," he said, bowing to the team. "For everything."

He left before anyone could see him break again.

---

The change started the next week.

Atsumu stopped attending school entirely. Instead, a woman named Mrs. Endo arrived at the Miya household every morning at seven, carrying binders and bags and a smile that never reached her cold, appraising eyes.

She taught him to knit—delicate patterns meant to adorn the family home. She taught him to cook—not the aggressive, competitive style he'd done with Osamu as kids, but proper, refined dishes that would please a husband. She taught him to apply makeup, softening his features, reshaping his face into something more acceptable.

"This angle makes you look too sharp," she said, tilting his chin with two fingers. "You want to appear approachable. Gentle. An omega should be a comfort, not a challenge."

Atsumu smiled. "Yes, Mrs. Endo."

"You're learning to smile properly. That's good." She made a note in her binder. "Tomorrow we'll work on your bow. Full omega bows require a specific degree of submission. An alpha will read the quality of your submission in the angle of your spine."

Osamu stood in the doorway, a glass of water forgotten in his hand, watching his brother's spine curve into perfect submission, watching the arrogance drain from his face, watching him become someone he didn't recognize.

"I made dinner," Atsumu said that evening, placing a tray of onigiri on the table. Precise movements. Graceful. Rehearsed. "I hope it's to your liking."

Osamu stared at the rice balls. Perfectly shaped. Seaweed wrapped symmetrically. A tiny pickled plum in the center of each.

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to." Atsumu sat across from him, hands folded in his lap, eyes downcast. "Please, eat."

They ate in silence. The onigiri was good—of course it was, Atsumu had always been a talented cook—but Osamu couldn't taste it. All he could taste was wrongness.

"I bought pudding today," Osamu said, reaching into the fridge. "The kind you like. With the caramel."

He placed the cup in front of Atsumu. For a second, something familiar lit up his brother's face—the predatory gleam of victory, the childish excitement over a treat. Then it was gone.

"Thank you, Samu. But you should have it."

Osamu froze. "What?"

"You're training hard. You need the energy." Atsumu pushed the pudding back toward him. "I'm fine."

This was not how it worked. In their entire lives, Atsumu had never willingly shared a coveted food item. He was greedy and selfish and possessive, and Osamu loved him for it because it meant he was alive, present, him.

"You're supposed to fight me for it," Osamu said, voice rough. "You're supposed to say 'too bad, Samu, finders keepers' and shove it in your mouth before I can even grab a spoon."

Atsumu smiled his new smile—soft, submissive, empty. "That wouldn't be proper omega behavior."

"I don't want proper omega behavior! I want Atsumu!"

The words echoed in the too-quiet kitchen. Atsumu's smile flickered, fractured, reformed.

"I'm still Atsumu," he said quietly. "I'm just... a better version."

Osamu pushed back from the table, knocking his chair over in his haste to leave. He didn't want to see this. Didn't want to watch his brother erase himself piece by piece.

In his room, he punched his pillow until his knuckles bled.

---

Three weeks before the wedding, Osamu couldn't sleep.

He'd been having nightmares—formless things full of shadows and distant crying—and he'd taken to walking the halls in the small hours, pacing like a caged animal.

The light was on under Atsumu's door.

Osamu paused. Two in the morning. Atsumu had been going to bed earlier lately, claiming that proper omegas kept proper schedules. But the light was on, and through the thin walls, Osamu heard a sound that made his blood run cold.

Crying.

Not the open, wailing grief of their mother's funeral. Quieter. More desperate. The sound of someone trying very hard not to be heard.

Osamu pushed the door open without knocking.

Atsumu sat on the edge of his bed, back to the door. He wore something white and delicate—lace and silk that caught the lamplight, made him look ghostly. His shoulders shook, his hands covering his face.

"Tsumu?"

Atsumu whirled around, eyes wide and red-rimmed. The lingerie was elaborate, expensive, designed to be torn off on a wedding night. Beautiful and obscene and Atsumu was drowning in it.

"Get out." His voice cracked. "Get out, get out, I didn't mean for you to see—"

"See what?" Osamu stepped closer, ignoring Atsumu's frantic gestures. "See that you're being forced into something you don't want? I've known that from the start."

"Just go, Samu. Please."

"No."

Atsumu's composure broke. The mask he'd been building for months shattered, and what spilled out was raw, ugly grief. "I hate it," he sobbed, tearing at the lace. "I hate this, I hate it, I hate—"

Osamu was across the room in an instant, grabbing Atsumu's wrists before he could rip the delicate fabric. "Stop. Stop, you're going to hurt yourself."

"I want to hurt myself," Atsumu gasped. "I want to tear it all off. I want to burn it. I want to wake up and be me again." He looked up, eyes wild. "I can't do this. Samu, I can't do this."

"Then don't."

"You don't understand. If I don't do this, Father will—"

"Father can go to hell." Osamu's grip tightened. "I don't care about the shop. I don't care about the inheritance. I care about you. Only you."

Atsumu's face crumpled. He fell forward, burying his face in Osamu's shoulder, and for the first time in months, he let himself be held.

---

The confrontation with their father was a disaster.

Osamu waited until breakfast, when Atsumu was in the kitchen preparing tea, and cornered their father in the study.

"Cancel the wedding."

Father didn't look up from his newspaper. "Excuse me?"

"Cancel the wedding. Atsumu doesn't want this. I don't care what the contract says or how much money is involved—he's my brother and he's miserable."

"Atsumu is an omega. He knows his place."

"His place is on a volleyball court, not in some CEO's bedroom!" Osamu slammed his hands on the desk. "You don't get to sell him like property."

Father finally looked up. Cold eyes, dismissive, the same look he gave servants who spoke out of turn. "You're overstepping, Osamu. This arrangement benefits the entire family. Atsumu understands that. He's accepted his duty."

"He's accepted because you gave him no choice!"

"There is always a choice. He chose to be a good son." Father turned back to his newspaper. "The wedding proceeds as scheduled. Your opinion has been noted and dismissed."

Osamu wanted to scream. Overturn the desk, tear the room apart, force his father to see what he was doing to his own child. But years of training held him back.

"The Tanaka CEO," Osamu said, voice low. "He has a reputation. People say he's rough with his omegas."

"That's none of your concern."

"He's going to hurt Tsumu."

"If Atsumu is a good, docile omega, he has nothing to fear." Father finally looked at him, and there was warning in his gaze. "This conversation is over."

Osamu turned on his heel and walked out. He passed Atsumu in the hallway, still carrying the tea tray, and their eyes met.

Atsumu smiled.

The saddest smile Osamu had ever seen.

---

The wedding day arrived wrapped in pale spring sunlight.

Atsumu had been awake since four in the morning, prepared by a team of attendants who fussed and primped and painted him into the perfect omega bride. His hair styled, his face flawless, his kimono a cascade of white silk and embroidered cranes.

He looked beautiful. He looked dead.

Osamu hadn't spoken to him all morning. Couldn't. Every time he tried, the words caught in his throat like broken glass.

The ceremony was scheduled for eleven. At ten-thirty, Osamu went looking for his brother.

The dressing room was in the back of the shrine, a small space with paper screens and tatami mats. Osamu knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again. "Tsumu? It's me."

Still nothing. But he could hear something—a ragged, desperate sound that made his heart clench.

Osamu slid the door open.

Atsumu was on the floor, surrounded by attendants trying to calm him. His kimono disheveled, his makeup streaked with tears, and he was gasping—great, heaving sobs that shook his entire body.

"Get out," Osamu told the attendants.

"But the ceremony—"

"Get out."

They fled.

Osamu dropped to his knees in front of Atsumu, reaching for him. "Tsumu. Look at me."

"I can't." Atsumu's voice was barely a whisper. "I can't do it. I thought I could, I thought if I just pretended hard enough it would be okay, but I can't. I can't marry him. I can't spend my life being someone else."

"You don't have to."

"I do." Atsumu looked up, and the pain in his eyes was unbearable. "If I don't, Father will cut you off. He'll take the shop. He'll make sure you never—"

"I don't care about the shop."

"You should. It's your dream."

"My dream is having my brother." Osamu cupped Atsumu's face in his hands, wiping away the ruined makeup with his thumbs. "My dream is watching you play volleyball and be insufferable about winning. My dream is you, Atsumu. It's always been you."

Atsumu's breath hitched. "Samu..."

"Let's run away."

The words hung in the air, wild and impossible and absolutely right.

"Where would we go?" Atsumu asked, but there was a spark in his eyes that had been dead for months.

"Anywhere. My car's out front. I packed a bag last night, just in case." Osamu grinned—sharp, defiant, the grin of a twin who would tear apart the world for his other half. "I've got enough money for a few weeks. We can figure out the rest from there."

Atsumu stared at him. Then slowly, a smile spread across his face—a real smile, crooked and bright and so painfully Atsumu that tears pricked Osamu's eyes.

"Okay," Atsumu said. "Let's go."

---

They didn't go out the front. Couldn't, with the guests arriving. Instead, Osamu led Atsumu through a back hallway, past storage rooms and maintenance closets, to a small door that opened onto a gravel path.

Atsumu was still in his wedding kimono, white silk dragging through the dirt, but he didn't care. He was laughing—laughing and crying at the same time, half-hysterical, half-relieved.

They reached Osamu's car, a battered sedan he'd bought with his part-time job money. He threw the passenger door open, and Atsumu climbed in, wedding attire and all.

"Buckle up," Osamu said, sliding into the driver's seat.

"Where to?"

"I don't know. Away."

He started the engine. From behind them, shouts—someone had discovered they were missing. Osamu floored the accelerator.

They drove for hours. Past the shrine, past Inarizaki, past everything familiar and safe. Atsumu leaned against the window, watching the world blur by, his reflection ghosting over the landscape.

"My kimono is ruined," he said eventually.

"I'll buy you a new one."

"The wedding. They'll be so angry."

"Let them."

Atsumu was quiet for a long moment. Then, so soft Osamu almost didn't hear it: "I'm scared."

Osamu reached over and took his hand. "Me too. But we're together. That's what matters."

They ended up at a small inn near the coast, run by an elderly woman who didn't ask questions about the young man in the wedding kimono. She gave them a room at the end of the hall, with a view of the ocean and two futons that Atsumu pushed together as soon as she left.

Atsumu finally, finally took off the kimono. He stood in the middle of the room in his undergarments, shivering, looking smaller than Osamu had ever seen him.

"I don't know who I am anymore," he whispered.

"Yes you do." Osamu crossed the room and wrapped his arms around him. "You're Atsumu Miya. Best setter in Japan. And you're going to be okay."

Atsumu pressed his face into Osamu's shoulder and finally, truly broke down. He cried for everything he'd lost—volleyball, the team, freedom, the months he'd spent erasing himself. For the person he'd almost become.

Osamu held him through it all.

When Atsumu finally quieted, his breathing slow and even, Osamu guided him to the futons. They lay down together, side by side, the way they had as children during thunderstorms.

"I wanted to play professional volleyball," Atsumu said, staring at the ceiling. "I wanted to be the best setter in the world. I wanted people to know my name."

"Who says you still can't?"

"I'm an omega. We don't play professional sports."

"Says who?"

"The rules. The system. Everyone."

"Screw everyone." Osamu turned to face him. "If you want to play, we'll find a way. I'll coach you myself if I have to."

Atsumu laughed—a real laugh, watery but genuine. "You're terrible at setting."

"I can learn."

"Please don't."

They lay in comfortable silence. Outside, the waves crashed against the shore, steady and eternal.

"Thank you," Atsumu said finally. "For coming for me."

"I'll always come for you. That's what twins do."

Atsumu smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. He reached out and took Osamu's hand, their fingers intertwining.

"I'm going to be okay," he said, like he was trying to convince himself.

"Better than okay," Osamu corrected. "You're going to be great."

And for the first time in months, Atsumu believed it.

They stayed at the inn for three days, eating simple meals and walking on the beach and slowly, carefully, putting Atsumu back together. Osamu called their father once, just to say they were alive and not coming back.

The explosion on the other end of the line was spectacular.

"Let him be angry," Atsumu said, when Osamu relayed the conversation. "He can't control us anymore."

He was sitting on the porch, wearing one of Osamu's sweaters, a bowl of miso soup steaming in his hands. The ocean stretched out before them, endless and open.

"What do you want to do?" Osamu asked, settling beside him.

Atsumu considered the question. Really considered it, for the first time in his life.

"I want to play volleyball again," he said. "And I want to be me. Just... me. Not a good omega, not a dutiful son. Just Atsumu."

"That sounds like a plan."

"Will you stay with me? While I figure it out?"

Osamu bumped his shoulder against Atsumu's. "I'll stay as long as you need me."

Atsumu turned, and his smile was brilliant, fierce, alive. "Then I guess we're in this together."

"Guess so."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the sun sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. The future didn't look like a cage anymore. It looked like possibility.

Atsumu leaned his head on Osamu's shoulder, and Osamu let him, and together they watched the sun set on everything they'd left behind.

Tomorrow, they would start again.