The Best Thing I Got

The restaurant was called Onigiri Miya, and it didn't make sense—warm wood, soft lighting, a high-end spot in Tokyo that somehow only served rice balls. The best rice balls you'd ever eat, but still. The customers wore designer labels and talked in hushed voices, like they were in a library instead of a place that sold fancy onigiri. Osamu Miya stood in the open kitchen, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting his forearms. His fingers moved fast, shaping a perfect triangle of rice without even looking.

Across the counter, perched on a bar stool like a cat that knew exactly how much its collar cost, sat Atsumu Miya.

"This is dry," Atsumu announced, holding up a half-eaten onigiri. His voice cut through the genteel murmur like a whistle in a library. A few heads turned. Atsumu either didn't notice or didn't care. "I'm serious, 'Samu. The rice is dry."

Osamu didn't look up. He was plating grilled salmon, movements quick and sure. "It's not dry. You ate three of 'em yesterday."

"Yesterday was yesterday. Today it's dry." Atsumu took another bite anyway, chewing like it was a personal insult. But his eyes were soft, watching his brother work with an expression he'd deny to his dying breath was fondness.

Osamu finally glanced up, a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You want me to make you a fresh one?"

"I want you to admit you messed up the recipe."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"Atsumu, I've been making these same rice balls for six years. They're not dry."

"Maybe your standards are slipping. Getting old, 'Samu. Past your prime."

Osamu set down the plate and walked around the counter. He'd gotten broader over the years—hauling rice sacks and kneading dough will do that. He reached across and stole the last bite of Atsumu's onigiri right out of his hand.

"Hey!"

Osamu chewed slow, deliberate, his grey eyes never leaving his twin's face. "Not dry," he said, swallowing. "Delicious, actually. Might be the best I've ever made."

Atsumu huffed, but there was no heat in it. He flagged down a passing server with a lazy wave. "Another one. And this time, make sure he uses his feelings when he makes it. Not just his hands."

The server—a young woman who'd learned months ago that the Miya twins operated on a plane of reality mere mortals couldn't comprehend—just nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen.

Osamu slid into the seat beside his brother instead of going back to work. He stretched his long legs out, crossing his ankles, and the warmth in his expression was unmistakable. "You're in a mood today."

"I'm always in a mood."

"Yeah, but today you're in a loud mood. What happened? Sad for aces who ain't even half as good as you anymore?"

Atsumu snorted. "Please. I could play blindfolded and one-handed and still wipe the floor with everyone in the V-League." He paused, his bravado flickering just slightly. "Suna's busy today. Some shoot for a magazine. Left me to wander Tokyo by my lonesome."

Osamu's face softened. That was it. Atsumu didn't like being alone. Never had. When they were kids, he'd follow Osamu everywhere, even to the bathroom, until their mother physically separated them. Time and adulthood had dulled the edge of that need, but it was still there—a quiet undercurrent in Atsumu's loud, flashy existence.

"So you came to bother me."

"Obviously." Atsumu grinned, sharp and bright. "Who else is gonna tell you when your cooking's gone to shit?"

"My Michelin-star rating, probably."

"You don't have a Michelin star."

"Yet."

The fresh onigiri arrived, steam curling from perfectly seasoned rice. Atsumu picked it up, sniffed it with exaggerated suspicion, and took a bite. His eyes widened, just a fraction, before he masked it with a grunt. "Acceptable."

Osamu smiled—a real one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "High praise."

The woman appeared about ten minutes later, when Atsumu was halfway through his fourth onigiri and Osamu was nursing a glass of cold sake. She was pretty in an expensive way—sharp cheekbones, perfect hair, a dress that probably cost more than Atsumu's entire monthly grocery budget. She zeroed in on Osamu like a hawk spotting a plump field mouse.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice a polished alto. "You're the owner, right? Onigiri Miya?"

Osamu looked up, his expression settling into polite neutrality. "That's me."

"I'm a huge fan. I've been coming here for months. Your food is incredible." She leaned forward, placing a manicured hand on the counter. Her rings caught the light. "I was wondering if I could get a photo with you? For my Instagram?"

Beside Osamu, Atsumu made a sound that was half-snort, half-laugh. He didn't look up from his onigiri, but his shoulders were shaking.

Osamu ignored him. "Sure. One photo."

The woman beamed and slid into the seat on Osamu's other side, elbowing Atsumu out of the way with a casual disregard that was almost impressive. Atsumu's fork clattered against his plate, and he finally looked up, one eyebrow raised.

"Oops," the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't see you there."

She hadn't looked at him once. Too busy angling her phone, pressing her shoulder against Osamu's, smiling a practiced, perfect smile. Osamu's face was carefully blank as the photo was taken, his hands staying firmly in his lap.

"Thanks so much," she said, tucking her phone away. She finally deigned to glance at Atsumu, and her expression flickered. Subtle, but Atsumu caught it. He'd spent his whole life reading people, anticipating their movements on the court, and this woman's game was painfully transparent.

Her eyes swept over him—his worn-in jacket (vintage, bought from a thrift shop in Harajuku because he liked the fit), his slightly messy hair (he'd been running his hands through it all day out of boredom), the crumbs on the counter in front of him. She smiled, thin and sharp.

"So, is this your… assistant?" she asked Osamu, her tone dripping with feigned curiosity. "Or maybe a taste tester? He seems to be enjoying the food quite a bit."

Atsumu's hand, reaching for his glass of water, paused for exactly half a second. Then he picked it up and took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving hers.

Osamu's voice was flat. "He's my brother."

"Oh!" The woman's laugh was tinkling and false. "I should have guessed. You two look nothing alike, though. He's so…" She waved a hand vaguely in Atsumu's direction. "…scruffy. And that jacket. It's very… what's the word? Worn."

"Vintage," Atsumu said, his voice deceptively light. "It's called vintage. Some people pay a lot of money for clothes that look like they've actually been lived in."

"I suppose," the woman said, and her tone made it clear she did not suppose at all. She turned back to Osamu, her body language shifting again—warmer, more inviting. "Anyway, I just had to tell you how wonderful this place is. The ambiance, the service, the food… it's obvious you put so much care into everything."

Osamu said nothing. His hand was wrapped around his sake cup, knuckles just slightly white.

The woman seemed to take his silence as interest. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "You know, I host a lot of private events. Galas, charity dinners, that sort of thing. I would love to discuss catering opportunities with you. Maybe over dinner? Somewhere less… public?"

She slid her hand across the counter, her fingers brushing against Osamu's. A practiced move—elegant and bold.

Osamu pulled his hand away and picked up his sake, taking a long drink.

The woman's smile flickered, but she recovered quickly. Her eyes darted to Atsumu, who was watching the entire exchange with the expression of someone enjoying a particularly entertaining nature documentary. Something sharp and cold entered her gaze.

"You know," she said, addressing Atsumu directly for the first time, "it must be nice, having a brother who's so successful. You get to eat at fancy restaurants, wear… interesting clothes…" She let the pause hang. "Must be hard, though. Living in someone else's shadow. Always being the other twin."

Atsumu set down his water glass. Still calm, still relaxed, posture loose. But his eyes had gone flat—the way they did before a big serve, when every ounce of his focus narrowed to a single point.

"Interesting choice of words," he said, "considering I'm the one who put 'em both in the national spotlight when we were in high school. But sure. Go on."

The woman's eyebrows rose. "National spotlight? What, were you a child actor or something?"

"Volleyball," Osamu said, his voice cutting through like a blade. "He's one of the best setters in the country. Silver medalist at the Olympics. MVP of the V-League last season."

The woman blinked. She looked at Atsumu again, reassessing, but her pride was already too wounded to back down gracefully. "Oh. Volleyball. Right. That's… nice. But it's not exactly a real job, is it? I mean, sports careers are so short. Surely you're thinking about what comes next? Unless you're planning to just… live off your brother's success forever?"

The silence was absolute. Even the ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to dim, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Atsumu's smile was serene. He picked up his glass again, swirling the water, watching the ice cubes circle. "'Samu," he said, without looking at his brother. "You gonna let her talk to me like that in your own restaurant?"

Osamu's face was stone. He set down his sake cup with a click that sounded loud in the quiet. "Ma'am," he said, his voice low, controlled, threaded with steel. "I think you should leave."

The woman's painted lips parted in surprise. "I—what? No, I didn't mean any offense, I was just—"

"You were just insultin' my brother in my place of business," Osamu said, standing up. He was tall, and he knew how to use it—squaring his shoulders in a way that made him look like a wall. "So I'm askin' you politely to leave before I make it not polite."

The woman's face flushed an ugly red. She opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue, when a new voice interjected—calm, dry, and laced with lazy amusement.

"She's not wrong about the jacket, though. It is a crime against fashion."

Both twins turned. Suna Rintarou was sitting at a table by the window, a half-empty glass of iced tea in front of him, his phone in his hand. He looked like he'd been there for a while—long legs crossed, expression one of mild entertainment.

Atsumu's face split into a grin. "Suna! I thought you had a shoot."

"Finished early. Figured I'd grab a bite before heading home." Suna's eyes shifted to the woman, and his smile was thin and knowing. "Heard the whole thing. Very educational. I didn't know people still used the 'living in someone's shadow' line unironically."

The woman's face was now a deep, mottled crimson. "This is none of your business."

"Sure it is," Suna said, standing up. He moved with the fluid grace of a model—which he was, part-time, when he wasn't playing volleyball or taking stunning photographs—and crossed to their counter. He didn't look at the woman. He addressed Osamu directly. "You want me to handle this? You look like you're about to throw her out physically, and the last thing you need is an assault charge on your Yelp page."

Osamu's jaw was tight. He took a breath, then another, visibly forcing his shoulders to relax. "Ain't worth it."

"Exactly." Suna turned to the woman, and his demeanor shifted. The lazy amusement was still there, but edged with something sharper—something that made the woman take a step back.

"Here's the thing," Suna said, his voice conversational, pleasant, utterly devoid of heat. "I don't know who you are, and I don't really care. But you should know something about these two." He gestured at the twins with his chin. "Atsumu could walk out of here right now, never come back, and Osamu would still spend the rest of his life making sure his brother had everything he ever wanted. New car? Bought it. Expensive vacation? Booked it. Fancy dinner every night for a year? Already planning the menu."

The woman was frozen, her eyes wide.

"You want a chance with Osamu?" Suna continued, his voice dropping just slightly. "Then you need to understand one very simple rule: You don't get to disrespect Atsumu. Ever. Not once. Not even a little bit. Because Osamu would burn this entire restaurant to the ground if it meant keeping his brother happy. And you, with your charity galas and your Instagram photos? You're not even a spark compared to that fire."

He smiled, all teeth. "So maybe take your business elsewhere. Yeah?"

The woman stood there for a long, horrible moment, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. She looked at Osamu, who was staring at her with cold, unyielding finality. She looked at Atsumu, who was watching her with a smug, satisfied curl to his lips.

She didn't look at Suna. She couldn't.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the polished floor. The door swung shut behind her, and the restaurant's ambient noise slowly returned, like a radio being turned back up.

Atsumu let out a long, low whistle. "Damn, Suna. That was cold."

Suna shrugged, picking up his iced tea and taking a sip. "Someone had to say it. You two were just circling each other like angry cats."

"I had it handled," Osamu muttered, but some of the tension had bled out of his frame, replaced by a tired sort of resignation. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the carefully styled strands. "Didn't need you to fight my battles for me."

"Wasn't fighting your battle. Was fighting hers." Suna's eyes glittered with humor. "Saved her a lot of future embarrassment when she inevitably tried to badmouth Atsumu again and you went full yakuza boss on her."

"I would not go yakuza boss."

"You literally just stood up and stared at her like you were about to bury her body in the basement."

"I don't have a basement."

"You'd dig one."

Atsumu burst out laughing, the sound bright and genuine, filling the space with warmth. He leaned over and bumped his shoulder against Osamu's. "Told ya, 'Samu. You're stuck with me. Everyone knows it."

Osamu's mouth twitched. He looked at his brother—his loud, obnoxious, impossibly precious brother—and the last of his anger melted away. "Yeah," he said, quiet and soft. "I know."

Suna made a gagging noise. "Okay, that's my cue. I'm gonna go eat my lunch before I lose my appetite from all this sentimentality." He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "Atsumu. Don't let him buy you anything too expensive."

"No promises," Atsumu said cheerfully.

Suna waved a lazy hand and walked out, leaving the twins alone at the counter.

Atsumu turned to Osamu, his grin wide and mischievous. "So. That was fun."

Osamu snorted. "You're a menace."

"A menace who just got you to defend my honor in front of a beautiful woman. You're welcome, by the way. I did you a favor. She was clearly high-maintenance."

"You're the most high-maintenance person I know."

"And yet you love me."

Osamu didn't answer. He just shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips, and stood up. "Come on. We're leaving."

"What? Why? I haven't finished my onigiri."

"I'll pack it to go. We're goin' somewhere."

Atsumu's eyes lit up. "Where?"

"You'll see."

---

Three hours later, Atsumu was floating face-down in a heated pool, his muscles reduced to jelly by the best massage therapist in Tokyo. The spa Osamu had taken him to was the kind of place that didn't have prices on the menu—if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it. The air smelled of yuzu and cedar, and soft ambient music played from hidden speakers.

Osamu was in the pool next to him, his head tipped back against the edge, his eyes closed. He looked peaceful, the lines of stress smoothed from his face.

Atsumu lifted his head, water streaming from his hair. "This is nice."

"Mm."

"Really nice."

"Mm."

"You're not gonna say anything else?"

"I'm trying to relax, Atsumu."

"But I'm having feelings. I need to share them."

Osamu cracked one eye open. "You want to share your feelings in the middle of a five-star spa?"

"Yes. My first feeling is that this is the best thing you've ever done for me. My second feeling is that I'm going to make you pay for it by being extra annoying for the rest of the week."

Osamu closed his eye again. "Worth it."

Atsumu grinned and let himself sink back into the water, the warmth seeping into his bones. He felt light, loose-limbed and happy, the earlier confrontation already fading into a funny story they'd tell later.

After the spa, they showered and changed into fresh clothes that the staff had somehow procured in their exact sizes. Osamu had planned this, Atsumu realized. The whole day. He'd had it all organized, from the fresh onigiri to the spa appointment to whatever came next.

"You're spoiling me," Atsumu said, as they walked out into the Tokyo evening. The lights were coming on, painting the streets in neon and gold.

"Yeah."

"You know I'm gonna take advantage of it, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna ask for something really expensive."

Osamu glanced at him, a hint of amusement in his grey eyes. "Figured you would."

They ended up in Ginza, in a designer boutique that Atsumu had walked past a hundred times but never entered. The prices in the window were enough to make his wallet whimper. But Osamu pushed the door open without hesitation, and Atsumu followed, because when had he ever turned down a challenge?

He wandered through the store like a kid in a candy shop, touching fabrics, picking up bags, holding them up to the light. An attendant hovered nearby, her professional smile unwavering, even as Atsumu made faces at the price tags.

"This one," he said finally, holding up a leather bag the color of caramel. It was beautiful, simple and elegant, with gold hardware that caught the light.

Osamu looked at it. Looked at Atsumu. "You sure?"

"I'm sure it's ridiculously overpriced and I'll use it maybe twice before stuffing it in my closet and forgetting about it."

"Then why do you want it?"

Atsumu's grin was sharp and fond. "'Cause you wanna buy it for me."

Osamu stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed—a real laugh, low and warm—and pulled out his wallet. "You're impossible."

"And yet."

The attendant wrapped the bag in tissue paper and placed it in a dust bag, then a box, then a shopping bag with the store's logo embossed in silver. Osamu handed over his credit card without looking at the total. Atsumu watched, a soft warmth spreading through his chest.

As they walked out of the store, Atsumu swinging the bag by its handles, the evening air cool against his skin, he leaned into Osamu's side. Just a little. Just enough.

"You didn't have to do all this, y'know."

"I know."

"The spa. The bag. The onigiri."

"I know."

"I was just bored. You didn't have to make a whole day of it."

Osamu was quiet for a moment. Then he said, his voice low and rough, "She made you feel small. That woman. I saw it."

Atsumu's step faltered. He recovered quickly, but Osamu noticed. Of course he noticed.

"I don't want you to feel small," Osamu continued, his eyes fixed on the street ahead. "Not ever. Not for a second. You're… you're the best thing I got, Tsumu. The only person who's been there from the start. The only one who gets it."

Atsumu's throat tightened. He looked down at the bag in his hand, the expensive leather gleaming under the streetlights. "You're gonna make me cry, and I just had a facial. That's a waste of money."

Osamu snorted. "You're impossible."

"You said that already."

"'Cause it's true."

They walked in silence for a while, the sounds of the city washing over them. Atsumu shifted the bag to his other hand and slipped his free arm through Osamu's, linking them together.

"Hey, 'Samu."

"What?"

"You're the best thing I got, too."

Osamu didn't say anything. But his arm tightened, pulling Atsumu closer, and his steps slowed to match his brother's rhythm.

The night was warm, the city was bright, and Atsumu's new bag swung gently against his hip as they walked home, side by side, the way they'd always been.