The One Who Stayed

Inarizaki’s gym smelled like sweat and rubber. Sneakers squeaked, volleyballs thumped—practice was rolling like always. First-years running drills, regulars scrimmaging. But something was off. Everyone felt it. No one said it.

Atsumu Miya shanked a receive. The ball caught his forearms wrong, whiffed past the setter spot, and smacked into the bleachers. Hollow sound.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Flat. Didn’t even chase it.

Across the net, Sunarin raised an eyebrow. Third easy ball Atsumu had flubbed in ten minutes. Atsumu never missed those. He lived for them—the crisp pass that set up his quick attack. But lately? Ghost. Snapping at everyone, crying in the locker room for no reason, looking like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

Osamu watched from the other side, jaw tight. He’d noticed everything. The way Atsumu winced on hard digs. The way he’d bolt for the bathroom between drills. The way he’d dug out his oversized hoodies even though spring had hit—cherry blossoms, warm breezes, the works. Every time Osamu tried to ask, Atsumu bit his head off.

“What’re you starin’ at, Samu? Focus on yer own game.” Red-rimmed eyes. Defensive.

So Osamu stopped asking. He regretted it now.

Practice ended twenty minutes early. Captain Kita Shinsuke noticed the energy was shot. He didn’t say anything about Atsumu, but his gaze lingered a beat too long. Kita had kept his distance for months—ever since the breakup. No one knew details, just that Atsumu had walked out of Kita’s apartment one night looking hollow, and they’d barely spoken since.

Atsumu was first out. Didn’t shower. Grabbed his bag and fled.

---

The Miya house was quiet when he stumbled in. Parents working late. Old house, creaky floors, kitchen smelling like miso and age. He made it to the bathroom just in time to empty his stomach into the toilet.

Morning sickness. Except it wasn’t morning anymore. Evening, afternoon, midnight. All the time.

He sat back on his heels, trembling, staring at the pale tile. His hand drifted to his stomach—still flat under the hoodie. For now. He was fourteen weeks along. The fluttering had started a few days ago. Quick, insistent movements that made him gasp and want to sob at the same time.

He was pregnant.

An omega, pregnant with his alpha ex-boyfriend’s child. Correction: children. The doctor had looked surprised when the ultrasound revealed two heartbeats.

He’d broken up with Kita three months ago. Not because he didn’t love him. He loved him so much it felt like drowning. But Kita was perfect. Captain, pride of Inarizaki, bound for a top university. Atsumu was a mess. Loud, arrogant, reckless. Couldn’t drag Kita down.

So he’d ended it. Cold, cruel. Told Kita they were too different, he needed to focus on volleyball, no future. Kita had looked at him with those calm eyes and said, “If that’s what you truly want, Atsumu.”

It wasn’t. But Atsumu nodded. Kita walked away.

Then the morning sickness started. Then the missed heat. Then the pregnancy test with two pink lines.

He’d stared at that test for an hour, sitting on the bathroom floor, feeling the world tilt. High school student. Starting setter for one of the best teams in the nation. Supposed to be focused on nationals, improving his serve, becoming the best in Japan.

Instead, pregnant with twins.

Logical solution: omegas in his situation often terminated. Legal, discreet. Parents never had to know. But he’d sat in that clinic, filling out forms, and his hand refused to write his name. He kept seeing the ultrasound image—two tiny blobs, safe inside him.

He couldn’t do it.

So he decided to carry them. Hide the pregnancy until he couldn’t, then give the babies up for adoption. Couples desperate for children. Good, stable couples who could provide what Atsumu never could.

He just had to survive until then.

---

Next day at practice, Atsumu tried to serve. Jump lower than usual, toss off. The ball hit the net and dropped. He stared at it, fists clenched.

“Atsumu-san, you okay?” Akagi asked, frowning.

“I’m fine.” Too fast.

Osamu caught his gaze from across the gym. Dark eyes, searching. Atsumu looked away.

“That’s enough serves for today, Atsumu.” Kita’s voice cut through. Atsumu flinched. He’d been avoiding Kita for weeks, but the captain had a way of being everywhere. “Go work on sets with the first-years. Light work.”

Not a suggestion. An order, gentle but firm. Atsumu nodded, didn’t trust his voice.

He spent the rest of practice setting easy balls to the first-years, keeping his movements careful. At one point, a sharp kick from inside. His hand flew to his stomach, then froze. Hoping no one noticed.

Gin noticed. Suna noticed. Osamu definitely noticed.

---

Late that night, Atsumu sat in the corner of the living room, knees pulled to his chest, staring at his phone. He’d looked up adoption agencies again. Bookmarked three. Drafted an email but couldn’t send it.

He was so tired. Physically, emotionally, spiritually—whatever. He wanted his mom. He wanted Kita. He wanted someone to hold him and say it’d be okay.

But he’d burned those bridges.

The door creaked open. Osamu stood there, usual grumpy expression, but his eyes were soft. He held a bowl of ochazuke.

“You didn’t eat dinner.” Statement of fact.

“Not hungry.”

“Liar. You’ve been pukin’ for weeks. You gotta eat somethin’.”

Atsumu’s eyes burned. He blinked hard. “Samu, please. Just leave me alone.”

Osamu set the bowl on the coffee table anyway. Sat on the other end of the couch, not looking at him. Stared at the blank TV.

“We used to tell each other everythin’,” Osamu said quietly. “Remember? When we were kids, you told me when you broke Mom’s favorite vase. When you had yer first crush. When you were scared of the dark.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You’re terrified.” Osamu turned to look at him. “I can smell it, Tsumu. Somethin’s wrong. I’ve been waitin’ for you to tell me, but you won’t. So I’m askin’ now. What’s goin’ on?”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. Then the tears came. He pressed his hand over his mouth, trying to stop the sob.

Osamu moved closer, sat on the floor in front of him. “Tsumu.”

“I can’t.” Choked out. “I can’t tell you. You’ll hate me. Everyone will hate me.”

“I could never hate you. You’re my twin.” His voice rough. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Just tell me.”

Atsumu’s hand moved from his mouth to his stomach. Sixteen weeks now. The hoodie couldn’t hide everything anymore. Visible bump, round and firm.

“I’m carryin’ life,” Atsumu whispered.

Osamu blinked. “What?”

Atsumu took a shaky breath. Met his twin’s eyes. “I’m pregnant, Samu.”

Silence. Osamu’s face went through confusion, shock, denial. Then a cold, hard anger Atsumu had never seen directed at him.

“Who?” Low, dangerous. “Who did this to you?”

“No one did anythin’ to me. I was in a relationship. It wasn’t planned, but I wasn’t forced.”

“Who, Atsumu?”

Atsumu looked down at his hands. “Kita.”

Osamu stood up so fast the coffee table rattled. Hands shaking. “Kita? The captain? The guy who’s been pretendin’ you don’t exist for months?”

“I broke up with him. He didn’t know. He still doesn’t know.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Samu, no!” Atsumu grabbed his wrist. “Please. Please don’t. It’s my fault. I pushed him away. He didn’t do anythin’ wrong.”

Osamu’s chest heaved. He looked at his brother—pale, thin, exhausted, cradling a belly that held two lives. His anger slowly deflated.

“Tsumu…” He sank back to his knees. “What are you gonna do?”

Atsumu’s voice cracked. “I’m gonna give them up. After they’re born. I found a couple. They’re good people. They can’t have kids.”

“You’re gonna give away your own babies?”

“I can’t keep them, Samu! I’m seventeen. Still in school. My whole life is volleyball. I can’t be a parent.”

“So you were gonna go through this alone? Carry twins, give birth, and just hand ’em over without tellin’ anyone?”

Atsumu broke. The sobs came loud and ugly, his whole body shaking. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Osamu wrapped his arms around him, pulled him close. Atsumu buried his face in his twin’s shoulder, crying until he had nothing left. Osamu held him, rocking gently. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

---

The secret didn’t last much longer.

Atsumu was twenty weeks when the bump became undeniable. He tried to hide it with layers, but during an intense practice, his hoodie rode up when he dove. The team saw. Practice stopped.

“Atsumu,” Gin said, careful. “Is that…?”

Suna’s phone was already out, but he wasn’t texting. Just staring. Akagi’s jaw dropped. The first-years exchanged confused looks.

Atsumu scrambled to pull his hoodie down. Face white. “It’s nothin’. I’ve just been eatin’ too much.”

“That’s not eatin’,” Osamu said, stepping forward. He’d been dreading this, but knew Atsumu couldn’t hide forever. “Tsumu, they deserve to know.”

“No. No, no, no.”

But it was too late. The door slid open, Kita walked in. He stopped when he felt the tension. His eyes scanned the team, landed on Atsumu, hyperventilating, hands pressed protectively over his stomach.

Kita’s gaze sharpened. He crossed the gym in three long strides, stopped in front of Atsumu. Didn’t touch him. Just looked.

“Atsumu,” he said, voice painfully gentle. “May I see?”

Atsumu shook his head, tears streaming. But his hands fell away. Kita knelt, very carefully lifted the hem of the hoodie. The bump was round and prominent.

Kita’s breath caught. His hand hovered, trembling. “Is it…?”

“Yours.” Atsumu whispered. “They’re yours.”

The gym was silent. Even the ventilation seemed to hold its breath.

Kita looked up at him, and for the first time in all the years Atsumu had known him, he saw Kita’s eyes fill with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin your life.” Atsumu sobbed. “You have a future. Plans. I wasn’t gonna be the thing that held you back.”

Kita stood slowly. Cupped Atsumu’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears. “You are not a burden, Atsumu. You never were. I loved you then. I love you now. And I will love these children, whatever you decide.”

“I’m giving them away.” The words tumbled out. “I already found a couple. They’re ready. Good people. I can’t keep them.”

Kita’s expression didn’t change. He nodded. “If that’s what you want, I’ll support you.”

“But they’re yours too,” Atsumu said, broken. “You don’t get a say?”

“I get a say in supporting you.” Firm. “That’s what matters. You’ve been carrying this alone too long. You don’t have to anymore.”

Suna cleared his throat. “Does this mean we’re having a team baby shower?”

A few people laughed. Nervous, strained laughter, but it broke the tension. Akagi sniffled. Gin clapped Atsumu on the shoulder. The first-years gathered around, offering awkward pats and murmured reassurances.

Osamu stood at the edge, arms crossed, watching his twin be held up by their team. He caught Kita’s eye. The alpha looked guilty, heartbroken, but determined.

Osamu nodded once. Kita nodded back. For now, that was enough.

---

The months that followed were the hardest of Atsumu’s life.

His body changed in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Center of gravity shifted—jump serve became a disaster. Back ached constantly. The twins were active, kicking and rolling at all hours, leaving him exhausted and tearful.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

The team adjusted practices so he could participate safely. Suna timed his spikes to accommodate slower sets. Gin made sure he stayed hydrated. Akagi brought snacks. The first-years ran drills around him, careful not to bump his belly.

Kita was constant. Drove him to appointments, held his hand during ultrasounds, stayed up with him on nights when anxiety was too much. They didn’t get back together—not officially. But a quiet understanding, a connection that didn’t need labels.

Osamu was his rock. Made sure he ate, forced him to rest, threatened anyone who even looked at his brother wrong. Had a crib set up in his room—a secret project he didn’t talk about. Atsumu pretended not to notice.

At thirty-nine weeks, Atsumu couldn’t hide it anymore. Belly enormous, waddle unmistakable. Took a leave of absence from school, spent his days in the Miya living room, surrounded by blankets and pillows, watching volleyball on TV.

“I look like a whale,” he complained, shifting to find a comfortable position.

“A very pretty whale,” Osamu said dryly, handing him a bowl of fruit.

“Samu, babies are comin’.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared.”

Osamu sat beside him, careful of the belly. “Me too. But we’re gonna get through it. All of us.”

---

The contractions started on a Tuesday.

Atsumu had been dozing when the first one hit—a sharp cramp that made him gasp. He tried to time them himself, but by the third one, he was crying and calling for Osamu.

Osamu panicked. Called Kita, then their mom, then an ambulance. The next few hours were a blur of pain and noise and bright hospital lights.

Atsumu had twins—a boy and a girl—after twelve hours of labor. Tiny, red-faced, screaming. Perfect.

The hospital room was quiet afterward. Atsumu lay in the bed, exhausted and hollowed out, but also filled with something he couldn’t name. The nurse placed the babies in his arms, one in each.

So small. Their fingers curled around his thumb. Their eyes hazy, unfocused, but he could see Kita in the shape of their noses, his own stubbornness in the set of their jaws.

“They’re beautiful,” Kita said softly, sitting beside him. Hand on Atsumu’s arm, warm and steady.

The adoptive parents were waiting in the hall. Nice couple in their thirties, both professionals, both overjoyed. They had a nursery ready, a dog named Mochi, a future full of love.

Atsumu held his babies for an hour. Memorized the weight, the smell, the flutter of their breaths. Sang them the lullaby his mother used to sing, voice cracking with tears.

Then he kissed their foreheads—one, two—and handed them over.

Osamu was waiting outside the door. Didn’t say anything. Just pulled Atsumu into a hug and held him while he sobbed.

---

It took time to heal.

Atsumu returned to school six weeks later, still soft around the edges, still carrying a sadness in his eyes. But also something else: a quiet strength.

The team welcomed him back with open arms. Kita was there, patient as ever, never pushing, always present.

Osamu was there. Every practice, every game, every rough night. Never let Atsumu forget he was loved.

The summer tournament came and went. Inarizaki placed second in the prefecture, losing to Shiratorizawa in a hard-fought match. Atsumu served with everything he had. Set with precision. Played like he had something to prove.

Because he did. Proving it to himself.

At the end-of-year ceremony, the team gathered for one last photo. Atsumu stood between Osamu and Kita, arms slung around them, grinning.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, when the others had wandered off.

Kita squeezed his shoulder. “For what?”

“For not lettin’ me disappear.”

Osamu bumped his shoulder. “Told you. We’re family. That doesn’t change, no matter what.”

Atsumu looked up at the sky, at the cherry blossoms drifting down, at the future stretching out before him—uncertain, scary, but no longer lonely.

He was going to be okay.

He had his brother.

He had his team.

He had himself.

And that was enough.