The Rain That Brought Him Home

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. A steady gray sheet over Hyogo, soaking the wooden porch of the Miya household, turning the garden into a muddy mess Osamu didn't bother fixing. He sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of half-eaten rice, staring at the calendar. Two months. Two months since his brother’s last text: “Don’t worry ‘Samu. I’ll be home soon.”

Soon came and went.

He pushed the rice away. His phone buzzed — Suna asking if he wanted to come over, watch a movie. Osamu typed back “yeah,” grabbed his jacket, stepped out into the damp evening. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead as he walked the five minutes to Suna’s place.

Suna opened the door without a word, just a nod, let him inside. Small apartment, tidy, impersonal. Laptop already set up on the coffee table, bag of chips open beside it.

“You look like shit,” Suna said, settling onto the couch.

“Thanks.” Osamu dropped onto the cushion next to him. “Nice to see you too.”

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

Not a question. Osamu ran a hand over his face. “Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. In one of those cages they post on the news. Or worse.”

Suna was quiet for a beat, then reached for the laptop. “We’re watching The Seventh Samurai. You always fall asleep during the good part anyway.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Every time.”

They watched in silence. Opening credits rolled in black and white, the score low and mournful. Osamu’s mind wandered. Atsumu’s last letter, the one that arrived a week after his text. Shaky handwriting, cramped words — like he’d been afraid to write them down. “The weather is hot here. I miss the winter. I miss you. Don’t come looking for me.”

Don’t come looking.

As if Osamu had a choice.

“He’s dead,” Osamu said flatly. “That’s the only explanation.”

Suna didn’t look away from the screen. “You don’t know that.”

“I know my brother. If he could come home, he would’ve.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “Something’s wrong. Has been wrong for months.”

The film played on, but Osamu wasn’t watching. He was thinking about Atsumu’s last video call — eyes darting to the side every few seconds, monotone voice, flinch when a door slammed in the background. Osamu asked if he was okay. Atsumu laughed — brittle, hollow — and said, “I’m fine, ‘Samu. Just tired.”

Tired. That was the word. Not scared. Not trapped. Tired.

The doorbell rang.

Suna paused the movie, glanced at the clock. Nearly nine. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

Osamu stood. “I’ll get it.”

He walked to the door, expecting a delivery or a neighbor. Pulled it open without thinking.

And the world stopped.

A woman stood in the doorway, face hidden behind a black veil. Full-length abaya pooling at her feet, soaked through and clinging. In her arms, a bundle wrapped in a ratty blanket — an infant, Osamu realized, because he could see a tiny fist peeking out. Beneath the layers, her belly curved with the swell of pregnancy.

Osamu’s mouth opened. No sound came.

The woman’s hand trembled as she reached up and slowly, carefully, pulled back the veil.

Atsumu.

His face thinner, paler, lined with exhaustion. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His hair — that ridiculous bleached-blond — was gone, replaced by dark stubble that grew unevenly on his scalp. And his eyes. Those bright, defiant honey-brown eyes were dull, fixed on the floor, never meeting Osamu’s gaze.

“‘Samu.” A whisper, cracked and raw. “I… I’m sorry.”

Osamu stood frozen. Rain hammered against the awning, splashing onto Atsumu’s shoulders. The infant made a soft whimper.

“Atsumu?” His own voice sounded foreign, thin and reedy. “Is that… really you?”

Atsumu nodded once, tiny and jerky. “Can I… come in? I don’t have anywhere else.”

Osamu stepped back, let the door swing open. Atsumu shuffled inside, bare feet leaving wet prints on the tatami. Head down, shoulders hunched, infant clutched against his chest. When Suna appeared in the hallway, Atsumu flinched so hard he nearly dropped the baby.

“It’s just Suna,” Osamu said quickly. “Just Rintarou. You remember him.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. “Rin… Yes. I remember.”

Suna’s face was unreadable, but his voice was soft. “Hey, Atsumu. Long time no see.”

Atsumu didn’t answer. He stood in the middle of the living room, dripping water onto the floor, swaying. Osamu wanted to hug him, shake him, demand answers — but he didn’t dare move. Every instinct screamed that Atsumu was a scared animal, one wrong step and he’d bolt.

“Sit down,” Osamu said, too loud.

Atsumu flinched again.

Shit.

“Sorry,” Osamu muttered. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. Just… sit. Please.”

Atsumu lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, still clutching the baby. The infant had fallen asleep, face peaceful against his chest. Osamu crouched in front of his brother, searching for any sign of the loud, brash omega who’d left for Afghanistan two years ago.

“What happened?” Osamu asked. “Tell me.”

Atsumu’s lips parted, but no words came. His eyes darted around the room — window, door, lamp. Assessing. Calculating. Like a prisoner searching for an escape route.

“I escaped,” he finally whispered. “I waited until he left for prayer. Took the baby and ran. Walked for two days. Truck driver gave me a ride to the airport. Spent all the money I had hidden on a ticket.”

“Who?” Osamu’s hands were shaking. “Who did this to you?”

Atsumu didn’t answer. He pulled the veil back over his face, hiding.

Suna brought a towel, draped it over Atsumu’s shoulders. Atsumu stiffened but didn’t pull away. “You’re safe now,” Suna said quietly. “You’re home.”

“Home,” Atsumu repeated, bitter. “I don’t know if I still have a home.”

Osamu stood, fists clenched, heart pounding. “Of course you do. This is your home. You’re never leaving again. I won’t let anyone—”

Atsumu flinched so hard he nearly dropped the baby again. The infant woke with a cry, and Atsumu shushed it, rocking back and forth, voice a low, frantic hum.

“Stop,” Atsumu whispered. “Please stop. Don’t yell.”

Osamu’s anger deflated, replaced by cold, hollow dread. He sank to his knees. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t yell. Promise.”

Atsumu didn’t look at him. Just kept rocking the baby, humming a tune Osamu didn’t recognize.

---

The next few days were a blur of silence and fear. Osamu called the school, explained his brother was back and needed to re-enroll. Didn’t give details. Administration didn’t ask. Atsumu’s old teammates heard and bombarded Osamu with texts, but Atsumu refused to see anyone. He stayed in Osamu’s room, door locked, curtains drawn.

When Osamu brought food, Atsumu ate mechanically, barely tasting it. When he asked questions, Atsumu gave monosyllabic answers. The only time he showed emotion was when the baby — a girl, he learned, named Noor — cried. Then Atsumu’s face would soften, and he’d hold her close, whispering in Dari, a language Osamu didn’t understand.

“She’s all I have,” Atsumu said one night, voice flat. “He can’t have her.”

“Who can’t?” Osamu asked.

Atsumu’s eyes went distant. “My husband.”

Osamu wanted to scream. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to find this man and kill him with his bare hands. But he kept his voice calm, steady. “What was his name?”

Atsumu shook his head. “Don’t. Please. Don’t make me say it.”

So Osamu didn’t ask again.

---

A week later, Atsumu agreed to go back to school. He wore the same black abaya and veil, even though it was stiflingly hot. The principal raised an eyebrow but said nothing — school had a policy of non-discrimination, and Atsumu’s situation was clearly extraordinary.

The moment he stepped onto campus, the old guard spotted him. Kita was the first to approach, expression unreadable. “Atsumu. Welcome back.”

Atsumu bowed his head. “Thank you, Kita-san.”

Kita’s eyes flickered to the bruises peeking out from under Atsumu’s sleeve. He said nothing, but his jaw tightened. “Let us know if you need anything.”

Arisu and Jin came next, their enthusiastic greetings dying in their throats when they saw Atsumu’s posture — hands clasped in front of him, eyes on the floor. They exchanged a glance, then spoke in softer tones.

“We missed you, Atsumu,” Arisu said.

Atsumu’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “I missed you too.”

First time he’d sounded like himself. Osamu’s heart ached.

---

The volleyball team wanted him to join practice. Thought it would help him feel normal again. Atsumu refused.

“I can’t play,” he said, voice small. “It’s not allowed.”

“Who says?” Osamu demanded.

Atsumu’s hand went to his stomach — pregnancy well into the second trimester. “He says. Omegas shouldn’t do such things. It’s immodest.”

“He’s not here,” Osamu said through gritted teeth. “You can do whatever you want.”

Atsumu looked at him then — a flash of something, anger? defiance? — but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar fear. “I… I can’t.”

Suna stepped in. “That’s fine. You don’t have to play. But maybe sit and watch? Just to see your old teammates?”

Atsumu hesitated, then nodded.

They set up a chair by the gym wall, away from the noise. Atsumu sat with Noor in his lap, veil still in place. The team started warm-ups. The sound of balls hitting the floor sent Atsumu into a visible tremor. Every slam of a spike, every shout, made him flinch.

Osamu caught Suna’s eye. This was a mistake.

But they couldn’t take it back. Practice continued, and Atsumu stayed, knuckles white where he gripped the chair.

---

Three weeks into his return, Atsumu finally started talking.

It was late. Noor was asleep in the crib Osamu had bought. House quiet. Atsumu sat at the kitchen table, staring at a cup of tea he hadn’t touched.

“I went to volunteer,” he said, barely above a whisper. “After I graduated. Wanted to help. Thought I could make a difference.”

Osamu sat across from him, not daring to speak.

“He was a translator for the NGO. Kind, at first. Said he loved me. Said omegas in Afghanistan were treated badly, but he would protect me.” Atsumu’s laugh was hollow. “I believed him.”

“What happened?” Osamu asked.

“We got married. Quickly. He said it was safer. Then he took my passport. Told me I didn’t need it anymore. Told me I didn’t need to leave the house.” His voice cracked. “I was stupid. So stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Osamu said fiercely. “You were trusting.”

Atsumu shook his head. “He beat me. First time because I smiled at a shopkeeper. He said I was being provocative. So he hit me. Then made me pray for forgiveness.”

Osamu’s hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the table.

“After that, it got worse.” Atsumu’s voice flat, reciting facts like they belonged to someone else. “He locked me in a room. Only let me out to cook and clean. Said I was worthless. Said no one would want me but him.”

Tears streaming down Osamu’s face. He didn’t bother wiping them away.

“When I got pregnant the first time, he was happy. Said it was proof I was a good omega. But the baby died. I lost it at six months. He blamed me. Said I wasn’t taking care of myself. Said I was punishing him.” Atsumu’s hand drifted to his belly. “Then Noor came. She survived. He said I was finally useful.”

“You don’t have to tell me anymore,” Osamu whispered.

Atsumu looked up, and for the first time, his eyes met Osamu’s. Raw, broken, but there was a tiny ember in them. “Yes I do. Because if I don’t say it, it keeps happening. Over and over in my head.”

Osamu reached across the table, slow and deliberate, and placed his hand over Atsumu’s. Atsumu didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” Atsumu whispered. “For not yelling.”

---

The climax came during the team’s end-of-season celebration.

They’d won regional qualifiers, everyone in high spirits. The gym filled with laughter, shouting, clatter of equipment. Atsumu had agreed to come, but he stayed in his usual corner, Noor in his arms, veil firmly in place.

Ginjima was telling a story, gesturing wildly. He knocked over a stack of metal trays, sending them crashing to the floor with a deafening clang.

The sound hit Atsumu like a physical blow.

He screamed.

Not a normal scream — primal, animalistic, pure terror. He dropped to his knees, covering his head with his arms, curling around Noor. The baby started crying. Atsumu was rocking back and forth, muttering in Dari, high and frantic.

“Nakun, nakun, man baqá namitawánam!” Begging. Pleading. “Please, please, don’t hit me! I’ll be good!”

The team fell silent. Everyone stared.

Osamu was at his brother’s side in an instant, but Atsumu recoiled when he reached out, eyes wild, unfocused. “No! Don’t touch me! Lutfan! Please!”

Suna knelt beside them, moving slow, voice a low, soothing murmur. “Atsumu. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re in Japan. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Atsumu’s breathing ragged, whole body trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be—”

“Stop.” Osamu’s voice cracked. “Please stop apologizing. You did nothing wrong.”

Suna carefully took Noor from Atsumu’s arms, handed her to a stunned Arisu. Then he sat down in front of Atsumu, knees almost touching his. “Can you look at me?”

Atsumu’s eyes lifted, glassy and terrified.

“You’re in Inarizaki. Just the team. No one here will hurt you.” Suna’s voice impossibly gentle. “Take a breath with me. In. Out.”

Atsumu copied him, breaths shaky but slowing.

“Good,” Suna said. “Again.”

They breathed together for a long minute. The team stood frozen, watching. Some of them crying. Ginjima looked sick, hands over his mouth.

When Atsumu had calmed enough to speak, he looked at Osamu. “I’m sorry. I ruined the party.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Osamu said. “I’m taking you home.”

He helped Atsumu to his feet. Atsumu’s legs weak, leaning heavily on his brother. As they passed the team, Kita stepped forward.

“Atsumu,” he said, voice steady. “You’re always welcome here. Whatever you need.”

Atsumu’s lips trembled. He didn’t speak, but gave a small nod.

---

That night, after Noor was asleep, Atsumu sat on the back porch, watching the stars. Osamu joined him, handed him a cup of tea.

“I saw a counselor today,” Atsumu said. “School arranged it.”

“That’s good,” Osamu said.

“She said I have PTSD. And something called learned helplessness.” Atsumu’s voice tired, but there was a thread of strength in it. “She said I can get better. But it’ll take time.”

“We have time,” Osamu said. “All the time in the world.”

Atsumu was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached up and pulled off the veil.

His face pale, scarred in places Osamu hadn’t seen before. But his eyes — those honey-brown eyes — held a flicker of the old fire.

“I want to play again,” Atsumu said. “Someday. Not now. But someday.”

Osamu’s heart swelled. “Then we’ll practice. In the backyard. Just you and me. No one else.”

Atsumu’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “Okay.”

They sat in silence as the last light faded from the sky. Atsumu leaned his head on Osamu’s shoulder, and for the first time in two years, he felt something other than fear.

Small. Fragile.

But hope.

And that was enough to start.