Always Here

The Miya house was quiet that afternoon. The kind of quiet that only happens when nobody's supposed to be home. Osamu knew it well—grew up in it, really. Those long stretches between school and evening practice when mom was still at work and Atsumu was off doing whatever Atsumu did.

Today he was early. Practice ended ahead of schedule because of some gym mix-up, and Kita just nodded at them and said to rest. Osamu took the bus back, gym bag slung over one shoulder, already thinking about leftover yakisoba. He punched in the door code, stepped inside, and knew something was wrong immediately.

First came the smell.

Thick. Cloying. Omega heat-sweetness layered over something sharper, more territorial. Alpha. A strange alpha. Pine and something metallic, coating the hallway like a stain. Osamu froze, hand still on the door handle. His alpha instincts—the ones he'd been ignoring for months—snapped to attention. Adrenaline punched through his chest.

He dropped his bag. Didn't bother with his shoes. Sounds from upstairs, from Atsumu's room. Muffled. Rhythmic. A low, breathy moan that made his stomach twist in a way he couldn't name.

He took the stairs two at a time.

Atsumu's door was cracked open. Osamu pushed it without thinking, without preparing himself.

The bed was a disaster. Twisted sheets. Atsumu on his back, legs wrapped around some guy Osamu had never seen. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, clearly an alpha from the way his scent dominated the room. Mid-thrust, face buried in Atsumu's neck. Atsumu's head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted.

The room reeked. Sex. Omega slick and alpha musk. Desperation and release.

Osamu stood in the doorway. Mouth open, no sound coming out. He watched the stranger's hips stutter, watched Atsumu's fingers dig into the guy's back, and something inside him cracked open.

"What the hell?"

The stranger jerked. Turned. His eyes went wide. He scrambled off Atsumu so fast he almost fell off the bed, grabbing for his pants. Atsumu's eyes snapped open, and when they landed on Osamu, they went cold and flat.

"Samu." Hoarse, but steady. "Get out."

"Get out?" Osamu's voice came out sharper than he meant. He stepped into the room. The stranger was pulling on his shirt with shaking hands, scent flaring with alarm and embarrassment. Osamu ignored him, focused on his twin. "Who the hell is this?"

"None of your business." Atsumu pulled the sheet up, but not before Osamu saw the bruises on his collarbone. Dark marks of scenting glands pressed too hard. "You weren't supposed to be home."

"Obviously." Osamu's hands were shaking. He clenched them. The stranger edged toward the door, mumbling something about leaving, sorry, not knowing. Osamu stepped aside to let him pass, barely registering the guy's face as he fled down the stairs.

The front door slammed.

Silence crashed back, heavier than before.

Osamu stood there, breathing hard. His alpha instincts screamed at him to do something—claim, protect, punish. He didn't know which. He didn't know anything anymore. He looked at Atsumu, who was sitting up now, the sheet pooled around his waist, expression hard and defiant.

"What?" Atsumu's voice was brittle. "Got somethin' to say?"

"Yeah." Osamu's jaw tightened. "I got plenty. What the hell was that, Atsumu? You're not even in heat. I can smell the suppressants in you. You just—invited some random alpha into our house? Into your room?"

"He wasn't random." Atsumu's voice cracked, but he covered it with a sneer. "Been seein' him for a while."

"For a while?" Osamu's stomach turned. "And you didn't think to tell me? To ask? To—I don't know—give me a heads-up so I didn't walk in on my own brother gettin'—"

"You weren't supposed to be here!" Atsumu shouted, the sound ripping through the room like thunder. His eyes were bright, too bright, hands trembling as he gripped the sheet. "You're never supposed to be here! You're always at practice, or at the gym, or out with your stupid team, and when you are home, you don't even look at me! You don't talk to me! You don't—"

He cut himself off, pressing a hand over his mouth. His scent turned sour and sharp, laced with something that smelled like pain.

Osamu felt the air leave his lungs. He opened his mouth, closed it. The anger in his chest flickered, then sputtered into something cold and hollow.

"What are you talkin' about?" he said, quieter now.

Atsumu laughed. Not a happy sound. Bitter and broken, it made Osamu's skin prickle.

"You know exactly what I'm talkin' about, Samu." Atsumu's voice dropped, raw and jagged. "Ever since Dad died, you've been… gone. You act like you're the only one who lost him. You walk around this house like you're carryin' the whole world, but you don't share it. You don't share anything. You stopped checkin' on me. You stopped scentin' me. You stopped—everything."

Osamu's throat tightened. He remembered, suddenly, how things used to be. After the funeral, he'd stepped into the role of pack alpha without a word. Took over the paperwork, the house maintenance, the monthly meetings. Shouldered the responsibility of being head of the Miya family, and did it all alone. Told himself it was because Atsumu was too emotional, too fragile, too caught up in his own grief. Told himself he was protecting his brother.

But he hadn't been protecting him. He'd been ignoring him.

"Atsumu," he started, but Atsumu cut him off.

"No. You listen to me, for once." Atsumu's voice was shaking, but he pushed through. "I'm an omega, Samu. Our dad was an alpha. He knew how to take care of things. He knew how to take care of me. And when he died, you were supposed to take his place. But you didn't. You just locked yourself in your room and pretended I didn't exist."

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Rough, angry motion.

"Do you know what it's like? Livin' in a pack where the alpha doesn't look at you? Doesn't touch you? Doesn't even say good mornin'?" Atsumu's voice cracked, splintered. "I need someone to tell me I'm safe. I need to be held. I need to be wanted. And you—" He let out a breath that was half-sob. "You made me feel invisible."

Osamu's chest ached. The words were like knives, sharp and precise, cutting through the armor he'd built. He thought of all the mornings he'd left before Atsumu woke up. All the evenings he'd come home after Atsumu had eaten dinner alone. All the times he'd smelled Atsumu's distress, his omega hormones calling out for pack care, and he'd walked past his room because he was too tired, too busy, too lost in his own head.

He'd failed.

Failed as a brother. As an alpha. As the head of the pack.

"I didn't know," Osamu whispered, and even to his own ears, it sounded pathetic.

"Of course you didn't know." Atsumu's voice was flat now. Exhausted. "You never asked."

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Osamu stood in the center of the room, hands limp at his sides, the scent of that other alpha still clinging to the air. The evidence of his failure was written in the rumpled sheets, in the bruises on Atsumu's neck, in the hollow look in his brother's eyes.

Osamu took a step forward. Then another. He stopped at the edge of the bed, close enough to see the glossy sheen of tears Atsumu was trying to blink away.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words coming out rough, raw, from somewhere deep. "I'm so sorry, 'Tsumu. I wasn't thinkin'. I thought I was handlin' things. I thought I was keepin' us both afloat. But I was just drownin' alone, and I left you to drown too."

Atsumu's lip trembled. He looked away.

"I don't want your sorry," he said, but his voice was small now. Fragile. "I want my brother back."

Osamu's heart twisted. He sat down on the edge of the bed, careful, hesitant, as if Atsumu were a wild animal that might spook. He reached out, slowly, and placed his hand on Atsumu's knee.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm right here. And I'm gonna do better. I promise."

Atsumu's shoulders shook. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away furiously.

"You mean it?"

"I mean it." Osamu squeezed his knee. "Startin' right now. Let me take care of you. Please."

Atsumu sniffled. He didn't say yes, but he didn't pull away either. Osamu took that as permission.

He moved closer, shifting until he was sitting beside Atsumu on the bed. The scent of the other alpha was still all over him, clinging to his skin and hair, and it made Osamu's alpha instincts bristle. But he pushed that down. This wasn't about anger. This was about repair.

"I'm gonna scent you," Osamu said quietly. "Is that okay?"

Atsumu's breath hitched. He nodded, a small, jerky motion.

Osamu reached out and pulled Atsumu into his arms. It was awkward at first—they were eighteen, too old for this, too big for this—but Atsumu crumpled against him like a child, tucking his face into the curve of Osamu's neck. Osamu pressed his nose to Atsumu's hair, breathing in the familiar scent beneath the stranger's musk. His omega. His pack. His family.

He rubbed his cheek against Atsumu's temple, leaving his scent behind. Ran his hand down Atsumu's back, slow and steady, the way their father used to do when they were small and scared. He held him close and let their scents mingle, a slow, deliberate act of reclaiming.

Atsumu's body shook with silent sobs. Osamu held him through every one.

"I've got you," he murmured into Atsumu's hair. "I've got you, 'Tsumu. I'm not goin' anywhere again."

It took a long time for Atsumu to calm down. By the time his breathing steadied, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the room. Osamu didn't let go. He kept his arms wrapped around his brother, chin resting on top of Atsumu's head.

"I need to change the sheets," Atsumu mumbled against his shoulder.

Osamu snorted. "Yeah, probably."

"They smell like him."

"I noticed."

Atsumu pulled back just enough to look at Osamu's face. His eyes were red-rimmed, but the hollow, desperate look was gone. In its place was something fragile, tentative—a hope that could be crushed with a single wrong word.

"You're not mad?" Atsumu asked.

"I'm mad," Osamu said. "But not at you. Mostly at myself." He paused. "And maybe a little at that guy. But he doesn't matter. You matter."

Atsumu's face crumpled again, but this time he was smiling through the tears, a wobbly, messy thing that made Osamu's chest ache in a different way.

"You're such a sap," Atsumu said, his voice wet.

"Shut up."

"No, really. You're gonna make me cry more."

"Then cry." Osamu reached up and wiped a tear from Atsumu's cheek with his thumb. "I'll hold you as long as you need."

Atsumu laughed, a watery, broken sound, and leaned back into Osamu's embrace.

They stayed like that until the room grew dark. Then Osamu helped Atsumu strip the bed, toss the sheets in the laundry, and find clean ones from the hall closet. They made the bed together, working in comfortable silence, and when they were done, Osamu went downstairs and made yakisoba from the leftover noodles.

They ate in the living room, sitting side by side on the couch, the TV playing some drama neither of them was watching. Atsumu ate slowly, picking at his food, but he finished the whole bowl. That counted as a win.

"Samu," Atsumu said, setting his bowl down on the coffee table.

"Hm?"

"My suppressants ran out three days ago."

Osamu's chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. He set them down.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Atsumu shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "Didn't think you'd care."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Osamu breathed out, slow and steady.

"I care. I'll get you a new pack tomorrow. And I'll set a reminder on my phone so I don't forget again."

Atsumu looked at him, surprise flickering across his face. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to do it." Osamu reached over and took Atsumu's hand, squeezing it. "That's my job, 'Tsumu. I'm your alpha. I'm supposed to make sure you're okay. And I haven't been doin' it. But I'm gonna start."

Atsumu's eyes welled up again, but he blinked the tears away stubbornly.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

The next morning, Osamu woke up earlier than usual. He went to the pharmacy before practice and bought a fresh pack of suppressants. Also an omega vitamin supplement, a new bottle of Atsumu's preferred shampoo, and a pack of onigiri from the convenience store because he knew Atsumu had a weak spot for the salmon ones.

When he got home, Atsumu was still in bed, curled up under a mountain of blankets. Osamu knocked on the door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer.

"Rise and shine," he said, setting the pharmacy bag on the nightstand.

Atsumu grumbled, pulling the blanket over his head. "It's too early."

"It's nine-thirty."

"That's early."

Osamu sat on the edge of the bed and peeled the blanket back, revealing Atsumu's tousled hair and sleep-soft face. He held out the onigiri.

"Brought you breakfast."

Atsumu blinked at him, then at the onigiri, then back at Osamu. His expression softened.

"Thanks, Samu."

"Don't mention it." Osamu stood, brushing off his knees. "I'm headin' to practice. There's more onigiri in the fridge if you want. And your suppressants are right here. Don't forget to take one."

"I won't."

Osamu paused at the door. He turned back.

"Hey, 'Tsumu."

"What?"

"I'll be home by six. We can watch that dumb drama together if you want."

Atsumu's smile was small, but it reached his eyes.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

That evening, Osamu kept his word. He came home, showered, and found Atsumu already settled on the couch with the TV on. He sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. Halfway through the episode, he reached over and pulled Atsumu against his side, letting his scent wrap around them both.

Atsumu didn't say anything. He just leaned in, his head falling onto Osamu's shoulder, and let out a breath that sounded like relief.

The days that followed settled into a new rhythm. Osamu made a point of being home for dinner, even if it meant leaving practice early. He started checking in with Atsumu every morning, asking how he slept, if he'd eaten, if he needed anything. He refilled the suppressant pack before it ran out, and stocked the fridge with Atsumu's favorite foods. He scented him every night before bed—a quick ritual of rubbing his cheek against Atsumu's hair and holding him for a minute, just to remind him he was safe.

At first, Atsumu was wary, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He flinched when Osamu touched him, expecting it to be a one-time thing. But Osamu didn't stop. He kept coming back, kept showing up, kept being present.

On the third night, Atsumu broke down again, but this time it wasn't from hurt. It was from relief. He cried into Osamu's shoulder, messy and ugly, and Osamu held him through it, rubbing his back and murmuring reassurances.

"I thought I'd lost you," Atsumu said between sobs. "I thought you didn't want me anymore."

"I've always wanted you," Osamu said, his voice thick. "You're my twin. You're my pack. I was just too stupid to know how to show it."

Atsumu laughed through his tears. "Yeah. You're real stupid."

"Takes one to know one."

They sat there, wrapped around each other, and for the first time in months, the house felt like home again. The silence that had been cold and empty was now warm and full. The scents that had been sharp with neglect were now soft and mingled, alpha and omega intertwined like they were supposed to be.

A week later, Osamu came home to find Atsumu in the kitchen, stirring a pot of miso soup. He had an apron on—their mother's old one, with the faded daisy pattern—and he was humming under his breath.

Osamu leaned against the doorframe, watching.

"Smells good."

Atsumu looked up, and a genuine smile spread across his face. "Don't sound so surprised. I can cook, ya know."

"You can burn water."

"That was one time."

"It was three times."

Atsumu threw a dish towel at him. Osamu caught it, laughing. He walked over to the stove and peered into the pot. The soup was actually perfect—golden and steaming, with soft cubes of tofu and green onion floating on the surface.

"Looks good," he admitted.

"Tastes better." Atsumu dipped a spoon in and held it out to him. "Try it."

Osamu leaned down and took the spoon, letting the warm broth settle on his tongue. Salty and savory, tasted like home.

"Not bad," he said.

"High praise from the yakisoba king."

Osamu snorted. He reached out and ruffled Atsumu's hair, a gesture that had been absent for too long. Atsumu swatted his hand away, but he was grinning.

They ate dinner together at the table, not on the couch. Talked about Atsumu's practice, about Osamu's new menu at the restaurant, about the drama they'd been watching. Easy. Normal. Everything Osamu hadn't realized he'd been missing.

After dinner, they cleaned up together. Atsumu washed, Osamu dried. When the last plate was put away, Osamu pulled Atsumu into a quick hug, scenting him one more time.

"You okay?" he asked.

Atsumu nodded, face pressed into Osamu's shoulder.

"Yeah. I'm okay." He pulled back, meeting Osamu's eyes. "Thanks, Samu. For bein' here."

"I'm always gonna be here." Osamu squeezed his shoulder. "That's a promise."

Atsumu's smile was soft, genuine, full of trust. He believed him.

Later that night, Osamu lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He could hear Atsumu moving around in the room next door—the creak of floorboards, the click of the lamp being turned off. He listened to the silence that followed, but it wasn't heavy anymore. Peaceful.

He thought about the day he'd walked in on Atsumu. The anger, the shock, the guilt. The long road they'd walked to get here. And he knew, deep in his bones, that he would never let it happen again.

Atsumu was his pack. His family. His responsibility and his joy.

And Osamu was going to spend the rest of his life making sure Atsumu never forgot it.

He closed his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips, and let the quiet hum of the house lull him to sleep.