Hood Strings and Onigiri

The bus hummed along the highway, that low vibration that rattled through the seats and swallowed up the chatter from the Inarizaki volleyball team. Outside, summer sun blazed over rice paddies and little towns blurring past, but inside the AC was too cold, and Atsumu Miya had pulled his hoodie over his head hours ago.

He sat in the back row, alone even though the bus was packed. Knees drawn up, hood pulled tight so only a sliver of his face showed—eyes fixed on the window but not seeing anything. The fabric was soft against his cheeks, and he pressed his face into it when the tears started again.

Stupid. He didn't even know why he was crying. But the feeling had been building for days, weeks maybe. A weight in his chest that made every breath feel shallow. Woke up that morning and looked in the mirror and thought: Why do you even bother? And that thought stuck like a burr, dug deeper with every hour.

He cried quiet, the way he'd learned years ago. No sound, just wet cheeks and a tight throat. He pulled the hood strings so the opening was small, hiding his face in the dark.

Up front, Osamu sat next to Suna Rintarou. Atsumu could see the back of his brother's head—same messy brown hair, same sharp jaw. They were talking, heads together, and Suna was laughing at something Osamu said. Suna's hand rested on Osamu's knee, casual and familiar.

Atsumu watched them a moment, then looked away, pressed his palm against his mouth.

He didn't belong there. Never really had, not like Osamu did. Osamu could just be—quiet, steady, accepted. Atsumu had to be bright and loud and perfect, or else he was nothing.

And lately, he felt like nothing.

The bus pulled into the hotel parking lot an hour later. Everyone stretched, grabbed their bags, noise rising as they filed out. Atsumu stayed in his seat until the aisle was clear, wiped his face with the back of his hand. His eyes were red, he knew. He'd blame it on allergies.

He grabbed his duffel and stepped off into thick heat. The hotel was nice—big, pool, courts nearby. But Atsumu didn't care. He just wanted to find his room and disappear.

"Atsumu."

Osamu's voice cut through. Atsumu tensed but kept walking.

"Atsumu, wait up."

A hand on his shoulder. He had to stop. Osamu stepped in front of him, frowning. "Oi. You okay? You been quiet all ride."

"'M fine," Atsumu said, looking past him. "Just tired."

"Your eyes are red."

"Allergies. Summer's bad this year." He forced a shrug. "Stop motherin' me, Samu."

Osamu studied him for a long second. Atsumu met his gaze, but the lie sat sour on his tongue. He couldn't let Osamu see. If Osamu saw, he'd ask questions Atsumu didn't want to answer. Questions about why he felt so hollow. About the numbers on his phone he kept staring at but never called. About the way he smiled and laughed and then went to the bathroom and stared at himself until he hated his own reflection.

"All right," Osamu said slowly. "But you gotta eat somethin' later. Don't skip dinner again."

"Yeah, yeah."

They parted ways at the lobby. Atsumu got a room on the third floor with a few other guys. He dropped his bag on the bed and sat down, staring at the wall.

This is fine. You're fine. Just get through the week.

---

The training camp was brutal—in a good way, for most people. Drills in the morning, matches in the afternoon, strategy meetings at night. Atsumu threw himself into it, spiking balls with vicious precision, setting with sharp focus. When he played, he didn't have to think. He just moved, and the ball obeyed, and for a few hours he felt like himself.

But evenings were hard.

He watched Osamu and Suna from across the dining hall. They sat close now, shoulders touching, heads bent over a phone. Suna’s hand found Osamu’s under the table, and Osamu smiled—a small, private thing Atsumu had never seen directed at him.

He looked away, stabbed his rice with his chopsticks.

On the third night, he met Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Sakusa was from Itachiyama, also at camp. Tall, dark curls, perpetual scowl, seemed to hate everyone. But Atsumu saw him lingering near the vending machines after hours, alone, and something in that loneliness called to him.

"You're Miya, right? The setter," Sakusa said, not looking at him.

"Yeah. And you're Omi-kun. The germ freak."

Sakusa's mouth tightened. "Don't call me that."

"Whatever you say."

They stood in silence. The vending machine hummed, fluorescent lights buzzing. Atsumu bought a sports drink he didn't want.

"Why are you out here?" Sakusa asked.

"Could ask you the same."

"I don't like people."

"Same."

It wasn't true. Atsumu craved people, craved their eyes on him, their applause. But lately, being with people made him feel more alone.

Sakusa glanced at him, and something passed between them—an unspoken understanding. That night, Atsumu ended up in Sakusa's room. They didn't talk much. Didn't need to. Just hands and breath and a temporary escape from the weight in his chest.

It happened again the next night. And the night after that.

Atsumu never asked for more. He didn't want more. Sakusa was a stranger, and that made it safe. He could pretend, for a few hours, he was someone else. Someone who wasn't falling apart.

But when he went back to his own room, the silence was louder than ever.

---

Summer ended. School started. Leaves turned orange then brown, and the air got cold.

Osamu and Suna became official somewhere in late August. Atsumu found out via a casual mention over breakfast. "Suna and I are datin' now."

"Cool," Atsumu said, and shoved toast into his mouth.

He didn't know why it hurt. He was happy for Osamu. He was. Osamu deserved someone who looked at him like Suna did, someone steady and calm. But it also felt like the last thread holding them together had snapped. Osamu had someone else now. He didn't need Atsumu, didn't need to check in on him, didn't need to ask if he was okay.

Which was good. Because Atsumu wasn't okay.

He started sleeping with Sakusa again, sporadically, whenever their schools met or they could make arrangements. Hollow and physical, and Atsumu told himself it was fine. He didn't feel anything. That was the point.

But in late October, he started feeling sick.

At first it was just fatigue. Sleep eight hours and still feel like he hadn't closed his eyes. Yawn through practice, miss a set, get yelled at by the coach. Then the nausea started. Mornings were the worst, a churning in his stomach that sent him stumbling to the bathroom.

He thought it was stress. Or a flu. Took antacids, slept more, ignored it.

Then, during a practice match in early November, he fainted.

One second he was watching a serve, the next the floor was rushing up. He came to with Osamu's face above him, pale and panicked.

"Atsumu! Atsumu, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, 'm fine," he mumbled, but his head pounded and the room wouldn't stop spinning.

"You're not fine. You collapsed." Osamu's voice was sharp. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I dunno. Today? Yesterday?"

"Tsumu."

"Stop yellin'."

The coach sent him home early. Atsumu walked back to their apartment—they lived together, two rooms in a small unit near school—and collapsed on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Something was wrong.

He lay there an hour, then forced himself up and went to the convenience store. Bought a pregnancy test. Hands shook as he paid, shoved it into his pocket, didn't meet the cashier's eyes.

In the bathroom, he took the test.

Two lines.

He stared at them a long time. The world felt very far away, like he was watching himself from outside his body. A low buzzing filled his ears, drowned out everything else.

He was pregnant.

He was pregnant, and he was seventeen, and he was a boy, and he had never told anyone that he was born female. He had hidden it so well—binders, hormones, deep voice, vicious spike. He had become Atsumu, entirely and fully, and he thought—hoped—the past was buried.

And now this.

He threw the test in the trash, buried it under crumpled tissues and a shampoo bottle. Washed his hands three times. Went to his room, closed the door, sat on the bed, stared at nothing.

He couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't tell Osamu. Osamu would hate him. Would call him a slut, a fraud. Would kick him out.

Atsumu hugged his knees and rocked, a small sound escaping his throat.

---

The next week was a blur.

Atsumu went to practice, but slower. Nausea came in waves, and he had to excuse himself multiple times to run to the bathroom. Loose clothes, avoided eye contact, short sentences.

Osamu noticed. Of course he noticed. But he didn't push, and Atsumu was grateful for that small mercy.

But it couldn't last.

On a Thursday evening, Atsumu came home from late practice to find Osamu standing in the kitchen. His face was strange—tight, pale. In his hand, he held the pregnancy test.

It took a second for Atsumu to register. Then his stomach dropped, ice cold.

"Osamu, I can—"

"Shut up." Osamu's voice was quiet, but it shook. "I found this in the trash. I was takin' out the garbage, and I saw it. And I thought it was wrong. Maybe it belonged to someone else." He took a step forward. "But it's yours, isn't it? Yours."

Atsumu couldn't speak.

"Who did this to you? Who got you pregnant?" Osamu's voice rose. "Were you sleepin' around? Huh? Is that what you've been doin'? Sneakin' around, actin' all secret, and this—" He threw the test onto the table. "This is what happens? You're just a—"

He stopped. The word hung in the air, unspoken.

And Atsumu broke.

The sob tore out of him, raw and ugly. His legs gave out, and he sank to the floor, covering his face with his hands. Tears streamed through his fingers, hot and endless. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Only the shame, the fear, the certainty that he'd ruined everything.

He heard Osamu's footsteps. Braced for more yelling, for a door slamming, for abandonment.

Instead, a voice, small and cracked: "Atsumu."

Then arms wrapped around him.

Osamu was on his knees, pulling Atsumu against his chest, holding him tight. His hand pressed against the back of Atsumu's head, pushing his face into his shoulder.

"Don't," Atsumu gasped. "Don't—you're supposed to hate me—"

"I don't hate you." Osamu's voice was thick. "I could never. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled. I was scared."

"You should hate me."

"I don't."

Atsumu cried harder, fingers digging into Osamu's shirt. He felt his brother's body shake, and realized Osamu was crying too.

They stayed like that a long time. Kitchen light hummed. Outside, wind rattled the window. Inside, two brothers held each other on cold linoleum.

Finally, when the sobs had quieted to hiccups, Osamu spoke again.

"Tell me who. Was it someone at camp? Do I know 'em?"

Atsumu shook his head against Osamu's shoulder. "It doesn't matter. They don't—they don't know. And I don't want 'em to."

"Doesn't matter? Tsumu, you're—this is huge."

"I know." Atsumu pulled back, wiped his face with trembling hands. Eyes swollen, nose red. "I know it's huge. That's why I was gonna... I was gonna figure it out on my own. I didn't wanna burden you."

"Burden me?" Osamu's voice cracked. "You're my sister. My twin. You're not a burden."

"I'm not your sister." Atsumu's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm your brother. I'm a boy."

"I know. I know." Osamu cupped his face, forced Atsumu to meet his eyes. "You're my brother. But you're also the person who came out of the same womb as me. And no matter what, you're family. You're my family."

Atsumu's lip trembled. "I was so scared, Samu. I thought you'd call me a slut. I thought you'd hate me."

"I'm sorry. I almost did." Osamu's thumb traced Atsumu's cheek. "But I saw you cryin', and I couldn't. I just couldn't. You're my stupid, loud, annoying twin. And I love you."

A fresh wave of tears spilled over. Atsumu leaned into Osamu, and they held each other again.

"I don't know what to do," Atsumu confessed. "I don't know how to be... this."

"We'll figure it out." Osamu's voice was firm. "Together. Whatever you decide, I'll be here."

"What about Suna? He'll hate me if he finds out."

"He won't. And if he does, he's gotta deal with me." Osamu's hand tightened. "But we don't have to tell anyone. Not yet. We can take our time."

Atsumu nodded, small and fragile. "Okay."

They sat on the kitchen floor a while longer, cold seeping into their bones. At some point, Osamu got up and made tea. Poured two cups, handed one to Atsumu, who wrapped his hands around it, grateful for the warmth.

"You're gonna be okay," Osamu said, sitting across from him at the table. "We're gonna be okay."

"I'm scared."

"Me too." Osamu took a sip of tea. "But I'd rather be scared with you than alone."

Atsumu looked at him—tired eyes, stubborn set of his jaw. Saw the brother who'd always been there, even when he didn't deserve it. Who shared a womb and a childhood and a thousand petty fights. Who was now looking at him with love instead of judgment.

"I love you," Atsumu said, the words thick and hard to get out.

"Gross. Don't get sappy on me." But Osamu smiled, and his eyes were wet. "Finish your tea. You need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Too bad. I'm makin' onigiri."

Atsumu let out a shaky laugh. "You're so bossy."

"Learned from the best."

And for the first time in months, Atsumu felt something like hope—fragile, uncertain, but present. Like a candle flickering in a dark room. Not enough to see by, but enough to know he wasn't alone.

He watched Osamu move around the kitchen, pulling out rice and seaweed and fillings. Ordinary, mundane. The most ordinary thing in the world.

And Atsumu thought maybe, just maybe, ordinary was enough.