Six Weeks of Belonging

The apartment smelled like grilled fish and rice vinegar—familiar, comforting, and it made Atsumu’s throat tight. She sat on the edge of the pullout couch, her bed for the foreseeable future, staring at the folded sheets stacked beside her. Six weeks minimum before she could even think about light training. Six weeks of being useless. Six weeks of being a burden.

Three days in, and she already knew the exact creak of the floorboard outside the bathroom, the way the fridge hummed louder at night, the precise angle of light hitting the kitchen counter at dawn. Because she was always awake before them, always waiting for them to need something, always bracing for the moment they’d realize she didn’t belong.

The bedroom door opened. Osamu shuffled out, hair a mess, eyes barely open. He yawned, scratching his stomach through his shirt, then stopped when he saw her sitting rigid on the couch.

“You been up long?” His voice was rough with sleep.

“Nah.” Lie. She’d been up since five, lying still so she wouldn’t disturb anyone. “Just got up.”

He gave her that twin look—the one that said he knew she was full of shit—but didn’t push. Just shuffled to the kitchen and started pulling out ingredients for breakfast. Atsumu watched him move, efficient and sure, and felt a pang of something she couldn’t name. Jealousy, maybe. Or maybe just the ache of watching someone live their life while she sat on the sidelines.

“You want eggs?” he asked without turning around.

“Sure.” Then, because she didn’t know what else to do, she stood and limped toward the kitchen. Her knee brace clicked with each step. “I can help.”

“You can sit. Keep weight off it.”

“I’m fine.”

“Atsumu.”

She stopped, hand gripping the counter. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t gentle either. Same tone he used during their high school fights, when she’d pushed too hard, trained too long, ignored her body screaming for rest. She hated that tone. Hated that he was right.

“Fine.” She sank back onto the couch.

Suna emerged a few minutes later, dressed in his usual loose t-shirt and joggers, phone already in hand. He gave her a lazy smile and flopped onto the other end of the couch, long legs stretching out near her hip.

“You look like a hunted animal,” he said, not looking up from his screen. “Maybe try blinking every once in a while.”

Atsumu forced a laugh. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious. You’ve been sitting there like you’re waiting for someone to tell you to leave.”

The words hit too close. Heat crawled up her neck. She looked away, pretending to study the grain of the wooden floor. “I’m not,” she said weakly.

“You are.” He finally put his phone down and looked at her directly. Sharp eyes, soft voice. “You made the bed before we even woke up. You cleaned the shower after you used it. You did the dishes last night before we got a chance to. What’s that about?”

Her throat tightened. She hated how easily he read her. He’d always been like that, even back in high school, when she’d been too proud to admit she was struggling. He’d just watch, wait, and then casually dismantle her walls with a few well-placed comments.

“I’m just being considerate,” she said.

“You’re being a guest,” Suna corrected. “You’re not a guest. You’re family.”

The word hit her like a punch to the chest. Family. She’d spent so long being independent—determined to prove she didn’t need anyone—that she’d forgotten what it felt like to let people take care of her. And now she was drowning in it, this kindness she didn’t deserve.

Osamu came over with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, set it on the coffee table in front of her. “Eat.” He sat down in the armchair across from her. “And stop tiptoeing around. You live here now, at least for a while. Act like it.”

“I don’t know how,” Atsumu admitted, voice small. She picked at the edge of the toast. “I haven’t lived with anyone since… I don’t even remember. I’ve been on my own for years. Team apartments, hotels, solo rentals. I forgot how to just… exist in a shared space.”

Osamu and Suna exchanged a glance. Something passed between them, a silent conversation she wasn’t privy to.

“Then we’ll help you remember,” Suna said, light tone but heavy meaning.

Atsumu nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She took a bite of the toast and forced herself to chew. Tasted like cardboard, but she swallowed anyway.

---

Over the next few days, she tried. Really did. Stopped making the bed immediately after waking up. Left her water glass on the coffee table instead of washing it the second she was done. Let her crutches lean against the wall instead of tucking them behind the couch. But every time she did something “wrong”—left a trace of herself somewhere—she felt a spike of anxiety, like she was breaking an unspoken rule.

Osamu noticed her flinching when he walked into the room. Suna noticed her holding her breath whenever she passed them in the hallway.

They tried to draw her out. One afternoon, Suna sat down beside her on the couch and pulled up an old video on his phone—a recording from their third year at Inarizaki, during a practice match. Her hair was shorter then, voice rougher, movements sharper. She watched herself spike a ball with fierce precision, and for a moment, she felt a flicker of the old fire.

“Remember that game?” Suna said, nudging her shoulder. “You were unstoppable.”

“I was okay.” Deflecting. She didn’t want to think about the past. The past was a different person. Someone who hadn’t had to fight for every inch of her identity, someone who hadn’t been told she couldn’t play anymore.

“You were more than okay. You were amazing.”

“And now I’m injured.” Flat. “So that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Suna’s face fell, but he didn’t push. Just put his phone away and leaned back, his silence heavy with unspoken frustration.

---

The accidental walk-in happened on the fourth day.

Atsumu had forgotten to lock the bathroom door. In her own space, she’d never needed to—no one else to worry about. But here, in their apartment, the habit slipped her mind. She’d just taken a shower, wrapped a towel around her bottom half, and was standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide if she should change in the bathroom or risk the short walk to her things in the living room.

She decided on the bathroom. She was fumbling with the strap of her bra when the door swung open.

Osamu froze.

She froze.

For a long, agonizing second, neither moved. She was wearing nothing but lace panties and a bra she hadn’t managed to fasten yet. The bra hung loose, exposing the full curve of her chest—the chest estrogen had given her, the chest she was still getting used to, the chest that made her feel both powerful and vulnerable.

Osamu’s eyes went wide. She could see the shock on his face, the way his gaze flickered down and then immediately snapped back up to hers. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Oh god,” he finally managed, voice cracking. He stumbled backward, hand coming up to cover his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I should have knocked—”

“It’s fine,” she said, flat, though her heart was hammering. She grabbed a towel and held it to her chest. “Just… go.”

He was already gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

She stood there, shaking, face burning. She’d known this would happen eventually—the awkwardness of her body, the way people saw her differently now. But seeing the shock in his eyes, the way he’d flinched… it hurt more than she’d expected.

She finished dressing in silence, hands trembling. When she finally stepped out, Osamu was sitting on the couch, head in his hands. Suna was nowhere.

“Atsumu.” His voice was rough. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just barged in.”

“It’s fine,” she said again, even though it wasn’t.

Osamu looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I know you’re my sister, but I wasn’t prepared to see… you know.”

“My tits?” A bitter edge crept into her voice.

He winced. “That’s not—”

“It’s okay.” Softer this time. She sat down in the armchair across from him. “I’m not mad. It’s just… awkward. I get it. You’ve never seen me like this before.”

Osamu shook his head slowly. “It’s not that. I mean, yeah, it was surprising, but it’s not a bad thing. You’re my sister. That’s all I see. It’s just… you’ve changed. A lot. And I haven’t gotten used to it yet.”

Atsumu looked down at her hands. “I haven’t gotten used to it either.”

---

That evening, after the tension had settled into something resembling normal, Atsumu found herself on the balcony, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. Suna joined her a few minutes later, two cans of beer in his hands. He handed one to her without a word.

They drank in silence for a while, the cool night air a welcome relief against her flushed skin.

“I used to do ballet,” she said suddenly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Suna turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“When I was a kid. Before I hit puberty.” She took a long sip, staring out at the skyline. “I was really good. My teacher said I had natural grace, that I could have gone professional if I’d stuck with it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged, forced. “Because I stopped. When I started transitioning, I felt… wrong in my body. The ballet studio was full of mirrors, and I couldn’t stand looking at myself. So I quit. I picked up volleyball instead. Easier to focus on the ball than on myself.”

Suna was quiet for a moment, letting her words settle. Then he said, “Do you miss it? Ballet?”

“I don’t know.” Honest. “Haven’t thought about it in years. But sometimes… I dream about dancing. And I wake up and my knee hurts and I can’t even walk without a brace, let alone pirouette.”

His hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’ll dance again someday. Maybe not ballet. But something.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t believe him.

---

The confession about Kita came out of nowhere, in the middle of a card game Osamu was losing badly.

“He texts me sometimes,” Atsumu said, throwing down a pair of kings.

“Who?” Suna asked, studying his hand.

“Kita Shinsuke.”

Both of them looked up at her, identical expressions of surprise.

“Kita?” Osamu repeated. “Captain Kita? The stern-voiced, always-lecturing, ‘don’t you dare skip practice’ Kita?”

“He’s not always lecturing,” she said defensively. “He’s kind. He’s just… principled.”

“You have a crush on Kita?” Suna asked, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“No,” she said quickly, but her cheeks were turning red. “I mean… I used to. In high school. It was nothing.”

“Sure it was nothing,” Osamu said, sarcasm dripping. “That’s why you still talk to him.”

“He’s busy. He works at a big corporation now. He doesn’t have time for me.”

“But he texts you,” Suna pointed out.

She shrugged, avoiding their eyes. “Occasionally. Just to check in. He saw my injury on the news and reached out. That’s all.”

But even as she said it, she felt a flutter in her chest. Kita’s messages had been a lifeline over the past few weeks—short, thoughtful texts that asked how she was really doing, that reminded her someone out there saw her as more than just a sidelined athlete.

She didn’t tell them she’d been thinking about inviting him over. Didn’t tell them she’d been dreaming about him, too.

---

Days passed, and Atsumu continued to feel like a ghost in her brother’s home. She kept her belongings in a small bag under the couch. Never left her shampoo in the shower. Ate what was offered but never asked for anything. Every night, she lay awake, listening to the quiet sounds of the apartment, wishing she could disappear into the walls.

One night, when she was sure Osamu and Suna were asleep, she pulled out her phone and typed a message to Kita.

Are you free tonight?

The response came within seconds.

Yes. Do you need me?

Her fingers trembled as she typed back.

I need to see you. Can you come over? I’ll unlock the door.

Kita arrived thirty minutes later, silent and composed, his car barely making a sound as it pulled into the parking lot. She met him at the door, heart pounding so hard she thought it might wake the whole building.

She led him to the living room, to the pullout couch she’d been sleeping on. They sat side by side in the dark, and for a moment, neither spoke.

Then Kita reached out and took her hand.

Like a dam breaking.

She leaned forward, and he met her halfway. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, testing the waters. But then her hand found his jaw, pulling him closer, and the kiss deepened. She climbed onto his lap, knees straddling his hips, and felt his hands slide up her back, under her shirt.

She didn’t think. Didn’t want to think. Just wanted to feel wanted, to feel normal, to be someone’s instead of no one’s.

Kita unclasped her bra with practiced ease, and she gasped as his hands cupped her bare chest. The touch was electric, sending shivers down her spine. She started unbuttoning his shirt, fingers clumsy with need, when the light flicked on.

She froze.

Osamu stood in the hallway, face a mask of shock and fury. His eyes went from her half-naked form, to Kita’s hands still on her, to the rumpled sheets of the pullout couch.

“What the hell,” Osamu said, barely a whisper.

She scrambled off Kita’s lap, clutching her shirt to her chest. “Osamu, I—”

“Atsumu, get dressed.” His voice was ice. He turned to Kita, jaw tight. “You. Out.”

Kita stood, his shirt hanging open. He looked from Atsumu to Osamu, expression unreadable. “Atsumu,” he said quietly, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No,” Osamu snapped. “You won’t. Get out of my house.”

Kita hesitated, but she nodded at him, eyes pleading. He pulled his shirt closed and walked to the door, pausing only to look back at her once before he left.

The door clicked shut. Silence suffocating.

She couldn’t look at Osamu. Couldn’t look anywhere. Just stood there, half-dressed, trembling, heart shattering.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I overstepped. I know this is your home. I’m sorry.”

Osamu didn’t say anything. Just stared at her, anger warring with something softer.

“Why?” he finally asked, voice cracking. “Why would you do that here? With him? Without even telling me?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Because I wanted to feel wanted,” she said, voice breaking. “Because I wanted to feel normal. Because I’m tired of being a broken houseguest everyone has to take care of. I just wanted to be wanted, just once.”

She sank onto the couch, clutching her shirt to her chest like a shield, and cried. Great, heaving sobs that shook her whole body.

Osamu stood frozen for a long moment. Then, slowly, he crossed the room and sat down beside her. He didn’t say anything. Just opened his arms.

She fell into them, burying her face in his shoulder, and sobbed. Suna appeared in the doorway, expression soft with understanding. He crossed to the other side of the couch and wrapped his arms around both of them.

“You’re not a burden,” Suna said quietly. “You’re family. And family doesn’t have to earn their place.”

“We’re sorry,” Osamu added, voice thick. “We should have made you feel more welcome.”

She shook her head, but didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I should have talked to you. I should have asked.”

“You can have him over,” Osamu said, surprising her. “But proper. And not when we’re asleep. And I want to meet him first. Again. Properly.”

She laughed through her tears, a wet, broken sound. “Okay.”

They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other, until the tears dried and the night settled around them like a blanket.

---

The next morning, the three of them sat at the kitchen table over breakfast—rice, miso soup, grilled mackerel. Atsumu felt raw and exposed, but also lighter, like a weight had been lifted from her chest.

“I left my ballet shoes by the door,” she said, hesitant. “Is that okay?”

Osamu looked over at the small, worn pair of ballet slippers she’d brought from her old apartment. He’d never seen them before. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s fine.”

Suna grinned. “About time you made a mess.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. She took a bite of her rice, and for the first time since she’d moved in, it tasted like more than just food. Like home.

“Can I ask Kita to come over again?” she said, small. “Properly?”

Osamu exchanged a look with Suna, then nodded. “As long as you tell us first. And maybe keep the door open.”

“Gross,” she said, but she was laughing.

Suna kicked her lightly under the table. “We’re happy for you, you know. Even if you do have terrible taste in men.”

“Kita is not terrible taste,” she protested.

“He’s captain material,” Suna conceded. “But he’s still a stick in the mud.”

“He’s a good man,” she said softly, and felt a flutter of hope in her chest.

Breakfast stretched on, filled with teasing and laughter and the clatter of chopsticks. And when the sun streamed through the window, warming her face, Atsumu let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she could belong here after all.