The Candle Flickers

The restaurant was one of those painfully trendy places Osamu normally wouldn't be caught dead in—too much fancy plating, not enough actual food. But Miyako had been hyping it up for weeks, and saying no to her was like trying to stop a tsunami with a paper fan. So here he was, stuffed into a blazer that felt like a straitjacket, watching a candle flicker in a glass jar like it was supposed to be impressive.

Across the table, Atsumu was smiling. That smile Osamu had seen a thousand times—plastered on, a little too wide, the crinkles around his eyes arriving a beat too late. He knew that smile. He'd worn it himself when their mom dragged them to distant relatives' weddings, when he had to pretend to like those fishy rice balls at some stuffy event.

"More wine?" a waiter asked, hovering near Atsumu's elbow.

"No, he can't," Kaito said before Atsumu could answer. Didn't even look up from his phone. "Pregnant, remember? Just bring him some water. Tap's fine."

The waiter hesitated, glanced at Atsumu. Atsumu's smile got tighter. "Water sounds great. Thanks."

Osamu's jaw clenched. He watched Kaito scroll through something on his screen, thumbs moving slow, totally checked out. Kaito was handsome in that sharp, polished way—slicked-back hair, a watch that probably cost more than Osamu's entire kitchen setup. But something about the way he held his fork, the way he let it clatter against the plate, made Osamu's teeth grind.

Miyako squeezed his hand under the table. She knew him too well. "So, Atsumu," she said, voice light and warm, "how are you feeling? You must be getting close to the due date?"

Atsumu's hand drifted to his belly, unconscious. "Six months. Still got a while." His voice was softer than usual, none of that arrogant drawl he used on the volleyball court. Pregnancy had rounded his face, made him look younger. Fragile. "I'm mostly just tired. And hungry. All the time."

"That's good," Kaito said, still not looking up. "Eat for two. But maybe not the fried stuff. You don't want the baby getting used to junk."

Atsumu's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. The tempura shrimp glistened under the warm light. He lowered it slow. "Right. Yeah."

Osamu watched that shrimp get put back on the plate. It looked perfect—crisp, golden, exactly the kind of thing Atsumu would've devoured as a kid. They used to have contests to see who could eat more. Atsumu always won because he chewed faster.

"The tempura here is supposed to be amazing," Miyako said, trying to salvage. "We could order another round for the table?"

"I'm fine," Atsumu said quick. "Really. I should probably cut back anyway."

Kaito finally looked up from his phone, but only to wave at someone across the room. "Hey, I'll be right back. Saw an old colleague." He stood, brushed a kiss on the top of Atsumu's head—quick, perfunctory. "Order me the steak. Medium rare. Don't let them bring it well done."

And then he was gone, weaving through tables toward a group of sharply dressed people near the bar.

The silence at the table was thick enough to spread on bread.

Osamu watched Atsumu's face. That smile was still there, but cracking at the edges. Atsumu picked up his water glass, took a sip, set it down. Knuckles white.

"Tsumu," Osamu said quietly.

"Don't." Atsumu didn't look at him. "Just… don't."

Miyako's hand found Osamu's again. He held on tight.

The steak came. Kaito returned. Conversation was stilted. Kaito laughed at jokes on his phone, occasionally interjecting with opinions nobody asked for. He critiqued Atsumu's order—too much rice, too many carbs. Made a comment about his ankles swelling, maybe he should wear different shoes. All of it delivered with a smile, like he was being helpful.

Osamu saw Atsumu's shoulders hunch further with each remark. Saw the way he pressed his lips together. Saw him stop eating entirely after a while, just pushing food around his plate.

By the time the check came, Osamu was wound so tight he thought he might snap. He paid for his and Miyako's share before Kaito could even reach for his wallet. "We'll get it," Osamu said, voice flat.

Kaito shrugged. "Suit yourself. Thanks for the free meal, Tsumu's brother."

They parted in the parking lot. Atsumu gave a small wave, eyes downcast. Kaito was already walking ahead, not waiting. Atsumu had to hurry to catch up, his gait unsteady in heels he clearly wasn't used to.

Osamu stood by his car, fists clenched, until the taillights disappeared around a corner.

"Samu," Miyako said softly. She was leaning against the passenger door, arms crossed. "That was bad."

"Yeah."

"He's not going to be okay."

Osamu opened the driver's door. "I know."

They drove home in heavy silence. Osamu's mind kept circling back to Atsumu's face, the forced cheerfulness, the way he'd flinched every time Kaito raised his voice even a little. He'd missed signs. He'd been so caught up in his own life—opening the restaurant, building his brand—that he'd let his twin slip through the cracks.

Halfway to his apartment, his phone buzzed. Atsumu.

Forgot my purse. It's probably under the seat. Can you drop it off tomorrow?

Osamu pulled over immediately. Checked the back seat, then the passenger side. Found the small leather purse wedged between the seat and the center console. He texted back: On my way.

Only a ten-minute drive to Atsumu's apartment. Nice building, modern, with a keypad and a doorman who nodded as Osamu walked in. He took the elevator to the fifth floor, purse in hand. Planned to just leave it at the door, maybe text Atsumu to come get it. Didn't want to see Kaito again.

But as he approached the door, he heard voices.

Muffled at first, then louder. A man's voice—Kaito's—sharp and rising. Osamu couldn't make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. Anger. Accusation.

Then Atsumu's voice, high and pleading. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—please, just calm down—"

A crash. Glass breaking.

Osamu's blood turned to ice.

He hammered on the door. "Atsumu! Open the door!"

No response. More shouting inside. Another crash. Atsumu cried out—a sharp, frightened sound Osamu had never heard from his brother before, not in all their years of fighting, of playing volleyball, of getting hurt. That sound went straight through him like a blade.

He stepped back and kicked the door. It shuddered but didn't give. He kicked again, harder. The frame cracked. One more kick and the door flew open, slamming against the wall.

The scene inside was chaos.

Living room a mess—overturned table, shattered dishes on the floor. A lamp lay broken in the corner. And in the middle of it all, Kaito had Atsumu backed against the wall, one hand wrapped around his throat, the other raised as if to strike.

Atsumu's face was covered in tears. A bruise already forming on his cheekbone. His hands were clutching his belly protectively.

"You think you can just walk out on me?" Kaito snarled. "You think anyone else would want a whiny little omega carrying another man's brat?"

Osamu saw red.

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Kaito by the collar, and yanked him off Atsumu with so much force that Kaito stumbled backward, crashing into the coffee table. Osamu didn't let go. He swung Kaito around and slammed him against the nearest wall, one forearm pressed against his throat, pinning him in place.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Osamu's voice was low, dangerous, a growl from somewhere primal. "That's my brother. He's pregnant. And you laid a hand on him."

Kaito's eyes went wide, but he tried to sneer anyway. "This is none of your business. This is between me and my omega—"

"He's not yours." Osamu shoved harder, watching Kaito's face turn red. "He's not a possession. He's not something you get to break."

From behind him, a choked sob. Atsumu had slid down to the floor, knees pulled up, shaking. There was blood on his shirt—a small cut on his arm from the broken dish. But the bruise on his face was dark and swelling.

Osamu's heart shattered and burned all at once.

He released Kaito's throat just enough to lean in, voice dropping to a whisper. "If you ever come near him again, I will make sure you regret it. I'll call the police. I'll file a report. I'll tell them everything. And I'll make sure every alpha in this city knows what you are. A coward who beats up pregnant omegas."

Kaito's bravado flickered. He tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. "You're crazy. You're both crazy."

"Get out." Osamu stepped back, putting himself between Kaito and Atsumu. "Get out before I decide to hurt you."

Kaito scrambled up, straightening his shirt. He shot Atsumu a look—venomous, cold—and then fled through the open door. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading.

Silence settled in the aftermath, thick and heavy. Osamu stood there, breathing hard, fists still clenched. Slowly, he turned around.

Atsumu was on the floor, trembling, his hands pressed against his stomach. He looked so small, so broken, curled into himself. When he looked up, his eyes were red and unfocused.

"Samu…" His voice cracked. "Samu, I—"

Osamu dropped to his knees in front of him. He didn't hesitate. He pulled Atsumu into his arms, careful, gentle, as if holding something precious that might shatter. Atsumu clung to him, fingers digging into his jacket, and then the sobs came—ugly, wrenching sounds that tore out of his chest.

"I'm sorry," Atsumu gasped between cries. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—he just got so mad because I said I wanted to go home early—I was tired—I just wanted to lie down—"

"Shh, don't apologize." Osamu held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head. "You didn't do anything wrong. This isn't your fault."

"He's never hit me before," Atsumu said, but the words came out uncertain, like he was trying to convince himself. "He's never—he's just loud, and mean sometimes, but he's never—"

"Tsumu." Osamu pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. His own vision was blurry. "How long?"

Atsumu's face crumpled. "I don't know. A few months. Maybe since I got pregnant. He started acting different. He said I was ruining his life. He said the baby wasn't his, and it wasn't fair to him. He said I was selfish for keeping it."

Osamu wanted to scream. He wanted to find Kaito and beat him until he couldn't stand. But Atsumu needed him calm, needed him solid. So he took a shaky breath and forced his rage into a small, tight box.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. We're going to get you out of here. Right now. You're coming home with me."

Atsumu shook his head. "I can't—I have stuff—my things—"

"We'll get what you need. Just the essentials. We can come back later with the police." Osamu stood, offering a hand. Atsumu took it, his grip weak and trembling. He winced as he straightened, one hand pressed to his ribs.

"Did he hurt you there?" Osamu asked, voice tight.

"I think he kicked me. When I fell."

Osamu's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. But he just nodded. "We'll get you checked out. First, let's get you out of here."

He helped Atsumu gather a few things—clothes, toiletries, the small ultrasound photo tacked to the fridge. Atsumu moved slowly, favoring his side, stopping to wipe his eyes every few seconds. Osamu found a duffel bag in the closet and packed it methodically.

In the bedroom, a glass of water on the nightstand. Atsumu's pregnancy vitamins next to it. A book on baby names, dog-eared at the "M" section. Osamu tucked it into the bag.

"I used to think he'd change," Atsumu said, standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around himself. "After the baby comes. I thought he'd come around. That's what my friends said. That alphas get protective once the baby's here."

Osamu turned to face him. "Atsumu. He hit you. He threatened you. He called your baby a brat. That's not someone who's going to change. That's someone who's going to get worse."

Atsumu's lower lip wobbled. "I know. I know, I just—I didn't want to be alone."

"You're not alone." Osamu crossed the room and took his hand. "You have me. You have Miyako. You have a whole team of people who love you. You never have to be alone."

Atsumu broke down again, burying his face in Osamu's shoulder. Osamu held him, rubbing his back, murmuring soft reassurances. After a minute, he felt Atsumu's body relax slightly, the tension draining.

"Let's go," Osamu said. "My place is closer. We'll stop at a convenience store for snacks on the way. Whatever you want."

Atsumu gave a wet, shaky laugh. "Anything?"

"Anything. Even the weirdly flavored Pocky you like."

"They're not weird. They're limited edition."

"They taste like soap."

Atsumu sniffled, but there was the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You're still wrong."

It was a small, fragile moment. But it was something.

They drove back to Osamu's apartment in near silence. Atsumu stared out the window, one hand resting on his belly, the other holding the photo from the fridge. Osamu kept glancing over, making sure he was still breathing, still okay.

When they arrived, Miyako was waiting at the door. She must have gotten a text from Osamu earlier. She took one look at Atsumu—the bruise, the swollen eyes, the protective curl of his shoulders—and her face crumpled with sympathy. She didn't say a word. She just opened her arms.

Atsumu hesitated, then stepped into her embrace. She held him for a long time.

"I've got the guest room ready," she said softly. "Fresh sheets, extra pillows. There's a new toothbrush in the bathroom. And I made some tea."

"Thank you," Atsumu whispered.

"You don't have to thank me. You're family."

Osamu stood in the doorway, watching them. The anger was still there, simmering under his skin. But it was tempered now, mixed with a fierce, aching love. He'd failed to protect his brother once. He wasn't going to let it happen again.

The next morning, they went to the police station.

Atsumu was quiet during the drive, hands twisting in his lap. Osamu sat beside him, a steady presence. They filed a report. Atsumu gave a statement, his voice shaking but clear. The officer was a kind beta woman who treated him gently, offered him water, asked if he wanted a victim advocate.

He said yes.

They took photos of the bruises. Atsumu winced as the flash went off. Osamu squeezed his hand through the whole thing.

A restraining order was filed. The officer assured them it would be served within the week. For now, Atsumu was safe.

Back at the apartment, Atsumu collapsed onto the couch, exhausted. Osamu brought him a bowl of miso soup, simple and warm. Atsumu ate slowly, mechanically, but he ate.

Miyako sat down next to him. "We're going to the doctor tomorrow. Just a checkup. Make sure everything's okay with the baby."

Atsumu's hand flew to his belly. "You think I hurt him?"

"I think you need peace of mind," Miyako said gently. "And so does he."

Atsumu nodded, eyes welling up again. "I just want him to be okay. I want to give him a good life."

"You will," Osamu said, settling onto the armchair across from him. "You're going to be a great parent. You've already got the stubbornness for it."

Atsumu laughed, a real one this time, though it was watery. "Shut up."

"Make me."

It was the first time in months that they bantered like this. It felt like coming home.

Over the next few weeks, Atsumu started to heal. The bruises faded to yellow, then disappeared. The cut on his arm healed clean. But the deeper wounds—the ones in his chest, in his trust—would take longer.

Osamu took him to every doctor's appointment. He learned the baby's heartbeat by heart—a fast, galloping rhythm that made Atsumu smile every time. They found out the sex: a boy. Atsumu cried when he heard it.

"I'm going to name him after our grandfather," he said one night, sitting on the balcony, looking at the stars. "Kenji. For Kenjiro."

Osamu sat down beside him. "He would've liked that."

"He would've hated Kaito." Atsumu's voice was flat. "He always said I was too trusting."

"You're not too trusting. You just got unlucky."

Atsumu turned to look at him. The moonlight caught his eyes, making them shine. "Do you think I'll ever be okay? Really okay?"

Osamu didn't hesitate. "Yes. Not right away. But one day. And until that day, I'll be right here. Both of us will."

Atsumu leaned his head on Osamu's shoulder. They sat in comfortable silence, the city lights twinkling below, the soft sound of Miyako humming in the kitchen drifting out to them.

Atsumu placed a hand on his belly. The baby kicked—a strong, insistent flutter. He smiled.

For the first time in a long time, he felt safe.