Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The early February soil is stiff with frost and your breath billows out in cold clouds as you, Atsumu, and Osamu trample down your street, your gloved hands clutching a sheet of paper and a pencil. Your graduation from elementary school is right around the corner, but it’s hard to imagine the earth could ever be warm enough for cherry blossoms and short sleeves again. Even Ojiisan’s garden is barren, naked branches clawing at the sky, his flowers dormant for the season.

“This is where we first saw ya, Minami,” Osamu says, pointing at a spot on the wall surrounding his house, wood and plaster buckling under the snow that piles on top of it.

You nod, moving to mark it down on your paper, but Atsumu shakes his head.

“Are ya stupid? It was right here,” he says, pointing to a spot just a few centimeters to the left of Osamu.

“Hah? Yer stupid, Tsumu. It wasn’t anywhere near there.”

“Yer the stupid one, Samu. Yer just mad that I’m right.”

“I’ll put it somewhere in the middle,” you interrupt, drawing a star in the road in front of the twins’ house, scribbling down the words, “first saw each other here” alongside it. 

The paper is filled with a rough map of the neighborhood, one that you sketched as quickly as you could with little blocks for the various houses and rectangle roads crisscrossing each other. But you’ve left enough space to write down any notes, too, without the words getting cramped together.

It was your idea in the first place to make a treasure map of memories before you graduated, noting all the important places in your neighborhood that you’ve frequented. Though you don’t think you’d willingly forget everything you’ve done with the twins, it never hurts to capture a moment you’ll never get back. That’s the beauty of maps; they’ll always remember for you.

“Do you think we can find the place where we ran away to?” you ask.

“We can try,” Osamu says. “But I don’t remember where we went.”

“That’s because ya fell asleep too quickly,” Atsumu says disdainfully. “Like a big baby, right after stuffin’ yerself with onigiri.”

“Hah? And ya were snorin’ away like a scrub.”

“Well,” you interrupt, tapping your chin with the end of your pencil. At this point, you know to either tune out the twins’ constant bickering, or to cut them off before they work themselves up any further. “I know it was near the riverbank, so maybe it’ll look familiar if we see it again? As long as we find the area it was in, that’s good enough.”

“‘S a good plan,” Osamu says. “Are ya gonna use yer compass to find it?”

“Mhm,” you say, pulling out your compass from along the pouch on your neck, staring transfixed at the swivelling needle. “I think we walked… towards the east.” 

You march down the street, and the twins scramble to keep up with you.

“Walk more slowly, Minami. Yer gonna trip,” Atsumu chides, yanking you by the back of your jacket so you’re forced to a stop.

“Tsumu,” you say, “That’s rude.”

“He is real rude. Ya should hold my hand,” Osamu adds, stretching his out. “I’ll guide ya as you can walk.”

“Hah? I can do that for them. Yer just gonna get in their way,” Atsumu says.

“Yer just gonna make them trip. It’s better if I do it. Ya don’t have any tact.”

As if yer any better, ya scrub—ah! Minami! Slow down!” In the tumult of their argument, you resume your rapid pace down the street, and you can hear the twins racing after you, their feet pounding against the pavement.

Eventually, it’s settled that Atsumu will walk ahead of you and Osamu behind, and in this way, the three of you make your way through the neighborhood, stopping to mark important landmarks or chatter about any memories that bubble up.

It’s been three years since you moved to Hyogo, and for the foreseeable future, you have no plans to move anywhere else. Tousan, though he’s still busy, spends more time with you in the evening when he returns home from work, carefully listening as you talk about whatever class you took, or the silly thing that Osamu and Atsumu argued over, or your current mapmaking progress. On his days off, sometimes the two of you go out to a museum, or park, or just on a walk through the neighborhood.

Obaasan and Ojiisan are the same as always, though you’d like to think Ojiisan has warmed up to Atsumu and Osamu a bit more. He doesn’t grumble as much when they come over, though he still eyes them warily whenever they get a little too close to his garden. Obaasan is as enigmatic and unruffled as ever, but you think she smiles more these days, watching you, Atsumu, and Osamu run in and out of the house. Miya-san, though she’s still so busy you hardly ever see her, likes to ask if you’ve grown taller, and then ushers you in for a quick snack despite your protests.

And of course, Atsumu and Osamu have been steadfastly by your side for all those three years. It’s rarer for the three of you not to be together, and if you’re ever walking in the hallway alone, Gotou-sensei will ask, “Where’s Atsumu and Osamu?” 

“Are ya having fun, Minami?” Atsumu asks, craning his head over his shoulder. “What do you even do with all yer maps, anyways?”

“I like to look at them,” you say simply. 

“Ya could sell ‘em for money or something, if ya wanted.”

“But I don’t think anyone wants a map of your house, unless they were going to use it to break in.”

“And ya map everything! I didn’t even know making a list of volleyball rules or all yer old toys counts as a map, too.”

“Well, it’s a map that guides you through volleyball, right? And a map of toys guides you through your memories,” you say. “I think anything can be a map if it’s something you use to navigate the world. When we’re older, and we look back, then we can use the maps to remember what everything used to be like.”

“Tsumu’s just picking on ya ‘cause he’s bored,” Osamu whispers from behind you. “Let’s run off and leave him behind.”

“I heard that, Samu,” Atsumu accuses. “I wasn’t pickin’ on Minami! I was just askin’!”

“I think it’d be nice to use this map again when we’re all adults. We can come back to the neighborhood together,” you say, holding up the paper against the cold February sun. Light burns through the skin of the paper, swallowing your faint pencil markings.

“‘Course we will,” Atsumu says. “We’re all gonna be together in the future.”

You feel Osamu’s hands on your shoulders, his palms flat against your back, urging you along, and you try not to step on the back of Atsumu’s shoes. You could shake Osamu off, but you don’t want to; Osamu’s hands are as familiar to you as your own hands, and you’ll always trust where he’ll take you. “‘S a promise. We’ll use the map when we’re older. Come on, Minami. Yer going too slow now.”

—

Elementary school ends in a shower of pink petals and spring sunlight, with a diploma clutched tightly in your hands and a drawn-out closing ceremony that you spot Atsumu and Osamu falling asleep to, their heads nodding like swaying flowers in the wind, even as you listen intently to the principle’s every word, and a crowd of sporadic camera flashes as parents fight to take pictures. Atsumu and Osamu are dressed in matching black one piece suits, and even your clothes are fancier than usual, stiff and starchy, pressed and laid out the night before by Obaasan.

It’s no surprise that all your classmates, and a few kids from classes outside of yours, want to take pictures with Atsumu and Osamu. The twins only look at each other, raising their eyebrows, but acquiesce, faces bored and impassive as they line up for photo after photo. Sometimes, they glance at where you stand patiently to the side, waiting for them to finish, and you’ll smile at them, at which their own lips will quirk into the smallest smile, too.

When it’s time for your pictures, Miya-san and Tousan immediately position you, Atsumu, and Osamu in front of the school’s entrance. Your shoulders are squished together, and the school’s metal nameplate is visible behind you, the gate’s faded brick wall pressing into your back. 

“Stand closer to each other,” Miya-san says, waving her hand impatiently. “And Atsumu, I saw ya pinch Osamu! Cut that out!”

Osamu and Atsumu obediently shuffle closer to you and until you’re wedged between the two of them, unable to move. This must be what a volleyball at the very bottom of the cart feels like, when it’s pressed in at all sides.

“You’re too close,” you mumble plaintively.

“Okaachan said we had to stay closer together,” Osamu says primly.

“Right, right. We gotta listen to Okaachan,” Atsumu agrees, jostling your shoulder with his own.

Miya-san presses the shutter furiously, even circling around the three of you and crouching to the ground to get different angles for her photos, and she must have taken a thousand photos before she finally lowers her camera, satisfied. Just when you think your photoshoot is over, Ojiisan and Tousan raise their own cameras. Obaasan, with a petal pink scarf and a gray dress, raises a hand over her mouth, and you have the distinct feeling that she’s laughing with how her eyes crinkle when you, Osamu, and Atsumu all groan.

“Sorry, kids,” Tousan says. “We just want a few more pictures for our own collection.”

“Ya can move apart,” Ojiisan says, eyes narrowed as he lowers his camera. “Yer too close now.”

“No, it’s fine if they stay together,” Tousan says. “It’s how they always are, right?”

Ojiisan sighs, and so your photoshoot continues for more tortuous minutes until another group of parents and students want to use the gate for their own photos. You finally step away, grateful for the reprieve, dizzy from the constant attention and flashing lights, when someone grabs your sleeve.

“Hi,” Kotone says. “Can we have a photo together, too?”

You nod, because her eyes are so big and hopeful, and Keita is peering right over her shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his feet, like he’s also waiting for your answer. They pull you into a quick group photo, their arms around your shoulders, and your smile doesn’t feel forced, now, as you tentatively put your arms around their shoulders, too.

“I’ll see you in middle school,” you tell them once it’s over, bowing slightly. “I hope we can talk more, then!”

“Lookin’ forward to it,” Keita says, and Kotone nods vigorously, her pigtails flopping around her shoulders. 

Atsumu and Osamu immediately bully their way to your side as soon as you’re done, hands rising to ruffle your hair in that fast, frenzied way they like to do. At this rate, you might as well not brush your hair in the morning if they’re going to spend all their time messing it up.

“Minami, ya know we’re going to middle school with ya, too, right?” Atsumu says.

“Yeah. Us, yer best friends,” Osamu emphasizes.

“Eh? I know,” you say. “We’re going to walk to school together.”

“We’re takin’ the bus, scrub,” Atsumu says, but there’s nothing but a pleased affection in his tone. “It’s too far to walk.”

“But we’re goin’ ta take it together,” Osamu says. 

“Atsumu! Osamu!” Miya-san barks. “What are ya doing? Leave them alone, right now!”

At Miya-san’s words, they both reluctantly drop their hands, but neither of them step away from you. But that’s all right, because it’s not like you want them anywhere else, anyways.

After the ceremony, all of you head to an okonomiyaki restaurant to celebrate. You hardly ever eat out except on special occasions like graduation, so as everyone spreads around the hot griddle in the middle of the table, sinking into the plush booth seats, you wiggle in your spot excitedly. Tousan and Miya-san immediately begin mixing the batter and ingredients with expert hands, chatting all the while, as Obaasan and Ojiisan engage in a private conversation of their own.

You, Atsumu, and Osamu are right next to each other, having crowded into the same booth seat without question. Osamu’s eyes are glued to Tousan as he flips the okonomiyaki with a spatula.

“Any requests from the stars of the show today?” Tousan asks.

“I want everythin’,” Osamu says immediately. “Green onion, cabbage, egg, pork belly, octopus, scallops, an egg on top—”

“All right, all right,” Tousan says, laughing. “I can do that. What about the rest of you?”

“Seafood,” Atsumu says, raising his hand. “And meat! ‘S not okonomiyaki without meat!”

“And are ya okay with the same as usual, sweetheart?” Tousan says, nodding in your direction.

You nod back. You’ve always liked making your okonomiyaki in the exact same way ever since you were a child. And Tousan always remembers your particular order, the precise way you want everything cooked and arranged.

“Can I help ya flip that?” Osamu says.

“Ya can, if you’re careful about it,” Tousan says. “Why don’t you help me put the sauce on, too? And some of the bonito flakes?”

Osamu nods. “I’ll put some on yers too, Miniami. I’ll give ya extra.”

“Thank you, Samu,” you say, and he grins.

“What about me?” Atsumu complains.

“Ya can put it on yerself. Are ya a baby? Huh?”

“Baby? Yer the baby!”

Atsumu and Osamu descend into their usual bout of squabbling, but your attention is drawn towards Tousan and Miya-san, who have begun conversing in quiet, low voices. You lean forward, straining your ears over the sizzle of batter, the low chatter from other patrons, and Atsumu’s and Osamu’s indignant shouts right next to you.

It’s not like you mean to eavesdrop, but it’s a habit you developed whenever Tousan wasn’t being honest with you, and it’s hard to shake now. You know how to keep your ears open, to catch the things that adults never want to say in front of children but will let slip, anyways, because it’s better to listen, to know.

“Thanks for today,” Miya-san says quietly. “It was real nice of ya to let us spend graduation with yer family.”

“I should thank ya for being willing,” Tousan says. “I know it’s not easy to raise kids on yer own, and those three get along so well, I think they’d be more upset if they were apart.”

“‘S not,” she agrees. “And I’m grateful that the three of them have each other. Atsumu and Osamu can’t stop talkin’ about their Minami, day in and out, but I’m just glad they’re gettin’ along with someone else. I’ve never been worried that they’ll be lonely, because they’ve always had each other. But because of that, I worry it means they won’t bother ta talk to anyone else.”

“Yer doing the best you can. Atsumu and Osamu are good kids; I wouldn’t worry about ‘em. They’re young now, but they’re going ta change as they grow and meet new people. Their world is just going ta get bigger from now on.”

Miya-san let out a low laugh. “Yer right about that. They’re going ta have to change, whether they like it or not. Ya know, folks have always asked me when I was going ta remarry. Kept sayin’ that boys like ‘em need a father, and a woman can’t do it on her own. But if the next man’s just gonna be here when it’s easy and run off when it gets too difficult, then I’m better off on my own.”

Tousan flips the okonomiyaki without comment, sliding it onto Miya-san’s plate. “I understand,” he says at last. “People were always expectin’ that I’d remarry at some point after my wife died, but I never wanted to. She’s still the only one for me. But yer doing a good job, Miya-san. People are always talkin’ and making assumptions, but you don’t have to pay them any mind.”

“Well yer doing a banged-up job yerself,” Miya-san says. “And ya know, ‘s not like we’re doing this alone, like folks think. Ya have yer parents, and ya have me. If ya ever need anything, I’ll be here.”

Tousan smiles. “Thank you, Miya-san. I hope you know that that goes for you, too. You’ve already done so much for me, and I want ta be there for you, too. I’m glad I moved back here, and I’m glad our families met.”

Before you can make out Miya-san’s reply, Osamu is tugging on your sleeve, drawing your attention back to his argument with Atsumu. 

“Minami, who do ya think is right? Me, or Tsumu?” Osamu says, his voice venomous.

“It’s me, right?” Atsumu adds.

You haven’t been paying enough attention to their argument to declare a set winner, but you know enough about them to definitely say: “Neither of you are right.”

Atsumu and Osamu both groan, but at this point, the okonomiyaki is ready, and there’s no time for them to renew their argument when Tousan gives them their sizzling hot okonomiyaki and then their mouths are full and their cheeks are puffed out from chewing. 

When you were younger, you dreamed about having a mother, tried to piece it together from the little bits of Kaasan you remembered and the way your friends talked. You wanted to know what it was like to have someone pick you up after school so you didn’t have to walk alone, or to have someone waiting for you at home so you didn’t have to reheat a meal in the microwave. If only Kaasan was still around. If only she hadn’t gone so far for work, and then… 

(A phone call in the darkness. Tousan, standing. And you’re watching when you shouldn’t be watching.)

But there’s no point in thoughts like that. Kaasan is gone, and nothing can change that. Besides, you never liked it when people looked at you with so much pity when you said you didn’t have a mother, as if you were lacking something, as if Tousan was doing something wrong. 

“Ya should eat something, Minami,” Osamu says, clumsily flipping a sizzling okonomiyaki onto your plate with a spatula. “Here!”

“Samu’s gonna eat it all if ya don’t. And you can try some of mine if ya want,” Atsumu adds.

“Okay!” you say. 

Now you have Obaasan and Ojiisan waiting for you at home, and Atsumu and Osamu always barging in, and Miya-san stopping by when she’s free for dinner. As the chatter swells and you look around the table, drinking in each precious face, the memory of that old loneliness feels as distance as a dream.

—

On the first day of middle school, you’re knocking on Atsumu’s and Osamu’s door at the appointed time you’re supposed to meet, drowsy from the warm spring air and the white petals whispering down the street. It’s April, and the three of you have a long commute to make.

For once, you’re the one up early. You packed all your school supplies in your backpack the night before, and laid out your uniform, freshly pressed with no wrinkles or creases, right on your desk chair. You had enough time to eat breakfast, thank Obaasan and Ojiisan, and then fly out the door, ready to make your way to a new school.

After seeing how much later Osamu and Atsumu crawl out of bed these days, you decided you would have to be the one to pick them up for school instead. No longer were the three of you wandering the neighborhood from dawn to dusk; instead, they were getting up closer to noon. You still got up early so you could help Ojiisan with his garden, and you were sure the three of you would be late to school if you still relied on those two to come get you.

It takes longer than you expect for Osamu to stumble to the door, rubbing his bleary eyes. His school bag is strapped across his chest, and his tie is slightly askew. Even his hair is rumpled by sleep, as if it took all his energy just to crawl out of bed and make it to where he stands now.

“Where’s Tsumu?” you ask, reaching out to pull Osamu’s tie into place. He tilts towards you to give you better purchase, and you catch the faint scent of warm skin and clean laundry, like a nap on a summer’s afternoon.

“He’s still sleepin’,” Osamu says. “Wouldn’t get up at all. That scrub even asked me ta wake him last night, then complained about me tryin’ to make him get up.”

You shake your head and stride past him, pausing to yank off your shoes and line them up neatly at the entrance before you march up the stairs. Osamu trudges behind you as you jerk open his and Atsumu’s bedroom door.

The blinds and curtains have been pulled open to flood the room with light, but Atsumu is curled up in his bed in a cocoon of blankets, with just the faintest tuft of black hair poking out of the top, as if he’s become one living organism with his sheets.

“Tsumu!” you scold. “We’re going to be late for the entrance ceremony!”

The mass of blankets shifts and you can just make out one of Atsumu’s eyes. “Minami… Just five more minutes.”

“Ya already said that,” Osamu mutters.

“If you aren’t ready to go in five minutes, then Osamu and I are going to leave without you,” you say firmly. “And you can make your own way to school.”

Without another word, you spin around and Osamu follows along. In the background, you can hear Atsumu complaining, calling for the two of you to wait and that you’re the worst and playin’ favorites, and then a curse and a thump as he, most likely, falls and lands ungraciously from his bed and onto the floor.

You and Osamu both laugh, but you’re still waiting in the entryway for Atsumu when he finally emerges, somehow looking less put-together than Osamu had, with his hair askew, his shirt half-tucked and the ends of his pants wrinkled.

“Tsumu,” you say, reaching out to smooth down his hair, “I’m going to come get you earlier tomorrow, all right?”

Atsumu mumbles incoherently and leans into your touch in the same way his brother had just a few moments before, nuzzling into your hand as you comb through his bedhead with your fingers. Despite how differently they might act sometimes, in some of the smallest ways, they were surprisingly similar.

“Ya don’t need ta be nice ta him, Minami. If he’s late again, we can just leave without ‘im,” Osamu says decisively.

“Samu, ya scrub! I’m not going ta be late next time! ‘Sides, this is yer fault. I told ya to wake me.”

“Hah? Why’re ya blaming me? I told ya to get up!”

“Ya didn’t do a good enough job, you—”

“Tsumu, Samu,” you say firmly, watching as each brother stiffens up as you call their name in a tone that brooks no argument, “Let’s go catch the bus now, okay? We’re going to be late.”

The two meekly shuffle after you as you make your way to the bus stop. The bus pulls up just a few minutes later, already crowded with students, a field of new uniform blazers and school bags, and there’s hardly any seats left. Atsumu and Osamu usher you into the one remaining seat without a second thought, grabbing the bus railings above your head.

You hesitate before you sit down, even as the bus rumbles to life. “Are you sure you don’t want the seat, Samu? Or you, Tsumu?”

The bus jerks around a corner and Atsumu grips your elbow to keep you from falling, Osamu placing a hand on your shoulder to anchor you in place.

“Nah,” Atumu says. “Don’t want ta.”

“Ya should sit, Minami. Before someone else takes yer spot,” Osamu says.

And with that, you slide down into the nubby bus seat, and place your bag in your lap. Atsumu and Osamu sway above you, and you have to crane your neck if you want to talk to them. Not that it’s possible to even hold a continuous conversation on the bus, not with the rumble of other students around you.

After your bumpy bus ride, the three of you finally reach Inarizaki Middle School. Your first day of middle school passes remarkably similar to your first day of elementary school. There’s the entrance ceremony where Atsumu falls asleep during the principal’s speech, tilting his head forward and snoring before Osamu kicks the back of his seat and he jerks upright with a glare, greeting old classmates and friends, all of whom seem particularly interested in hearing how Atsumu’s and Osamu’s summer went even as the twins grunt out one word responses, and the middle school band performance, where you clap politely at the blaring trumpets and crashing cymbals. 

There is something that is different about middle school, though: the new class assignments. You and the twins head towards the list tacked to the board outside of the gymnasium, already surrounded by a crowd of students that Atsumu elbows his way to the front of as you and Osamu follow. It’s easy enough to find Atsumu’s and Osamu’s names and new class assignments, 1-2, but when the three of you look for your name, your class is 1-1.

It’s not as if you haven’t considered this possibility, but you still aren’t ready for such a monumental change to be written in such uncaring printed letters. You, Atsumu, and Osamu spent all of elementary school in the same classroom, but now, you would have to go the entire day without seeing them. Why did you assume that the three of you would always be together?

“It’s not right,” Atsumu says dumbly, pointing at your name on the board. “There’s some kinda mistake. They messed up! Minami, why’re you in a different class from us?”

“I don’t know,” you protest. “I didn’t do this!”

“Ya gotta get them to change it! I don’t want to be in a class with scrubs I don’t know,” Atsumu says disdainfully. “I don’t want ya to be in a class full of scrubs I don’t know, either!”

“Yer still in the class right next to ours,” Osamu begins, frowning, as if he’s trying to reassure himself, too. “So we can see ya during lunch. And we all go ta school together, and we can all go home together, too.”

“Samu, ya should be more upset!”

“Are ya stupid?” Osamu snaps. “I am, but I’m not gonna make a big deal of it, like you, ya scrub! Yer throwing a tantrum like yer still in elementary school. We’re middle schoolers now. Yer just going to cause trouble for Minami if ya throw a fit like that!”

“I’m not—” Atsumu glances at you and makes a valiant effort to pause, his mouth wobbling as if he’s struggling to hold back all of his complaints. “Whatever! Ya suck, Samu. I’m walkin’ ya to class, Minami. And ya better be there when I come to pick you up after school!”

The three of you plod towards your new classes, grave and silent in comparison to your cheerful classmates chattering in the hallway, flush with the promise of a new school semester. Thankfully, like Osamu says, their class is just next door to yours. It’s a short distance, only a little more than a meter, and smaller than the distance it would take to cross the street to get to their house from yours.

It’s only a new class. It’s not a big deal, and you’ll still see them before class, during lunch, and after class, too. You won’t be apart for that long. But would it be like this in the future, too? What if you went to different high schools, or colleges? What happens if you’re adults, and you lose contact, and find other friends, and your lives split apart like a frayed thread? The idea makes you feel small.

(It’s just so, so easy to lose people.)

Atsumu and Osamu hover in the entrance of your classroom as you step in, Osamu just a step behind Atsumu, Atsumu gripping the doorframe. There are already students inside, scattered around their desks, showing off new bags or new accessories, one of the windows in the back propped open for a cool spring breeze.

“I’ll see ya during lunch, Minami,” Atsumu says. “Don’t forget. Kaasan packed some extra for ya. Extra! And if ya don’t eat it, then Samu’s gonna pig out on yer share.”

That’s another change, too, small as it is. After elementary school, Atsumu and Osamu decided that Okaachan was too childish of a name to call their mother, and they were going to switch to something more appropriate for their cool, mature age of twelve. Personally, you don’t think it makes them sound more mature, but you know better than to share that thought.

“I’m not gonna eat Minami’s food. I’m gonna eat yers, ya scrub,” Osamu mutters darkly. 

“Hah? Then I’m gonna eat yer food.”

“Ya can’t. I’ll eat it before ya can.”

“Samu, Tsumu,” you say, voice low. Their argument is drawing the attention of everyone in the classroom. It’s inevitable to some extent, you know; the twins are so loud and bright, and their fights are the stuff of playground legends, and you have no doubt they’ll be just as popular in middle school as they were in elementary school. “I’ll come see you during lunch, okay? But you two shouldn’t argue like this too much.”

“Minami,” Atsumu whines, but his voice is cut off in a sudden, strangled yelp as you wrap your arms around him and pull him into a hug, your hands firm on his back. He’s strangely pliant in your hands, unable to move a single inch as if he’s been paralyzed, not even to hug you back.

“I’ll see you during lunch!” you say brightly.

Atsumu seems incapable of coherent speech, his ears burning bright red, but you turn to Osamu, who immediately stiffens up in your arms when you hug him, too. It feels a bit like trying to hug a wooden blank with how tense Osamu is. You’re about to pull away when Osamu’s arms wrap around your waist and anchor you in place for just a few seconds longer.

“See ya at lunch, Minami,” Osamu says quietly, one hand on Atsumu’s collar as he drags him away, as it seems Atsumu still hasn’t gained his ability to move or talk.

Someone calls your name in the classroom, and you whirl around. It’s Keita and Kotone, who wave at you from where they sit near the back. Kotone has her hair in sleek twin pigtails with bright red hair ties, and Keita has unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. You hurry over, glad to have at least someone you know in your class. 

“Hi Keita, Kotone!” you say, placing your bag carefully on a desk next to Keita. “I’m glad we’re in the same class.”

“Me too!” Kotone says brightly. “I was so scared I would be surrounded by people I didn’t know, so I’m so glad ya two are here.”

“Let’s be good friends this semester,” you say, bowing to Keita and Kotone.

“Oh, you don’t need ta do that,” Keita says, waving his hands. “We’re already friends, ya know.”

“Yeah!” Kotone says.

“I’m glad,” you say, beaming. “But I hope we can get even closer this semester!”

“It’ll be easier to be yer friend now that Atsumu  and Osamu aren’t in class,” Keita says.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

Kotone looks flustered at Keita’s words, as if he’s said something he shouldn’t have. Keita, for his part, looks thoughtful. His hair is parted neatly, though there’s an unruly cowlick at the back that sticks up, which he reaches out to absently smooth down.

“I didn’t mean anythin’ bad,” he says. “‘S just you’re always with Atsumu and Osamu and it’s hard ta approach you.”

“We’re best friends,” you say, by way of explanation.

“I know,” Keita says. “‘S just those two never go out of their way for anyone else, and they never let anyone close.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” Kotone adds hastily. “We’re all here now aren’t we?”

“You’re right. I’ll be relying on you two this semester,” you say.

“Me too!” Kotone says.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” Keita says.

Even without Atsumu and Osamu, you’ll be okay. You can never map the entire world if your own stays so small. 

—

The rest of your first day passes without much incident. 

Your homeroom teacher is an older man named Itou-sensei with salt and pepper hair and glasses that slide down his nose, who speaks in a soft, monotone voice that almost makes you fall asleep.

You get your assigned seats, and share your favorite highlighters with Kotone, and fish your notebook out for Keita to see. 

During lunch, Atsumu and Osamu barge into your classroom and pull up chairs to sit at your desk, their knees knocking into yours as your bento almost falls into your lap from the force at which they slam their own onto the table. There’s no space for all three of your lunches to fit comfortably, but you don’t mind at all. Atsumu, as promised, gives you an extra portion of seasoned rice from Miya-san, and Osamu gives you little sausages. 

After school, though, when you’re slowly packing up your bags, Atsumu and Osamu burst into your classroom and Atsumu slings your bag onto his arm while Osamu picks up your textbooks before they both take hold of one arm apiece, marching you directly down to the faculty offices. 

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Club registration,” Atsumu says. “Ain’t it obvious?”

“Eh… But it’s the first day of school. We haven’t even heard about all of the clubs or done the club fair yet,” you protest.

“Don’t need ta. I already know what club I’m gonna join.”

“We’re joining the volleyball team,” Osamu says.

“And ya can join, too,” Atsumu says. “Or ya can even be a manager. They have that position open in middle school, ya know! Ya can watch me set!”

“Are ya stupid?” Osamu says. “Why do ya think the team is going to choose you to be the setter?”

“They’re going ta,” Atsumu says.

It’s not long until the three of you reach the faculty offices on the first floor, a long line of desks and laptops and scattered assignments, teachers chattering idly with each other. Atsumu and Osamu march up directly to who you assume to be their homeroom teacher, a woman with short hair who almost jumps out of her seat when they both make sloppy bows to her. You bow, too, if only to be polite.

“Hi Asano-sensei!” Atsumu says. “Can we get the club registration forms?”

“Club registration forms?” Asano-sensei says, bewildered. “It’s only the first day of school.”

“We already know what club we’re joinin’,” Osamu says. “We just wanted ta get a head start.”

“Well, it’s not bad to know what you want, but…” She glances at you. “Hello there. You’re not in my class. Are you also going to register for a club?”

“I would like to take a look at the form, if that’s okay,” you say.

“All right,” she says. After rummaging around in her desk, she pulls out three sheets of paper, handing them to you, Atsumu, and Osamu. Atsumu immediately plasters it against the wall and sketches out his name in hasty kanji. Osamu removes a textbook from his bag to use as a surface to write on. You, for your part, simply look at the paper, the text boxes asking for your name, class, and interested club.

“I’m done!” Atsumu says, handing the paper to Asano-sensei. 

Osamu hands in his paper a bit after, and then the two of them turn to look at you. 

“Aren’t ya gonna hand it in, Minami?” Osamu asks. 

“Did ya want to join the actual team or are ya gonna be the manager? Ya can come to games either way, but—” Atsumu begins.

“Oh, I’m not joining the volleyball club,” you say simply. “I think I’m going to join the art club.”

For a while, you enjoy the uncharacteristic silence from the twins, as they blink wide eyes at you, and then glance at each other, and then back at you, and then—

“What? The art club?” Atsumu squawks. He’s waving his arms up and down. “You can’t join the art club!”

“Why?” you ask.

“We’re not in the art club,” Osamu says. His words are certain, absolute, but his eyebrows are scrunched together. “Don’tcha want to play volleyball with us?”

Atsumu snatches the paper from your hand, scanning it with disbelief and shaking his head. “Blank! Ya left it blank!”

“Because it’d be rude for me to join the volleyclub when I don’t want to play,” you say. 

“Ya don’t like volleyball?” Osamu asks quietly.

“It’s not like that. I like volleyball! I like playing with you and Tsumu. But I think it’s rude to join when I know I don’t want a position, and there are other people who want it more. It’d feel disrespectful to people who care about playing when I don’t. And it’d be disrespectful to myself, too. Besides, I want to join the art club to improve my mapmaking skills.”

“But… but…” Atsumu splutters. He spins around to face Asano-sensei. “Can’t they just join two clubs?”

She smiles gently at him. “Well, meeting times for both volleyball and art are going to overlap, so it wouldn’t be possible for them to. And you’re not supposed to join more than one club in the first place.”

“Minami!” Atsumu groans, but no matter how much he whines in your ear or Osamu looks at you with a solemn expression as if the sheer force of his gaze could get you to change your mind, you aren’t going to.

“Tsumu, if you keep complaining, I’ll be mad! Really mad! You’re not going to change my mind!” you say firmly. After a second, you place your hands on your hips as you say so, just like Obaasan does when she’s mad at Ojiisan.

“Let’s leave him behind, Minami. ‘S fine if you don’t want to join,” Osamu mutters in your ear, threading his arm through yours and smoothly pulling you along and out of the office. 

You hear Atsumu yelp from somewhere behind you, then the sound of his scrambling footsteps. “Samu! No fair!”

On the way home, on the bus, you tuck the club sheet into your school bag. Osamu is gazing out the window behind you, watching the scenery streaking by in a soft blur, his expression one of carefully schooled disinterest. Atsumu grumbles incoherently under his breath as he sways with every bump. But the two of them still stand over you, a tight knot of three bodies.

“Yer still going to our games, right, Minami?” Atsumu asks. He’s peeking at you from the fringe of his eyelashes, and there’s an underlying anxiousness to his voice that can’t be quite papered over by his usual cockiness and brashness.

“Of course!” you say firmly. “I’ll go to all of them, I promise. There’s no way I would miss any! I like seeing the two of you play volleyball.”

Atsumu is ruffling your hair so fast and calling you a scrub that you can’t really be sure, but you think he might have blushed at your words.

—

When you finally arrive home after a bumpy bus ride, Atsumu and Osamu trailing behind you as they always do, you unlock your front door to find Tousan waiting for you. He’s home earlier than you expect, and he waits patiently as the three of you slip off your shoes, bags bumping against your waists as you bend over. 

Atsumu and Osamu move easily through your house, reaching for their worn house slippers that Obaasan bought them a year or so back, lining their shoes next to yours. They know where everything is, treat your house as if it’s theirs, too. They’re old enough to stay alone in their home without Miya-san worrying, but they still follow you here, the unspoken assumption that this is simply where they belong.

“Congratulations on yer first day of middle school, all three of you,” Tousan says, rubbing the back of his neck. His glasses are slipping down his  nose again, and he has one arm hidden unnaturally behind him, his elbow sticking out like a chicken wing.

“You’re home early, Tousan,” you say. You try to peek around him, but Tousan turns so you can’t see what he has.

“Well, I asked if I could go home a little early. I needed ta pick something up.”

Atsumu rests his chin on your shoulder as he squints at Tousan. “‘S a present for Minami?”

Tousan chuckles. “Yes, something like that. Miya-san and I were talking recently. Since the three of you are older now, and you’re going to be commuting further and staying after school for clubs, it’d be convenient if we could contact you three more often.”

“Kaasan got us something, too?” Osamu adds. 

“Maybe,” Tousan says mysteriously. “You’ll just have to wait for Miya-san to come home and see for yourselves. But, sweetheart, this is for you.” 

With a dramatic flourish and a silly little bow, Tosuan finally brings his hidden arm forward, revealing a sleek white box, presenting it to you like he’s just pulled off a spectacular magic trick.

You, Atsumu, and Osamu stare at the image emblazoned on the front, and say, almost simultaneously—“It’s a phone!”

“We’re getting phones, Samu!” Atsumu says enthusiastically.

“Real phones,” Osamu mutters, eying the package with renewed interest. 

“Thank you, Tousan,” you say, carefully taking the package from his hands. It’s got a nice heft to it. You’ve never had an interest in phones before, but it would be more convenient to be able to contact anyone you want right away. You could get Keita’s and Kotone’s numbers, too. A phone! It makes you feel a bit like a grown-up already.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“Ya gotta add my number first, Minami,” Atsumu says enthusiastically.

“Are ya stupid? We don’t even have phones yet,” Osamu scoffs. “‘Sides, Minami’s going to want to have my number first, ya scrub.”

“Yer the scrub! I already said they were going to add me first.”

Ignoring the bickering behind you, you carefully pull the box’s lid off and extract the phone from its casing. It’s a simple black flip phone that snaps open with a crisp clack as you approach Tousan, holding it out to him. 

“Can I get your number first, Tousan?” you ask.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he says, taking the phone from you and tapping his number in. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he regards the twins behind you. “I guess I win this one, then?”

“Mhm! I’m going to add Obaasan and Ojiisan next.” 

Atsumu and Osamu groan but follow you as you scamper down the hall to get your grandparents’ numbers. 

Later that night, as you’re getting ready to sleep, your phone vibrates, two new messages popping on your screen. You read the texts carefully, legs folded underneath you as you lounge on your bed.

Unknown: Did you get this message first, Minami???? 

Unknown: I sent this message before Tsumu.

You purse your lips before responding and adding their contact information. Atsumu and Osamu had written your number on the corner of their notebooks before they left for the day, so it’s not a surprise that they messaged you so suddenly.

You: You both sent it at the same time!

There aren’t any replies after that, but you can already imagine Atsumu and Osamu arguing over your message. Everything is a competition with the two of them, no matter how small of a thing it is to everyone else, but that’s just how it is with the twins. No one else can keep up with them quite as much as each other. It’s comforting, but it’s also a little lonely. They’ll always have each other, but when you’re alone, you’re by yourself.

The last two messages pop up an hour later.

Atsumu: Night, Minami. Don’t leave without me tomorrow. And don’t listen to Samu!!

Osamu: See you in the morning. If Tsumu sleeps in, we should just leave him.

You: I’m not leaving anyone behind! If we go somewhere, we have to go together, all three of us.

—

After a few weeks, you think you’ve finally settled on a routine.

In the mornings, you venture over to Osamu’s and Atsumu’s house so the three of you can wait at the bus stop and head to school together. It always takes a bit of pestering to wake Atsumu, and several times you and Osamu have left him behind when he absolutely refuses to get out of bed on time. Usually, Atsumu will just barely make the bus and yell at the two of you for leaving him behind, even though you’ve saved a spot for him. They always let you sit down if there’s only one seat available, standing in front of you instead.

During lunch, Atsumu and Osamu will pop up at the entrance of your classroom without asking, immediately dragging two chairs to your desk and unwrapping their bento on your desk. It’s just like in elementary school, but they’re a little taller now, which means Osamu’s knees knock into yours and Atsumu sits too close and accidentally whacks you in the face when he’s gesturing too wildly.

Still, even without the twins in your class, you still have Keita and Kotone. You share notes with Keita and Kotone during class and text them in your free time. Kotone likes to doodle on her notebook page, keeping her head bent so no one can see what she’s drawing, and Keita likes to raise his hand and answer the teacher’s questions.

Kotone has a sweet tooth and a bad habit of dozing off during classes, drowsing in the sunlight like a cat soaking up the warmth. Sometimes, she’ll share whatever candy she picked up from the conbini on the way to school with you, sampling the new limited edition flavors. She’s a lot more talkative than you expect once you get to know her better.

Keita is a bit more friendly, the sort of person with a wide circle of acquaintances because he’s constantly stopping by to say hi to someone new in the halls. As a result, he’s always doing favors for your classmates, unable to resist saying no when someone says they need help. But it makes him popular, too, so everyone knows his name.

Sometimes, though, Atsumu will text you in class, sending message after message asking about what you’re doing, how bored he is, if he can have one part of your bento for lunch. And then the stream of texts will stop, and Osamu will send a message later that simply says, “Tsumu got his phone confiscated.”

After school, you and the twins head your separate ways. You’ve finally signed up for the art club, which means you spend your free time in the club room, sketching bowls of fruit and glass bottles, or breaking out a container of old watercolors as you try to delicately layer colors together to capture the right shade of the sky. Keita is in the art club, too, so you often work side by side with him in a companionable silence, before sharing what you’ve been working on for the day.

“Ya really like drawing buildings,” Keita will note, touching the edges of your neat lines, your recent attempt to draw the school.

“I like how they look,” you say, holding up his sketchbook with both hands. “And you really like cats.”

“I think they’re cute,” Keita protests. “‘sides, I got a cat at home. She’s the only one in my family who wants ta model for me.”

Volleyball practice tends to run a little longer than art club, which means you’ll trundle off to the gym and wait for Atsumu and Osamu to finish, curling up in the corner with your homework or a new sketch you’re working on. You’ll sit with your knees tucked up to your chest, and your attention will only be interrupted when Osamu flings a sweaty arm around you and knocks his head with yours, trying to sneak a glance at your work, or Atsumu will yank your sketchbook out of your hands and sit directly in front of you and demand if you saw his awesome serve.

There is a pleasant surprise in the volleyball club, though: Aran. He goes to your middle school, though he’s a year above you and the twins. When you see him for the first time, lining up to practice spiking, you immediately set your notebook down to watch him jump up into the air, his back a graceful curve, arm drawing back, before spiking the ball hard onto the other side of the court.

“Aran!” you say, jumping up and waving your arms widely as soon as he’s done. “That was cool!”

“Huh—It’s you?” Aran says. Then he looks at the twins, who are giving those smug little fox-like grins, and then back to you, and shakes his head. “Never mind. I shoulda expected this. The three of ya are always together, huh?”

Aran makes the effort to talk to you during breaks, leaning against the wall next to you and glancing down at your sketches. You’ll make small talk about your day, the difficulties of your classes, the classmates you get along with, and, of course, you talk about Atsumu and Osamu. What you shared for lunch, the funny things that happened on the way to school, how Osamu and Atsumu are always texting you even though they live across the street.

The other volleyball club members shoot you curious glances in the beginning, and you can hear people muttering, “What’re they doing here?” But those whispers are silenced the moment Osamu and Atsumu dart over to ruffle at your hair or tug at your arms, crouching next to you in such a way that it leaves no room for anyone else to intrude, save for Aran, who they always shuffle over to make room for. 

It’s during one of those pleasant afternoons, when the gym doors are propped open to let in a cool breeze, and you zone out to the sound of tennis shoes squeaking and volleyballs smacking the waxed floor, that Aran approaches you, a water bottle in hand.

You always like to sit close enough to watch, but far enough that you can get a sweeping view of the entire court, all the boys running around like an unorganized army in miniature. Sometimes, if you’re feeling particularly inspired, you like to draw the figures in motion, or the entire court as a whole. You also sit in such a place that you rarely get hit with stray volleyballs, too, though you still get the odd ball here and there rolling towards your feet.

The last few times that happened, one of the volleyballs almost hit you in the head and it startled you into dropping your papers across the floor, fanning out in one white wave. Someone snickered, and then Atsumu was in the server’s face, standing so close that the boy cowered back on instinct at the fury in his face.

“Are ya an idiot? Ya can’t even control where ya aiming!” Atsumu’s hands were bunched into fists, as if he was this close to grabbing the boy’s shirt.

“Calm down, Tsumu,” Osamu said with a tired sigh, keeping a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder so he couldn’t move forward. But his voice dropped an octave lower, a cold, detached tone, as he flicked a single glance at the boy and added, “Ya need to be more careful. Got it?”

Ever since then, you think the other members are very, very careful not to hit you.

“Those two always show off when yer around,” Aran says, shaking his head, drawing your attention back to him. His water bottle dangles loosely from his fingers, and he takes a quick chug, throat bobbing. 

“Tsumu and Samu always work hard, though?”

“They do,” Aran says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “But when yer around, it’s different. ‘S like they have something to prove.”

“What’re you talking about, Aran, Minami?” Atsumu says. At some point, he’d made his way over with Osamu. With all three boys standing over you, you have to crane your neck up to talk to them, as if you’re surrounded by giants.

“About the fact you want my attention,” you say.

“Yer attention?” Atsumu squawks. “Why do I want that? Huh?”

Before you can blink, Atsumu is crouching down in front of you and stretching your cheeks with his thumbs and forefingers, like he’s pulling mochi.

“Tsumu–” you try to complain, but then he stretches them even more, so your voice is muffled.

“‘S what you get!” Atsumu says, but his ears are brushed with pink, like blooming flowers.

Osamu only watches, making no move to save you from your fate. “Yer attention is already on us though, right, Minami? Yer always watching us, aren’t ya?”

“That’s right! I shouldn’t have ta do anything to get yer attention,” Atsumu says. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Aran splutter, choking on his water. “You three are weird…” You hear Aran mutter, but neither Atsumu or Osamu pay him any attention.

There is one other thing that surprises you about the volleyball club, though: they don’t have a manager lined up. When the existing third year manager graduates, the spot will be empty. Sports clubs don’t necessarily need a manager to function, but you thought the spot was awfully popular. You even heard a few of your classmates giggling about applying for the role, and Kotone even expressed some interest at one point.

When you ask Aran about it after practice while he’s helping to clean up all the volleyballs scattered across the floor, he only shakes his head. “It’s ‘cause Atsumu and Osamu scared ‘em off. We got people to join on a trial bias, to see how they like bein’ a part of the team, but none of them lasted more than a few days. Those twins of yers…”

“I’ll have a talk with them,” you say sincerely. “It’s not nice of them to scare people off like that.”

But when you approach Atsumu and Osamu about it after practice, they glance at each other before looking back at you. There’s no repentance in their eyes, no sign they feel like they’ve done something they should regret.

“You two should be nicer to the people trying out for managers,” you say. “Aran says you’re being mean.”

“What? ‘S not my fault if they get scared that easily,” Atsumu says derisively. “How are they gonna be the manager if they’re scared of the court? Or if they don’t know anythin’ about the game?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Osamu says. “I wasn’t mean. But ‘s not like I need ta talk to them, right? They’re just here to do their job.”

We don’t need another manager, anyways,” Atsumu says. “Lots of scrubs like ta line up for the position, but if they aren’t good enough, they’re not good enough.”

“But if ya want to switch to the volleyball club, the position’s open for ya,” Osamu adds. “Ya would do a good job, Minami. I bet you could even get a starting position if ya really wanted to and didn’t want ta be manager.”

“No thank you,” you say politely. “I’m already a part of the art club.”

The twins share a disgruntled look, which you elect to ignore.

Usually after volleyball practice, you and the twins hop on the bus and walk home together: side by side, crowding the sidewalk, just like you always have. They like to stop by your house to scrounge through your collection of snacks in the kitchen, to talk to Obaasan and Ojiisan who they address as casually as their own grandparents, or just to unwind after practice in the living with you, chatting cheerily about anything you didn’t have a chance to discuss during school.

In school, just like in elementary school, Atsumu and Osamu are popular. They draw crowds and admiring gazes, a pull as inexhaustible and constant as gravity. They’re stars, and they only burn brighter with each passing year. Is it because they’re part of the volleyball club, and everyone always comments on how well they play together? Or is the several centimeters they’ve grown, seemingly shooting up overnight, and the baby fat melting from their faces, their voices just a little deeper? Or is it the fact that they never let anyone else close, and people always admire what they can’t have?

“Atsumu is funnier, but Osamu is nicer,” you hear someone in your class say. You can’t stop yourself from leaning in to listen, the way you always do whenever Atsumu and Osamu are mentioned.

“Really? I think Atsumu is the cuter one!”

“What are you talking about? They’re identical twins! They have the same face!”

“But their attitudes are so different, you know?”

“What do you think?” Your classmates have turned their attention to you, now, calling your name. “Yer close with them, right? Do they act any different in private?”

“Tsumu is Tsumu,” you say, startled. “And Samu is Samu.”

But maybe your answer isn’t satisfactory enough, because your classmates sigh and resume their gossiping. Just because you’re close to the twins doesn’t mean you share their status at all, though that suits you just fine.

The twins have always functioned as a unit, talked about in the same breath until their names melt together. Atsumu and Osamu. Osamu and Atsumu. Atsumu-Osamu. Osamu-Atsumu. They’re always together, so isn’t it natural for them to be discussed together, too?

Even so, people have different opinions on them.

Atsumu is slightly more standoffish, and his attitude has only gotten worse. You’re used to it, though, and you know how to handle his childish moods and whims, because that’s just how Atsumu is, and you like the way he’s always a little honest. But other people talk about him like he’s a jagged edge of stained glass: pretty, sure, but only admirable from afar. Too close, and they realize he has no interest in things he deems beneath his notice, and he’s not afraid to say that.

Osamu is the nicer one, but privately, you think he’s just as bad as Atsumu. He may be a bit quieter, but he’s just as mean when he thinks it’s warranted. Osamu isn’t cruel, but he is disinterested in a lot of things, and when he falls quiet, you know his mind is working, calculating what he sees and what he wants to say. But he’s thoughtful and attentive, and people find him easier to talk to, since he doesn’t outwardly reject their attempts at friendship like Atsumu might.

That doesn’t stop them from being liked, though. For all their flaws, they still have their fans. You’ve heard all the reasoning behind it: because they’re cute, because they’re athletic, because their attitudes and reluctance to draw closer to others is irresistible. 

It’s strange to you, because you can’t really view Atsumu and Osamu in such a way. They’re not distant idols to admire or a schoolyard crush, because they’re just Tsumu and Samu to you. A little annoying, a little rude, but your best friends, who are sometimes charming and kind in the most unexpected ways.

“Minami,” Atsumu says. He waves a hand in front of your face. “Were ya paying attention?”

You blink owlishly at him. It’s another typical lunch period, where Atsumu and Osamu are crowded so close to you that you can barely move out of your seat without bumping into one or the other. They don’t like dining in the cafeteria, or so they claim, because “there’s too many scrubs there.”

“What did you say, Tsumu?” you ask patiently.

“Yer story is boring, Tsumu,” Osamu says bluntly. “No one wants ta hear about how awesome ya think ur sets are.”

Atsumu smacks his hand on your desk for emphasis. “What are ya talking about? ‘Course Minami wants ta hear. Yer lucky I like ya enough to repeat myself, Minami. So listen—”

Atsumu starts diving into his story with enthusiasm, hands gripping the edge of his desk. Osamu lets out a sigh, sliding lower in his seat, his leg pressing against yours. You’re paying attention to Atsumu, of course you are, because he’ll only pout and whine all the more if you don’t listen to him this time, but you also can’t help but notice the gazes of your classmates. Sneaky glances, heads tilted in the direction of Atsumu’s overloud voice, bodies shifted just so to catch fragments of his words.

Because they’re watching Atsumu and Osamu, they’re also watching you, too. They’re the center of attention, but you catch the edges of the spotlight by proximity, and so people view you as the tagalong to Atsumu and Osamu. Really, you don’t get it at all.

(And what would you do if they changed a little beyond your reach, if they grew distant to you, too? If you were left behind, if they never looked at you again? Some things are better if you don’t think about them.)

—

Ojiian’s garden is in full, luscious bloom during the first summer break of middle school, as vibrant as it was all the years before now. He still has shrubs of blue and pink hydrangeas, amaranth, and blushing crepe myrtle, but this year, he’s also planted carnations and waving sunflowers that shroud you, Atsumu, and Osamu from the heat, wreathed in the sweet perfume of fresh, bright blooms.

“Don’t let them ruin anything, ya hear me?” Ojiisan had informed you only a few minutes before. “Watch ‘em! If they take a single step towards my flowers, ya whack ‘em and tell them to back off!”

“Tsumu and Samu wouldn’t hurt your flowers, Ojiisan.”

“Ya don’t know,” Ojiisan said darkly. “And what kinda names are Tsumu and Samu?”

“I like it, though.”

Ojiisan let out a loud grumble. “Fine. but the second they do anything outta line, ya tell me, all right?”

But you, Atsumu, and Osamu haven’t done much of anything except stretch out on the grass with sunlight pouring like honey down your bodies, too tired from the heat to do much of anything but watch the clouds pass and toss around lazy, half-formed plans. Originally, the three of you planned to jump in the river, or maybe throw water balloons in the front street and then gather watermelon slices and spit seeds, but the heat has taken you all hostage.

At least until Atsumu breaks the afternoon spell, speaking with an authoritative drawl. “‘S Tanabata soon. This weekend. We’re going.”

“Who said I want to go with you, ya scrub?” Osamu says.

“Yer the scrub. I never said I wanted ta go with you. Yer just gonna pig out. Me and Minami’ll go together,” Atsumu shoots back.

“Nah. Minami’s gonna go with me. Why would they want ta go with someone as annoyin’ as you?”

“We’re going together,” you interrupt. “All three of us! I think Tanabata sounds really fun.”

“Then I want to get yakisoba. And takoyaki. And cotton candy. And taiyaki. And—” Osamu begins.

“We get it. Ya want to eat street food, ya pig!” Atsumu interrupts. “But I want ta play all the games.”

“I want to hang up my wishes,” you say. “And I think it’ll be fun to see all the decorations this year.”

“What’re ya gonna wish for, Minami?” Osamu asks.

You smile up at the sky. “That’s a secret!”

“No fair,” Atsumu whines. “Then I’m not gonna tell you my wish.”

“I bet yer gonna wish for something stupid, anyways,” Osamu says.

“Not as stupid as you!” Atsumu retorts, and they launch into another round of bickering as you admire the clouds.

In the following week, you count down the days leading to Tanabata, waiting for the 7th with impatience. You’ve always liked the story of Hikoboshi and Orihime, and besides, wishes and stars are like maps of their own, guiding people to their dreams, so the holiday has a special place in your heart.

(Tousan tells you that you, him, and Kaasan used to go to the festival in Kyoto together. But you don’t remember it at all, so you can only imagine how nice it must have been, the three of you, one family.)

Tousan easily gives you permission to go off with Atsumu and Osamu when you tell him about the plans, and helps you buy your train tickets to Amagasaki, provided you message him when you’re on your way home and that you don’t stay out too late.

“You don’t want to go with me?” he jokes. “Yer growing up so fast, already abandoning me for your friends.”

“Tousan…” you say worriedly.

He shakes his head at the pout of your lip. “I’m just joking, sweetheart. Go have fun. And don’t get into too much trouble, all right?”

You nod in agreement before he can take back his permission.

On the day of the festival, just a few hours before it’s set to begin, Obaasan calls you into her bedroom. You don’t go in here often, but it’s the biggest and nicest room in the house, with elegant wood furniture, ink brush paintings on the walls, a cloud of flowers by the bedside table, and a bed so huge and plush you could sink into it and get lost.

Even in the summer heat, Obaasan has a pink scarf around her neck and doesn’t seem like she’s been sweating at all. There’s always been something a little mysterious about her, a little otherworldly, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if one day she revealed she was secretly a youkai. But today, Obaasan is all warm smiles, laying out an entire rich rainbow of yukata onto her bed, breezy cottons and linens, with designs ranging from goldfish to stripes to morning glories climbing along the hem. You’ve never seen her so excited before now.

“Since yer going to the festival today, I thought ya’d like to dress up,” she says. “These are all hand-me-downs. Ya got some yukata that me, yer Ojiisan, yer Tousan, and yer uncle used ta wear, and ya can choose which one you’d like.”

“Thank you, Obaasan.”

“No need ta thank me,” she says. “Yer doing me the real favor by putting these yukata to good use. They haven’t been worn in a while, and it’s sad for beautiful clothes to go to waste.”

You take a few minutes to carefully peruse each yukata, feeling the material in your hands, touching the weight of family history. Where have they been? What have they seen? What memories have they been the receptacle of, for all of these long years? 

After a while, you select a yukata in your favorite color, with a simple design that you enjoy. Nothing too ostentatious, but still lovely in its own right.

“‘S a good choice,” Obaasan says, nodding. “Let me help ya put it on. The obi’s hard to do by yerself, and I’ve got experience.”

You nod, and Obaasan promptly helps you into the yukata. As her def hands tuck in and adjust fabric, she speaks, her voice a low, soothing melody.

“Sorry the yukatas are all a little old-fashioned. It’d be nice to give ya something new and trendy, but wasn’t enough time ta buy ya one.”

“But I like this one lot, Obaasan. I don’t need something new.”

“I’m glad,” she says, chuckling as she tightens the obi around your waist. “Did I ever tell ya? Yer Ojiisan and I used ta sneak out to go to Tanabata together. I fancied we were like Orihime and Hikoboshi, unable ta meet as much as we wanted. See, we met at college where yer Ojiisan was a graduate student. He had no money and big dreams, and spoke rough, but he had a good heart. He used ta bring me flowers and couldn’t even look me in the eye when he handed them ta me, and I knew I wanted ta marry him the moment I saw him like that.

“But my parents didn’t like him. They wanted me ta make a good match and secure my future. I’d never been rebellious before then and I always wanted ta respect them, but after a point, I decided ta run away and marry yer Ojiisan anyways. It wasn’t easy, ya know? Sometimes, times were tough, and we had ta make a lot of hard choices. But I never regretted it, not one bit, because I wanted ta make it work, and I wanted ta get up each day and love him. ‘S not like I don’t think love can be flashy and grand, but I like ta think love is a choice. Ya get up and decide to love them, to make it work, even when it’s hard.

“But yer a little too young to know about that yet. Yer Obasan is just rambling now. But feels like everyone in our family loves big. Yer Tousan was the same about yer Kaasan. So was yer uncle about his wife. There’s never been any half-measures in our family when it comes to love.”

Your breath catches at the mention of Kaasan. It’s not as if your family doesn’t speak about Kaasan on purpose. It’s just a knowledge everyone skates around, a gaping hole in your life that’s easier not to think about than to ache at the constant absence. Because Tousan still loves her so much, he can’t even speak about it to you. And it’s easier if you don’t speak about it, either.

You’ve never known much about Ojiisan and Obaasan before now, either. It’s a little strange to think that they have a whole life you never knew about. They’ve always gotten along that you’ve come to take their presence and care in your life for granted, but they must have put a lot of effort to be so happy, to make that choice to still love each other, day by day, and to build their family.

(Love. It’s a strange, strange thing, and you can’t wrap your head around it. Because of course you love Tousan, and Ojiisan, and Obaasan, and…)

“You and Ojiiasan love each other a lot, Obaasan,” you say instead.

“It’s a choice I made, ta love him,” she says. She cups your cheek, her tender hand as cool as paper. “I couldn’t do it any other way. Might be like that for you, too, one day. Love is the strangest thing in the world. Now, why don’t ya go enjoy yourself? Yer all ready, and I’m sure yer little foxes are waiting for ya.”

You do a quick spin in your yukata, adjusting to the new drape and weight of it. Obaasan claps, the applause falling like rain. She gives you a small bag for your phone and wallet, and shoos you across the street.

You ring the doorbell of the Miya residence once and wait for the telltale sound of skittering feet across the floor before Atsumu and Osamu to tumble out. 

They’re both dressed in yukata, too, yellow for Atsumu and blue for Osamu, with a swirling pattern across the fabric. Their hair is even slicked in matching parallel side parts, unruly strands tamped down into something a bit more presentable. They both have matching little bags, too, where you have no doubt their phones and coin purses are tucked in. There’s a few seconds pause as you take each other in.

“Ya look— Yer—” Atsumu stumbles over his words, gibberish falling out of his mouth as he points at you.

“Ya look nice, Minami,” Osamu says, his gaze keen. “‘S a good yukata.”

“I also think ya look nice!” Atsumu adds quickly. 

“Thank you! Obaasan helped me get ready,” you say. “Your yukata are nice, too. I’m a little worried about the crowds, though. There’s going to be a lot of people.”

“Then we could…” Osamu begins.

But you clap your hands, an idea striking you. “Oh, I know. We should all hold hands so we don’t get lost.”

Atsumu and Osamu glance at each other for a long while, and then two sweaty little hands slip into yours, curling snugly into place like puzzle pieces. You hold hands as you float down the street all the way to the train station, only letting go to hand in your tickets and clamber onto your seats, the train crowded with festival goers and excited chatter.

When you’re off the train and into the grounds, Atsumu and Osamu slip their hands into yours again without asking, as if it’s where they belong, grips firm so you won’t be pulled apart as you follow the crowds into the festival grounds, to the string of stalls and booths lining the streets, the paper mache decorations festooning the sky above you, rows of colorful origami cranes and lanterns and streamers.

“We gotta get food first,” Osamu says, tugging you along. You follow, and Atsumu stumbles after you, the three of you an unbreaking constellation of stars. Where one goes, the others follow.

“Of course ya want to get food,” Atsumu grumbles, but Osamu is already in line for takoyaki and doesn’t respond.

Osamu guides you through the string of stalls, picking up sticks and cheap paper cartons of food until his hands are overflowing, and still he reaches out for just another snack. You’re surprised he even has room in his stomach for all that food, because it all disappears as fast as he can savor it. 

Throughout it all, he’s careful to share his spoils with you, too, holding out his spoon so you can try some of his shaved ice and giving you mini castellas, sweets that melt on your tongue. He seems to take particular pleasure in watching you eat, eyes fixed firmly on your reaction to each new food you try.

“Ya can have some of this, too, Minami,” Osamu says patiently, ripping out a tuft of fluffy pink cotton candy for you to nibble. “‘S good, right?”

“What about me?” Atsumu complains, but Osamu ignores him.

“You can have some, too, Tsumu,” you say, ripping off a tuft of Osamu’s cotton candy to his surprised grumble and holding it out to Atsumu. He munches on the piece in your hand, and there’s a small, pleased smile curling around his mouth.

“It’s my turn now,” Atsumu says petulantly, licking the last of the spun sugar from his lips. “We gotta play games now. Games, do ya hear me?”

And so it’s Atsumu’s turn to drag you along, off to scoop goldfish that break through his thin paper nets with every impatient gesture, and Osamu laughs only to have his paper net break in the exact same way. You try yo-yo tsuri, where Atsumu and Osamu both scramble to hook as many balloons bobbing in the water as they can, squabbling and shoving each other aside as you try to hook just one with infinite patience and care. In the end, the sleeves of your three yukata are dripping wet, but a balloon dangles from each of your wrists. 

You and Osamu watch Atsumu at the rifle shooting booth, where he insists on playing alone as he aims the toy gun at a neat row of plastic toys and boxes, wavering as he shifts between each one.

“Just choose one,” Osamu says, unimpressed. “Or I’m going ta shoot it for you.”

“Shaddup, ya scrub,” Atsumu snaps. “Yer ruining my concentration.”

“You can do it, Tsumu,” you say. You’re standing just a little ways off to the side, content to watch. Osamu crosses his arms, tapping his foot as he glances down the path, where more street foods await.

“‘Course I can,” Atumu huffs.

The streets are crowded, an ocean of festival goers in candy-colored yukata or light-weight summer clothes, fabric rustling in the breeze as paper stirs above you. Atsumu finally lines up his gun on a fat, white stuffed bird with stitched on eyes just as a group of high schoolers with masks rush to the booth, giggling and shoving each other. 

There’s a pop as the rifle goes off and you stumble as the high schoolers shoulder you out of the booth and back into the crowd, where you’re swept up by the sea of people, carried along as you fight to get back to the rifle-shooting booth, mumbling apologies and dodging between bodies.

But there are too many people, and it feels impossible when they’re all eager to get to their destinations and have no time to care about a middle schooler running along underfoot against the glow of traffic, and panic takes flight in your chest because how on earth are you going to reunite with Osamu and Atsumu? You’re going to get lost. What if they haven’t even realized you’re gone? What if you can’t find them again, or see them again? What if—

(A phone call, Tousan’s hand covering his mouth, rain dripping down the window like tears, the house a dark mouth, threatening to swallow everyone whole, the lights off. The more you have, the more you lose. No one ever loves in half-measures in your family. Which is why—)

—And then a hand wraps around your own and a loud voice is yelling and carrying over the noise of the crowd, saying unapologetic “sorries” and rude “excuse mes” as Atsumu shoves his way through the crowd, uncaring of the glares people shoot at him as he shoulders a path forward, bringing you along with him.

The two of you rest along the side of a booth, some rubber ball scooping game, and children cheer gleefully as they splash water around in their attempts to net the rubber balls. You take a breath, hand on your chest, heart beating hard. Atsumu is still holding your hand, his grip tight and his palm sweaty, and seems to have no intention of letting go. In his other hand, he has the white bird, dangling by one wing. 

“Thank you, Tsumu,” you say. “I got pushed into the crowd, and I couldn’t get out, and I couldn’t see you, and—”

“‘S fine,” he interrupts. “I thought you and Samu left without me. Ya really—” But he pauses at the expression on your face, and clears his throat awkwardly instead, a loud sound as if he’s a cat trying to hack up a hairball. “Anyways! ‘S fine, like I said. So don’t look so worried, ya scrub. This is for ya!”

Atsumu shoves the white bird in your face, so close you have to take a step back.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It reminded me of ya. Same spacey expression. And don’t birds have an internal compass, or somethin’?”

“They do. To help them find places when they fly,” you say. You gingerly pick up the bird with your free hand, cradling it close to you. It’s soft and warm with a pale pink beak, though you can’t tell at all what kind of bird it’s supposed to be. A duck or a dove, maybe? “Thank you, Tsumu! It’s really cute.”

“‘Course,” Atsumu says, puffing out his chest. “‘S no big deal to me. It was an easy game to win!”

“Oh, but how did you find me? Is Samu close by, too?” you say, swinging your head back and forth, but you can’t see a single flash of Osamu’s blue kimono or smell the perpetual scent of festival food that trails after him.

“He musta run off,” Atsumu mutters. “We can go find him. Don’t let go of my hand, Minami. A scrub like ya is just gonna to get lost again.”

“Thank you, Tsumu,” you say again. “How did you find me?”

He pulls you into the crowd, and people don’t make way for Atsumu so much as he forces them to make way, stomping through without care. You’ve never been more relieved to see him, and through it all, he never drops your hand, not once. But that’s just how Atsumu is: when he says he’ll do something, he’ll follow through, no matter what.

“‘Course I can find ya. Who do ya think I am?” he says. “I’m not like Hikoboshi, that stupid scrub. Can’t believe he let someone separate from Orihime like that. I’d never let anyone tell me what ta do.”

“You think he’s stupid? But he can’t help being separated from her. Her father is the one who won’t let them see each other, and he’s the Heavenly King, so they have to listen to him.”

“He’s still stupid. If he really loved her, he woulda stayed by her side forever, no matter what some dumb king said. ‘S not something I would do. He coulda just run away.” He squeezes your hand tighter, the magpie bridge carrying you through the crush of people, a reassurance of its own. 

“But they have duties. She has to weave, and he has to tend to the cows,” you protest. But you’re thinking about Obaasan and Ojiisan even as you say so, how she chose him over everything else. 

“So what?” Atsumu says unrepentantly. “Then they’re both scrubs if they’re not gonna go for what they want.”

Love. Would you ever really understand it?

“Samu’s probably getting food, the pig,” Atsumu adds. “If we look along the food stalls, I bet we’re gonna find him.”

You and Atsumu examine each stall closely as you walk through the crowds, waiting to see the telltale flash of Osamu’s kimono or his head bobbing through the crowds. You finally find Osamu munching away on a stick of ikayaki in front of a booth, staring critically at the line of grilled squid, as if he’s about to choose his next victim.

“Samu, ya pig!” Atsumu says, shoving his brother with his shoulder so hard Osamu lets out a quiet “oof.” “Why didn’t ya tell us where you were? Why’d ya even leave?”

“‘S too crowded around the rifle booth. I went to get ikayaki, and when I went back, ya were gone. So I decided ta get some more. ‘Sides, I messaged and even called ya,” Osamu says irritably. “Didn’t ya check yer phones? You too, Minami.”

You and Atsumu look at each other, and then simultaneously pull out your phones to see a missed call and several messages from Osamu, before both saying: “Oh.”

But the three of you are united once again, and so you finally make your way down to the bamboo tree, where paper wishes are hanging thickly among the stalks and festivalgoers crowd together under the leaves, tying up their own wishes or writing them down.

You pick up a yellow strip, contemplating. Atsumu is on your right, eyebrows scrunched together as he scribbles down his wish, and Osamu is on your left, head crouched low over his own, tongue sticking out as he works. Carefully, with the neatest writing you can muster, making sure your kanji is so clear no one else can mistake your words, you write, I wish I can stay with Tsumu and Samu forever.

When the three of you are done, you tie up your wishes side by side, three strips of paper dangling and twisting on the same branch. For a quiet moment, the only thing you do is watch, lost in your own thoughts, when there’s a sudden boom and brilliant silver explodes across the sky.

“Fireworks!” Atsumu hollers. 

You look up, and sure enough, there are artificial flowers blooming in the air, all dazzling shades of green, white, blue, red, orange, and yellow, bathing your faces in neon light. You clutch Atsumu’s white bird in your hand tightly as, for once, the three of you are speechless, unable to do anything but admire the sight in front of you.

“It’s pretty,” you whisper.

“Real pretty,” Atsumu mumbles, but you can’t tear your eyes away from the sky to look at him.

You make a second, silent, and selfish wish in your heart: You hope that somewhere up there, on the one day of the year they can reunite, Orihime and Hikoboshi are enjoying the view together.

—

Slush clings to your boots as you, Kotone, and Keita trudge through the dreary winter streets of Amagasaki. The sky is a woolen, overcast grey, and snowflakes flutter and melt on your hat and scarf as the three of you peer through storefronts and shiver in the frosty wind.

Fall has passed in a flash, and it’s now near the beginning of December, and on your day off from school, you’ve agreed to meet with Kotone and Keita for oden and a quick trip to the local shrine, where you’ll pray for success and pick up some omamori for luck in your upcoming finals. It’s a nice distraction from the constant studying of the past few weeks, and of Atsumu and Osamu pestering you constantly for help, wedged right next to in the kotatsu, notebooks and papers spread all around you. 

“It’s so cold! Maybe we should just go home,” Kotone complains, her nose and cheeks a bright red.

“We’re almost to the shrine,” Keita says. “‘S close. Didn’t ya want all the luck ya could get for finals?”

“I’m just going ta pray for it to snow so much, school closes,” Kotone grumbles. “And we won’t have ta have finals! Lucky us.”

“Maybe ya should have studied instead of nappin’ in class.”

“You’ll be okay, Kotone. I’ll help you study,” you say.

Kotone cheers, clapping her hands together. “Thank you! At least someone here cares about me.”

You’re still warm from your oden, the memory of fish balls and konjac dancing across your mind, when the three of you approach the torii gates, red and lightly dusted with snow. Keita bows once in respect as Kotone skips right in, the three of you following the side path down to the shrine. There’s only a few people out in this gloomy weather, other students desperate for last-minute luck.

Keita takes his time to wash his hands carefully despite the cold, patiently ladling water over his palms, while Kotone hurries to toss her coin into the offering box, ring the bell, and clap her hands, eyes scrunched tight. 

You wander over to the kiosks instead, squinting at the rows of omamori laid out in plastic packaging to keep the snow off of them, colorful cloth lined up in neat rows. There’s charms for everything, from love to financial success to good health. You pick up a blue one for academic success, and then pick up two more, the cold fabric warming in your hands.

“Yer not going to pray?” Kotone asks. She must have finished her own prayers, because she’s peering over your shoulder, scanning the rows.

“No,” you say. “I just wanted to buy something.”

“Are ya getting some for the Miyas?” she says. “The three of ya are really close, huh.”

“I think Tsumu and Samu would like some,” you say. “They’ve been really worried about finals. Miya-san is going to be really mad at them if they don’t do well and they can’t play volleyball if their grades are too low, so they’ve been coming over every day to study.”

“It’s lucky they live so close ta ya! I wish I could come over whenever I wanted to, too.”

“You could join us,” you say.

Kotone shakes her head vigorously, pigtails whipping around her face. “No, that’s okay. I don’t think I’d have a good time. Atsumu-kun and Osamu-kun are cool and all, but I don’t think I could get along with them.”

“They’re not that bad,” you say. “But if you want to come over, you don’t have to come over at the same time as them. It can just be you and me. And Keita, if you’d like.”

“That’d be fun,” Kotone says. She fingers a pink charm, before holding up a purple one instead. “Ya know, I haven’t seen you make yer maps in a bit. Have ya given up on them? Ya used to draw them all the time in elementary school.”

You roll the charms over and squeeze them in your cold-numbed hands. It surprises you a little that Kotone noticed this about you, that she’s bothered to watch you at all. “I haven’t given up on making maps. I want to practice drawing first. Did you know mapmakers also have to know geography, science, and technology? There’s a lot that goes into making maps! I’ve been thinking that I don’t know a lot, and I’ve got to get better and learn more first.”

“That’s so complicated!” Kotone says. “And that’s a lot to think about all the time. I don’t know how ya keep all that in mind.”

“I like maps,” you say simply. “And I want to make maps that can help other people.”

“Huh. I think I’d trust any map ya’d make, then,” she says seriously. “Ya put so much attention and care into what ya do, so I know ya’d never make a bad map.”

“Thank you, Kotone,” you say, smiling. “Are you going to buy one of these? I can pay for it.”

“Aw, are ya sure? I couldn’t ask ya to do that.”

“Maybe ya should take them up on that offer,” Keita interrupts. He has his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “Yer going to need it if ya want to pass.”

“Aw, Keita!” Kotone complains. “Ya might as well buy one for me, then!”

You giggle softly to yourself, watching your friends’ antics. They’re different from Atsumu and Osamu, but you like that about them, that it feels like you can take it slow and easy with Kotone and Keita. It’s comfortable.

Atsumu and Osamu pursue everything they do with such dedication and passion, and you don’t want to fall behind them. You want to keep pace alongside them, and to do that, you need to try your best at the things you like. Your sketchbook is in your bag, and you might go home to do a few practice sketches. 

You do end up buying four omamori for academic success after all, one for you, one for Kotone, and the other two for Atsumu and Osamu. When you ask Keita if he wants one, he declines.

“I don’t need luck. I already prayed, and I’m going ta study hard,” he explains. “But ya should take this.” 

You hold out your hands, and Keita gives you a brochure, with a map of the shrine inside. “Keita,” you say, at a loss for words.

“Ya like stuff like this, right?” he says simply. 

You nod. “I’ll treat you to oden again, Keita! Thank you.”

“Sounds good,” he says, grinning.

“I want some too,” Kotone says.

“Then I’ll treat you to some as well. Let’s go out again when finals are over,” you suggest.

“It’s a deal,” Keita says, nodding, and though you know it’s just a piece of paper, the brochure feels warm when you clutch to your chest.

—

In the second year of middle school, sometime in the cool fall with leaves spiralling to the ground and Ojiisan barking at you to remember to bring your scarf every morning, Osamu develops an interest in cooking. More specifically, he develops an interest in making his own bentos, coming to school with slightly burnt sausages and over-seasoned tamagoyaki as he practices and adjusts his recipes. 

Atsumu is his first victim, constantly complaining that Osamu has overseasoned the meat and made the rice too dry, and that he’s tired of eating Osamu’s failed experiments.

“Kaasan makes better ones,” Atsumu grumbles. “I want ta eat her food again.”

“Then make yer own bento, ya scrub,” Osamu says coolly. “I’m not makin’ anything for ya anymore. Ya can just starve.”

“Samu, you—!”

It’s an obsession that almost rivals his interest in volleyball, though you aren’t surprised by it in the slightest. Osamu loves good food, and though he enjoys eating it plenty, he’s always been the first to ask Obaasan about her recipes, obediently waiting at the kitchen counter as she instructs him through marinating meat, creating soup stock from scratch, and the right temperature to boil seafood.

Isn’t the logical next step, then, that Osamu would turn his attention to the kitchen? If he wants to eat good food, then he has to make good food. It’s why when you knock on his door early in the morning, you’re not surprised to smell the lingering scent of herbs, or to see an apron still tied over his uniform. 

There are a few other changes in your second year, too, other than Osamu’s cooking. You’re still in the same class as Keita and Kotone when you move up a grade, but not with Osamu and Atsumu. But it’s hard to feel their absence in your life at all, not with how they insist on escorting you to your classroom every morning and dump their bentos on your desk during lunch.

Even if you aren’t on the team with them, they still drag you outside to practice volleyball on the weekends, whether it’s simple drills or tossing the ball back and forth. You’re always on receiving duty of some kind, digging and diving for the ball after Osamu spikes, though Atsumu also pesters you into jumping as high as you can and hitting his sets because he’s finally been made the starting setter.

Atsumu and Osamu are always pushing each other farther and farther, always one step behind each other, goading the other into running faster or training harder, and you almost think they would never need anyone else, if not for the way they made sure to look back at you, too, to ensure you’re still right behind them.

And, like any other “phone-addled teenager who can’t look away from their screen” (Ojiisan’s words, not yours), they’ve developed a newfound obsession with texting. On the rare chance you aren’t in their immediate vicinity, whenever they’re away for training camps or you’re spending a weekend with Tousan, they’re blowing up your phone with messages.

It’s usually long-winded rants from Atsumu complaining about his day and the scrubs on his team who can’t hit his sets, and how bored he is of schoolwork, since it doesn’t matter if he does well since he’s just gonna go pro anyways, and if you could just come over tonight because Osamu is no good company at all.

Osamu sends shorter messages, but that doesn’t mean he sends any less Atsumu. He likes to send pictures, too, of whatever’s caught his attention, or just of things that remind him of you, like a dozing cat in the sun and a weirdly-shaped onigiri where the seaweed almost spelled your name, he thinks, and also, were you planning on stopping by at all, because he has new snacks you can try.

But it’s Osamu’s obsession with cooking that’s the biggest change, especially when one afternoon, as you’re walking home from school, he asks if you want your own bento.

“I want ta try making something for ya,” he says, his shadow stretching long across the sidewalk. There’s a chilly nip to the air, and when you shiver, Osamu presses closer to your side, as if he could fold you within the length of him to keep you warm. “I’ve been practicing a lot.”

“Don’t you make one for Tsumu, too? Won’t it be a lot of work?” you ask.

“‘S not a lot of work. I already make one for Tsumu and me, so I just gotta triple the portions. It’s not hard at all. Do ya have any requests, Minami? I give Tsumu all of the burned stuff, so ya don’t need to worry.”

“Samu, ya scrub! Why do I get all yer crappy sides? I want something good!” Atsumu says, aiming a kick at Osamu’s back. He dodges, causing Atsumu to stumble. “And why are ya only taking Minami’s requests? I want karaage! Karaage, do ya hear me?”

“Scrubs don’t deserve karaage,” Osamu says.

“I think karaage sounds good…” you say.

“I’ll make some,” Osamu says.

Atsumu makes another disgruntled sound of complaint next to you, but Osamu is only watching you. You try not to stare back at him, but the intensity of his gaze makes you nervous. There’s a disconcerting quality to the way Osamu stares at certain things, as if he wants to eat them whole.

The very next day, during lunch, Osamu appears in the door of your classroom like clockwork. You expect him to pull up a chair next to you, as per usual, but instead he lingers in the doorway, heedless of the people trying to pass around him, and beckons you with one slow, lazy hand.

“Come on, Minami. Let’s go somewhere else for lunch,” Osamu says. “Tsumu can’t come with us today. His fault. He’s got ta talk to our teacher about something’.”

You follow him without question, gathering up your sketchbook and notes to review, waving goodbye at Kotone and Keita. Osamu leads you down the hallways and up the stairs without end until you realize he’s taking you to the roof. He pushes the door open without a spare glance for the DO NOT ENTER emblazoned across the front, holding it open for you to pass through first.

The roof is breezy and cool, a vast, empty ocean of concrete and glinting metal rails. Osamu settles comfortably near the door, legs crossed, heedless of anything else, setting his bento onto the floor with care.

You sit in front of him, legs folded under you, watching as Osamu unpacks the first bento: stir-fried green beans, slices of roasted sweet potatoes cut in the shape of flowers, cherry tomatoes with colorful toothpicks stuck through them, tamagoyaki, and karaage resting on a bed of white rice seasoned with furikake, all carefully arranged in striped paper wrappers to separate the portions.

“Here ya go,” Osamu says, handing you the bento. When you glance over at Osamu’s bento, he has no similar embellishments. There are no little toothpicks or slices cut into flowers, and though he’s given himself a generous portion, there’s no particular thought put into its arrangement or appearance.

Osamu watches as you pick up a piece of karaage and chew. You crunch through the crispy coating to the tender, juicy chicken inside, and you can’t stop yourself from picking up another piece, taking bite after bite without stopping. Your cheeks puff out as you try each dish Osamu’s created, the sweet and fluffy tamagoyaki and the lightly seasoned sweet potatoes.

“It’s delicious,” you say, covering your hand with your mouth as you speak.

Osamu doesn’t look at you as he nods, having only started to eat once you took your first bite, but you don’t mistake it for nonchalance.

You can’t imagine how much hard work Osamu put into preparing these bentos, especially when he put so much effort to make yours look cute. How long did it take him to practice and perfect his recipes, in-between homework and volleyball practice? How hard was it to prepare his lunch the night before, and then get up early to make a bento for himself, Tsumu, and now you?

It must take Obaasan a long time to cook, too. You take all the delicious food in your life for granted, because there’s always a hot meal waiting for you whenever you get up or return home. The people you love cook for you because they want you to eat well, and if you eat well, then you have the energy to greet the day and give everything your best effort. Maybe you should thank Obaasan when you get home.

“Thank you, Osamu,” you say. 

“Yer welcome. Have this one too, Minami,” Osamu says, holding out a piece of karaage from his own bento, his chopsticks hovering in your face.

“Are you sure?”

“Take it. I made it for ya,” he says.

You open your mouth, and chew. When you look at Osamu’s self-satisfied expression, watching you, it makes you feel a little embarrassed.

“Ya look happy when you eat,” he says. 

“Because you make really good food,” you say earnestly. “It’s hard not to be happy when you eat something good.”

“I wanted ta cook for ya before now,” he says. “But I didn’t want ta give ya a crappy bento. So I kept practicing on Tsumu. I’m glad ya like it. Makes me want to cook for ya more.”

“I’ll eat anything you make, Samu,” you say. “It doesn’t even need to be good. I’ll like anything you do.”

“I thought ya said my cooking was good? Now yer saying it’s bad?”

“I didn’t mean it like that! I mean that I want to eat anything you cook, even if it’s not perfect,” you protest, flustered.

“‘S that so?” Osamu says, propping his hand on his chin. When he makes a face like that, you remember all the reasons why Osamu is just as troublesome as Atsumu. “Then I’m gonna hold ya to yer word. Don’t take it back, Minami.”

For a while, there’s nothing but the sounds of clicking chopsticks as you resume your meal. You pick up a cherry tomato and pop it into your mouth, savouring the bright, acidic juice. A cool breeze stirs your hair, clouds as fluffy as your tamagoyaki sailing by overhead. It’s a nice day, with a hint of warmth in the air. It’s a little strange to be without Atsumu, to not have his loud voice filling up the silence, or his sharp elbow poking at your side.

As if he senses your thoughts, Osamu’s face is tilted up when he speaks, making it hard to see his expression. “Minami, what do ya think of Tsumu?”

“Eh…?” you say. It’s a strange question to hear from Osamu. “He’s Tsumu. He’s a little childish and he’s really rude, but no one cares more than he does, and he’s really open, too.”

“He’s Tsumu,” Osamu says slowly. “‘S the thing, right? He’s always been like that. Doesn’t really care about anyone else. Never asks what they want, just assumes. Always does his own thing. He’s irritatin’.”

“I like Tsumu the way he is,” you say. 

“He’ll never change for anyone else, so ya gotta put up with him the way he is,” Osamu says. “And I don’t want ta be like Tsumu. People don’t like him because he doesn’t like ta compromise. He rubs everyone the wrong way, even the people on our team. He’s an idiot and a scrub, and he deserves everything he gets. But I want ta get along with people. Makes life easier that way.”

In response you scooch closer to Osamu, until you’re side by side, pressed together, just like the side dishes in the bento he’s made. It’s a warmth you’re familiar with after all these years, and it makes you feel a little greedy with how instinctively you seek it out, this comforting reminder of Osamu’s presence. “I like you the way you are, too, Samu.”

He doesn’t say anything for a bit. Then: “Me and Tsumu are always together. ‘S not like I don’t want it to be that way, but sometimes, I think that we can’t be like that forever. Don’t know if that’s right or wrong.”

“I think that’s okay. You’re you, and Tsumu is Tsumu,” you say simply. 

Osamu bumps his shoulder into yours, a silent acknowledgement of your words. You pass the rest of lunch like that, just enjoying each other’s presence, Osamu’s delicious food warm in your stomach.

(You, and Atsumu, and Osamu. You really want it to stay this way for a long time).

—

First, and second. Atsumu, and then Osamu. It’s how people’s gazes tend to slide, from one twin to the next.

Osamu is used to it, and he even understands why. Atsumu is the louder one. Brash. Unapologetic. He catches attention just by opening his mouth, unable to let anything go or to compromise a single bit, a child through and through.

In response, Osamu hears—

“You’re so nice, Osamu-kun!”

“Yer brother should learn to be a bit more like ya! Yer a lot quieter.”

“Aren’t you the better player, Osamu?”

Even though they’re supposed to be compliments, they always have to bring up Atsumu somehow, as if he and Atsumu are one unit. It’s not as Osamu hates it, really, because Atsumu has always been there, by his side. It’s just a fact of life, and though Atsumu is annoying and never gets up on time and eats the last pudding Osamu saved in the fridge, the scrub, he’s still his brother.

Loving him, hating him—none of those emotions matter; it’d be as ridiculous as despising his own limbs. 

But it rankles him, the idea that they need to be similar in every way, or that it’s strange when they aren’t. Most people have a hard time telling them apart. Maybe it’s easier for them not to try, and Osamu resents that just a little, too.

(It feels like an itch, sometimes. This desire to be just to stand out a bit more, to establish himself. Sure, they’re always together, but they’re Atsumu and Osamu, two different people.)

But when has Osamu ever cared about the feelings of a few unrelated scrubs? He can count on the number of fingers the people he cares about: Kaasan, Aran, Tsumu (but only sometimes), and you. 

Kaasan is Kaasan. Aran is always fun to tease, and even when he grumbles and complains, still allows himself to be swept up in his and Tsumu’s antics. And you’re you. Their neighbor, their childhood friend, their Minami.

If there’s one thing Osamu can pride himself on that Atsumu can’t, it’s his power of observation. He’s always watching, always looking a little more closely than most people expect. And he notices a lot about you.

For example, the way you blink slowly when you stare into space when you daydream. Your new habit of sketching, usually buildings and landscapes, but sometimes people, and he’s caught you shading in the color of his hair more than once in your sketchbook. How you like to linger in front of maps whenever you find one, tracing the blue veins of rivers and black edges of borders, tracking kilometers with each glance. 

You still like to line up your shoes between his and Atsumu’s, perfectly snug. You blow on your food when it’s hot and wait for it to cool before you take a bite. You use perfect punctuation when you text.

(And Osamu likes that. He likes every little piece of you that he notices, that he tucks away for later, hoarding the memories to himself.)

The house is quiet for once, Atsumu off to toss his volleyball again, always with his never ending practice, and you’re out with your father on some trip. Kaasan is out shopping, and so he has the house all to himself. It gives him all the time he needs to reflect as he slowly cooks, working on yet another recipe, broth bubbling on the stove.

Maybe he should make this for you, too, one day. Bring a thermos of soup, tuck it in his bento, because he knows the exact way your eyes will light up in joy, how you’ll blow carefully on your spoon before taking a bite, and how you’ll sincerely thank him. He’ll see himself reflected in your gaze when you do. Osamu, and Osamu alone, and he knows it’ll make him want to cook for you forever, to always make you good food so you’ll always smile like that.

(He can be a little selfish, right? Of course you’re his and Atsumu’s best friend, but he’s always been unrepentantly greedy. Something about you always makes him hungry, as if he could eat your satisfaction whole and it would leave him still wanting.

Maybe it’ll never be enough. Doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying to fill it, though.)