playing with my touys

It’s that awkward wedge of time after finals and Christmas but before New Year’s, when the entire world is holding its sleepy, frost-bitten breath. Orange peels curl like commas around the open notebook spread before the three of you. You idly doodle figures jumping in the margins, bent legs and raised arms as if to spike as Atsumu and Osamu argue, voices flying over your head.

“I’m going ta call our attack the Super Ultra Up-Tempo Quick Set,” Atsumu says.

“That’s lame,” Osamu scoffs. “Why’re ya calling it both Super and Ultra? Just call it the Super Up-Tempo Quick Set. ‘S easier.”

“Because using both Super and Ultra makes it sound cooler, ya stupid scrub,” Atsumu snaps. “What about you, Minami? What’d ya think?”

“Yeah, Minami,” Osamu says, poking you in your ribs with the sharp tip of his elbow. “Ya think my idea’s better, right?”

“I think they both sound good,” you respond diplomatically. “But, um… do you really need to have a signature move?”

“Of course,” Atsumu says. “Because it’s cool.”

“No one’s gonna take a scrub out on court seriously without one,” Osamu affirms.

“Okay,” you say, nodding. Though you aren’t sure you’ve ever seen a game where the players have their own special moves, it’s possible that there are some intricacies to professional volleyball that are lost to you. “What if you call it Soul Swap instead? The one where you two switch places, and Osamu sets while Atsumu spikes?”

“Yer a genius, Minami!” Atsumu crows, hastily scribbling down your idea in the notebook. “‘S a great idea.”

As he works, one of Osamu’s arms stretches out from under the kotatsu with all the slow, lazy grace of a creature just emerging from its slumber, grabbing one of the oranges scattered across the table. He runs his nail under the skin and in a quick, expert motion, unpeels it in one long furl. Without a word, he separates a thick, juicy wedge and places it in front of you.

“Thank you, Samu,” you say, popping it in your mouth, the juice tart and sweet, and Osamu looks pleased at your response.

“That’s it!” Atsumu declares. He hastily pulls himself from out of the kotatsu, vibrating with renewed energy. “We’ve gotta play volleyball, right now.”

“Are ya stupid?” Osamu snaps. “‘S too cold for that. And we just practiced this morning.”

“Come on, Minami,” Atsumu says, tugging on your arm. You let him pull you out of the warm and toasty kotatsu, stumbling to your feet. “If Samu’s okay with being a lazy scrub, then yer gotta hit some sets for me.”

With a grumble, Osamu rises from behind you. “Yer crazy, Tsumu.”

“Come on, both of ya!” Atsumu demands, but he’s already running to the entryway, shrugging on his coat and his boots with impatient enthusiasm. You and Osamu trudge after him.

“Tsumu has a lot of energy,” you whisper.

“Too much energy,” Osamu says. “He’s goin’ stir-crazy without classes and practice.”

As the two of you put on your own coats and scarves, Atsumu doesn’t even wait before yanking open the front door and darting outside, the sudden blast of wintry air causing you to shiver. Osamu pauses to fluff your scarf, tucking it more snugly around your neck. In response, you pull his hat down over his ears.

“Tsumu’s always like that, though. He’s always running ahead,” you say.

“He is. But he’s not the only one who likes ta do that,” Osamu says slowly. His fingers linger in your scarf, unmoving, and he’s suddenly a thousand miles away. Whatever it is he’s contemplating, he doesn’t share. You take one of his hands in yours instead, and Osamu allows you to carefully wrap your fingers around his, his nails stained and citrus-scented from all the oranges he’s eaten.

“We’ve got to keep up, Samu,” you say. “He might be lonely if he’s the only one moving so far ahead.”

Osamu squeezes your hand briefly, before the two of you follow Atsumu out into the cold. “Lonely? I don’t think a scrub like him gets lonely. But yer right that we have ta keep up. He’s going to get a big head otherwise.”

You pass the volleyball back and forth in your front street until your fingers are numb and Atsumu’s and Osamu’s cheeks are flushed bright red, and you might have kept going forever, neither of the twins willing to be the first to give up on the rally, at least until Miya-san wrenches open the front door and yells at the three of you to come inside and to warm up before you get sick.

—

New Year’s comes and goes without any particular incident: shrine visits where you jostle through a crowd of people, pray for a good year ahead, and pull out fortunes, Atsumu and Osamu crowding your kotatsu to watch the New Year’s specials on television, and the new semester starting with bus rides that crunch through the snow and classmates returning from visits with their families, everyone glowing with a post-holiday and pre-assignment cheer.

January is a fine month, but it’s the approach of February that has a strange fervor seizing your classmates. When you wander through the halls, you hear hushed giggling and spot furtive glances, spy the stray shine of a fashion magazine catalogue, and smell the faint perfume of sweets. Even in class you can’t escape the whispers, the undertow of excitement that seems to carry everyone away into a land you aren’t privy to.

It’s only after school one cold afternoon, as you’re packing your bags and heading to art club with Keita, that Kotone leans in to whisper conspiratorally to both of you and you can put a name to the phenomenon.

“Are you going to give anyone chocolate for Valentine’s?” Kotone says. “If ya are, save me a piece!”

“If I save ya a piece, yer going ta eat the entire thing,” Keita says reasonably, and Kotone pantomimes throwing her textbook at his head.

You’d almost forgotten that Valentine’s Day was approaching. It’d never been much of a big deal in elementary school, where at most, one of your more sociable classmates would hand out a small piece of inexpensive chocolate for everyone. In your first year of middle school, Atsumu and Osamu had received a few chocolates in their locker that they’d casually slipped into their bags with only a sideways glance at you, as if expecting some sort of reaction. You’d congratulated them politely and sincerely, though you weren’t sure why they looked so frustrated when you did.

What is there for you to react over? Valentine’s Day is just a holiday like any other. Even though you understand your classmates are excited about love and crushes, all their adoration and the hope for reciprocation condensed down into a small box of chocolates, it’s a feeling alien to you. You’ve never even had a crush before, and you can’t imagine being that excited to confess to someone. Besides, is it even possible to like a crush more than you like your childhood friends?

“What about you?” Kotone chirps, turning her attention towards you. “I was going ta make some chocolates for all my friends. We can do an exchange!”

“I might get somethin’ ready too,” Keita says.

“I don’t know,” you say thoughtfully, tapping the front cover of your sketchbook, crammed with images of buildings and streets, careful grids of neighborhoods and classrooms, anf the rough, broad strokes of Atsumu and Osamu hovering in midair, about to spike, caught in an eternal moment of anticipation.

You love Tousan, Obaasan, and Ojiisan. You love Miya-san and all your friends, like Kotone and Keita. But you know the love you feel for all the important people in your life isn’t the same sort of love that your classmates are talking about.

(Do Atsumu and Osamu like anyone like that? The idea of either of them with a romantic partner makes your stomach twist in funny ways. If they had one, then they wouldn’t walk home with you after school anymore, or pool their money with you to split snacks at the conbini. They’d have someone else for that.)

“Haven’t you liked anyone before?” Kotone asks. “Yer always with the twins. What about—”

But Keita, who’s watching you carefully, only raps the back of her head with his knuckles before she can continue. “‘S fine not ta like anyone, and ‘sides, it’s boring ta talk about. Yer going to make me late for art club, ya chatterbox.”

Once the idea is planted in your head, though, you can’t stop thinking about the question of love and Valentine’s all the way through art club, where you find yourself sketching pairs of people. The idea even follows you even on the way home after school when you hop off the bus, where you’re followed by Atsumu and Osamu bickering about the other’s performance during practice.

“You were slackin’,” Atsumu growls. “Slackin’! Ya missed a few of my sets, and I knew ya could have hit ‘em.”

“Shaddup,” Osamu snaps. “Ya only got made setter last semester, and now yer gonna act all high and mighty? ‘Sides, ya tossed some of ‘em too low. How was I supposed ta hit that?”

“Samu, Tsumu,” you say, interrupting their argument, “Are either of you going to do anything for Valentine’s Day.”

“Valentine’s Day?” Atsumu repeats, all his aggressive energy dissipating into confusion.

“Yes. Are you going to give anyone chocolates?”

“Why? Are you, Minami?” Osamu says, watching you with a hawk-keen gaze. “Are ya thinking of doing somethin’ for Valentine’s?”

“Well? Are ya?” Atsumu says, the pitch of his voice with sudden urgency. “Which scrub is it? Someone in yer class? Or ours? Or are they a third year? Or first? Are they in yer club?”

“Hm? No, no,” you say, shaking your head vigorously at Atsumu’s onslaught of questions. “Kotone and Keita were just talking about it, and they wanted to do something together, so I was curious.”

He lets out a loud, relieved sigh. “So that’s it. ‘Course I’m not going to give chocolates to any old scrub on the street, even if a lot of ‘em keep tryin’ ta hand their chocolates to me. ‘S only ‘cause they want me to make something for them, too. ‘S a hugeeee pain. Huge!” Atsumu glances at you. “I bet ya don’t get any chocolates, Minami. If you don’t, that’s pretty sad. I could make an exception, and make some for ya.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go out of your way,” you say politely. “Kotone and Keita are going to make some, and I was thinking of doing a chocolate exchange with them. It’s okay! Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“What?” Atsumu’s voice cracks on the word.

Osamu is still watching you, and says, slowly, “Valentine’s Day is a huge pain, ain’t it?”

“It is!” you say, nodding again. “I don’t know why everyone is so excited for it. Maybe exchanging chocolates with everyone is just that fun?”

“We can do a chocolate exchange, too, Minami,” Osamu says. “Just between the two of us. I’ll make ya something. Valentine’s doesn’t need ta be all that complicated.”

“That sounds good,” you say, smiling. “I’ll make you something, too, Samu!”

“What about me?” Atsumu demands. “Minami? Samu? Ya can’t just make plans without me!”

“Ya just said Valentine’s Day was a huge pain,” Osamu says coldly. “I thought ya hated when scrubs gave ya chocolate. And don’tcha hate when they expect ya to give them something in return?”

“But…! I…!” Atsumu looks from you, to Osamu, and back to you, his face turning a brilliant shade of red as he struggles to voice his thoughts. “‘S not what I…!”

“It’s okay, Tsumu,” you say, patting him on the shoulder as he stiffens at your touch. “We can do a chocolate exchange, too, if you want. But if it’s too much work—”

“‘S not what I said!” Atsumu says quickly. “I’ll do it with ya, Minami! So ya better not forget, ya got it?”

Despite his previous proclamation that Valentine’s was a huge pain, Atsumu looks disproportionately happy over the prospect of exchanging chocolates, walking with a bounce in his steps and a self-satisfied smile. On the other hand, Osamu lapses into silence, fingers cupping his chin, as if running through all the different desserts he could make in his mind.

In the following days after that conversation, you agonize over whether you should try making chocolates from scratch, or buy something nice from the store. On one hand, you have very little culinary experience, and you don’t want to make something inedible for your childhood friends. On the other hand, it’d be nice to make something homemade as an expression of your appreciation.

Obaasan watches you ponder in the kitchen one evening, perusing the cabinets and picking up and examining various jars and bottles with a frown, before putting them right back down. You’re holding a small vial of vanilla extract when she speaks, standing right behind you.

“Are ya hungry?” she says. “Ya’ve been lookin’ unhappy since ya stepped foot in the kitchen.”

“Obaasan!” you say, jumping. “I was just thinking about chocolate.”

“For Valentine’s, right? I used ta make yer Ojiisan chocolate all the time until the doctor said ta watch his blood pressure.”

“I don’t know what to make,” you confess. “I want to try making something homemade for my friends, but I’m not very good at cooking.”

“Why don’t ya make truffles?” she suggests. “I can help ya. ‘S not a difficult recipe at all, just some chocolate bars, heavy cream, and vanilla extract, which ya already have.”

Obaasan hands you one of her simple, white aprons and you find all the ingredients she listed. The two of you stand at the stove, melting and mixing heavy cream and chocolate together, whisking in vanilla extract after it’s cooled and then you can put it in the fridge to set. It takes an hour before you can pull out your chocolate mixture, which you painstakingly roll into perfect little spheres under Obaasan’s direction in a tray covered in white sprinkles until all of your truffles are coated.

You carefully portion out three truffles each in clear plastic bags, tie them with some spare red ribbon from Obaasan’s sewing scraps, and now you have enough bags for Keita, Kotone, Atsumu, and Osamu. You and Obaasan both smell a bit like a confectioner’s shop by the time you’re finally done.

“Thank you Obaasan,” you say, throwing your arms around her. She’s warm, and you bury your head against her apron-covered torso.

She chuckles, bringing her arms around you and lightly stroking your back. “I hope yer friends enjoy the truffles. ‘S exciting, isn’t it? Ta cook for someone ya care about and hope they enjoy your food? ‘S why I like cookin’ so much.”

You nod, head still buried against her. When you finally let go, you present her with a few spare truffles, which you’d packaged when she wasn’t looking and hid in your pocket. “These are for you, Obaasan, because you helped me. I made a few extra.”

“There’s no need ta thank me,” she says, but she’s smiling as she pops a truffle into her mouth, giving you a cheeky wink. “‘S delicious! I won’t tell yer little foxes that I’m yer first Valentine’s, all right? ‘S a secret, just between us.”

The night before Valentine’s, you’re opening the fridge to check on your truffles, though they look the same as they had an hour before when you last checked on them. Somehow, only giving chocolates doesn’t feel like it’s enough to express your appreciation. Isn’t there something else you can do? In your room, your eyes land on your sketchbook, perched on your desk, and an idea comes to mind. You pull out a fresh sheet of paper, fish out your ruler and pen, and make your first line on the page, clear and bold.

When Valentine’s Day finally rolls around the next morning, you’re up before your alarm, carefully placing the truffles in your lunchbox and then running across the street to ring the Miyas’ doorbell earlier than usual. Osamu shows up to open the door, still half-dressed, blinking blearily at you.

During the entire commute to school, you can’t stop smiling as you imagine the expression everyone will make when you give them their presents. You can understand Osamu’s and Obaasan’s love of cooking a bit better now, now that you’ve done it yourself—you care about your friends, and you want them to always eat delicious food they love. There’s something special about being able to make that food yourself, like a continued wish for their well-being.

You’re opening the door of your shoe locker, Atsumu and Osamu trailing just a few steps behind, when you pause. There’s something there that shouldn’t be: a letter and a bar of store-bought chocolate resting on top of your indoor shoes. You look to your left and then to your right, but there’s nothing but a few sleepy students and the hum of voices, low and soothing as winter slush, with no sign of whoever gave you the present.

“What’re ya doing, Minami?” Atsumu asks, poking you in the back.

You startle, but point at the chocolate in your shoe locker. “I think someone gave me something for Valentine’s Day.”

“What?” Atsumu’s voice is so loud it shatters the morning calm, nearby students whipping their heads around to glance at him. His mouth is a large, comical circle, and he snatches the chocolate and letter out before you can do anything. “A present? Which scrub’s giving ya a present?”

“Ya got a present, huh?” Osamu drawls slowly, marching up behind Atsumu, who hands him the letter. Osamu turns it this way and that, tilting it as if it’ll somehow reveal long-hidden secrets on the plain envelope.

“That’s mine,” you say, and snatch the chocolate and letter out of their unresisting hands. “Don’t be rude, Tsumu, Samu.”

“What if it’s a love letter?” Atsumu says in slow horror, hands twitching as if he wants to grab the letter back. “What are ya gonna say? ‘S no way you’re gonna like them more than us, right?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Osamu snaps, but his mouth is pulled down in a tight frown. “If anyone’s been hangin’ around them, we would know. But if it makes ya uncomfortable, Minami, ya can just throw the letter away,” he adds, intense gaze boring into yours. “I can even help ya. ‘S no big deal at all.”

“I don’t want to throw it away. Isn’t that rude? It must have taken a lot of courage to write this,” you say earnestly, holding the letter to your chest. “And maybe it’s not a love letter. Maybe this person just wants to be friends.”

“Friends,” Atsumu mutters.

“A love letter,” Osamu says.

You slip into your indoor shoes under the gaze of the twins, who glance at each other with matching scowls. When they sluggishly open their lockers, a flood of letters flutter to the floor, gifts of chocolates and cookies stuffed to the point Atsumu and Osamu have to wiggle their shoes out. Neither of them look particularly pleased, and for some reason, they sneak glances at you. Whatever they see in your face, though, only makes them scowl more, and Atsumu slams his locker door shut with a loud clang.

“You two have a lot of admirers,” you say.

“Yeah, we do,” Atsumu says glumly. “Just a bunch of scrubs.”

“‘S not worth it,” Osamu says, shaking his head. “‘S not worth it at all.”

Over the course of the day, you’re reminded of just how popular the twins are. It seems like there’s a perpetual stream of students passing by your classroom to head to Atsumu’s and Osamu’s, bearing gifts of sweets like tributes. On occasion, Atsumu or Osamu will pass by with a blushing classmate in tow, reluctantly dragged out for what has to be a confession. In that brief moment, they’ll lock eyes with you, before they’re pulled along again.

They’re so busy, in fact, neither of the twins stop by your classroom during lunch break, leaving you alone with Kotone and Keita to pull up chairs at your desk, bentos crowded on your table.

“I’m jealous!” Kotone groans, clacking her chopsticks with each word. “Did ya see how many chocolates Atsumu-kun and Osamu-kun got? I think every student in the school must’ve given ‘em something!”

“‘S just how it is,” Keita says. “Everyone’s always liked the Miyas.”

“They’re popular,” you say, and your heart does a funny little squeeze at that. It’s never bothered you how many people have liked the twins before. It’s always felt like another immutable fact of life, their enduring popularity, and nothing worth commenting on. You can even understand why they are so loved, despite all of their flaws.

But the sort of “like” these people feel might be different from the “like” you hold for the twins, and that’s what you still can’t quite wrap your head around. A romantic relationship feels like an alien concept, something utterly at odds with the world you live in. And romantic partners are supposed to be the most important person in someone’s life, aren’t they? If Atsumu or Osamu ever got one, where would that leave you?

“Are ya okay?” Keita says. He’s watching you again, leaning back in his chair to give you an assessing look.

“Mhm!” You nod your head, as if you can physically clear out all your confusing thoughts that way.

“Did ya make any chocolates? Because I did!” Kotone says. She’s finished her lunch already, pulling out something from her bag: two chocolate muffins in red wrappers, placed carefully in plastic baggies to protect them.

“Does that count as chocolate?” Keita says.

“Of course it counts. They have chocolate in ‘em! What did you make, Keita?” Kotone says, bouncing in her seat.

Keita carefully pulls out his offerings. You and Kotone lean in closer to see that he has two pink and white boxes wrapped in a red ribbon. The gold lettering on the package declares that it’s an assortment of milk chocolates with different flavors inside.

“Ya didn’t even cook anything! That’s cheatin’,” Kotone accuses. “There’s no love in somethin’ storebought!”

“‘S not cheating,” Keita protests. “I never said I was going ta make anything, anyways. Isn’t it cheatin’ to make muffins and not chocolate?”

Keita and Kotone both turn to you for an answer, and you’re hit with a strange sense of familiarity, as this is a scene you often find yourself in with the twins. What is it about you that makes people turn to you as the default mediator for arguments?

“I think both gifts are good,” you say diplomatically. “Thank you, Kotone, Keita! I got you something, too!”

You carefully pull out the truffles you’ve been keeping in your bag, passing them out to your friends. There’s a glow in your chest as you watch Kotone admire her package, keeping it flat on the palm of her hands so she can observe it from different angles, and Keita immediately unwraps his to sample one.

“‘S really cute!” Kotone says enthusiastically. “Did ya make them yourself?”

“Tastes good,” Keita adds, chewing.

“I made it with Obaasan’s help,” you explain. “They’re chocolate truffles.”

For the next ten minutes, you, Kotone, and Keita savour each other’s treats. Kotone’s muffins are a little dry, but have rich little chocolate chunks, and some of Keita’s chocolate have caramel and nougat inside. The strange feelings in your chest eases with every one of Kotone’s laughs and Keita’s quiet comments, and you’re starting to think Valentine’s Day might not be too bad after all.

There’s a loud clatter as the classroom door slides open, and a familiar voice calls, “Minami! Come here!” But you barely have time to get out of your seat before the twins descend upon your desk, Osamu’s hands on your shoulders and Atsumu tugging on your hands as the two of them pull you bodily out of your seat. A few of your classmates are staring at the three of you with distant amusement, as if you’re some televised afternoon drama.

“We’re takin’ ‘em now,” Osamu says bluntly, as Atsumu nods coolly at Kotone and Keita.

The three of you settle into a familiar position: Atsumu in front, you in the middle, and Osamu in the back, one twin pulling you forward as the other pushes you from behind as they shepherd you out into the hallways, ignoring the stares of your fellow students. It almost makes you feel like a criminal of some kind, with how neither of the twins relinquish their hold on your hands or shoulders.

“Ya didn’t come to see us,” Atsumu says, tightening his grip on your hand as if in reprimand.

Eh?”

“Almost thought you forgot about our exchange and ya didn’t make anythin’ for us,” Osamu says, squeezing your shoulders.

“I didn’t forget! I was going to give you your present after school,” you protest.

“We shoulda been first,” Atsumu grumbles, taking on an injured air. “First!”

“You were busy,” you say. “There were a lot of people coming to give you chocolates. And you like sweets, don’t you, Samu?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Osamu answers immediately. “If ya came, I wouldn’t have gone with any of those scrubs.”

Atsumu and Osamu walk with practiced ease, guiding you down a vaguely familiar path. It’s not until you’re on the stairwell, heading past the third floor, that you realize they’re taking you to the roof, just like the time Osamu had last fall.

“Um! Atsumu-kun!”

The timid voice of a student halts the three of you in your tracks. As one, you all turn to look back down the stairwell, where a girl, a few steps below you, stares up at you with wide eyes, one hand tightly gripping the stairway’s railing. A few other students, who must be her friends, watched below, giggling and shooting her encouraging expressions. One even cups her hand around her mouth and cheers, “Go for it, Suzume!”

“Can I talk to you? In private?” she continues, face bright red. She’s cute, with a long ponytail and flower barrettes in her hair. She’s staring right at Atsumu, and you can see the obvious edge of a papered gift tucked in her blazer pocket.

There’s a flicker of irritation across Atsumu’s face, like the shadow of a cloud, before his face smooths out into a smile. But there’s something mean about the sharp curve of it and the way he closes his eyes, fox-like.

“Ya wanted to talk to me? Just me?” he asks, voice poisonously sweet and light. If you didn’t know him, you would have thought it was encouraging. Suzume clearly does, as she nods her head rapidly.

“It’s just for a few minutes!” she says.

Her announcement linger in the air before Atsumu finally says, disdain dripping from every slow word, “Why should I? What makes ya think I have time for scrubs like you, botherin’ me at every second?”

Suzume flinches, and you can see her eyes go glossy, fighting back tears. Her friends look at Atsumu in shock, mouths open, and even Osamu puffs out a sigh, small and quiet.

“Let’s go, Samu, Minami,” Atsumu says, turning away, cruelty giving way to disinterest, but you yank your hands out of his grip before he can tug you along. Atsumu blinks at you, eyes moving from his empty hands to yours and the distance between as if he’s processing the sudden loss.

“Tsumu,” you say plainly. “That was rude. You shouldn’t talk to someone else like that.”

You haven’t even raised your voice, but Atsumu reacts like you’ve hit him. “That’s—Minami—” His voice stutters, and Atsumu runs a rough hand through his hair. “Fine! I’m sorry.”

But Suzume is looking down at the ground like a wilted flower, all her previous excitement leeched out of her. “No, it’s—it’s fine. I didn’t mean to bother you.” She scurries off before any of you can say more, her friends flanking her like a shield, one of them pausing only to shoot Atsumu a murderous glare before falling back into the protective crowd.

“Yer a jerk, Tsumu,” Osamu says, shaking his head.

“‘S not my fault,” Atsumu begins, but then glances at you and stops. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, as if he’s chewing on something sour and he can’t spit it out. Atsumu finally reaches out for your hand again with a reticence that feels unfamiliar coming from him, stopping just a few centimeters shy of taking it. “Minami, yer not mad, are ya?”

“Why does it matter if I’m mad? I just don’t think it’s nice to talk to someone else like that, not when they’re being brave and trying to share their feelings with you. And it’s not fair to apologize to someone if you don’t really mean it,” you say quietly.

“All right. I understand,” Atsumu says meekly, head dipping down like a kicked puppy.

“Ignore him, Minami. He’s a scrub,” Osamu interrupts, maneuvering himself so he can grab your free hand and pull you along towards your path, bumping into Atsumu’s shoulder as he does. Atsumu stands unmoving, and when you move a few more steps, you look back at Atsumu, the conflicted expression on his face, eyebrows scrunched together as he watches the two of you ascend the stairs without him.

“Are you coming, Tsumu?” you ask, tugging on Osamu’s hand to make him stop.

He’s silent for a few seconds, eyes darting from you to Osamu to your joined hands. For all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him look so small. It’s strange, because Atsumu never cares about what anyone thinks, even the people he doesn’t think are scrubs. “‘Course I am! You two are walkin’ too fast!”

He races up the stairs, blowing past you and Osamu. Once you reach the roof, the cold winter wind seems to revive Atsumu as the three of you huddle for warmth in a patch of icy February sunshine, clustered together in a tight circle.

You’re the first to reveal your homemade truffles. “This is for you two. I made it with Obaasan,” you say.

Osamu immediately tears open the wrapping and pops a truffle into his mouth, chewing carefully and pausing, finger on his chin. He looks so gravely serious, more so than when he had to cram for finals. “‘S good. Ya used vanilla extract, didn’t ya? And Meiji milk chocolate, too?”

“How can you tell?” you ask, amazed.

Osamu shrugs. “Just can. ‘S obvious. The texture is different ‘cause they use one hundred percent cocoa butter, and so’s the flavor.”

“It’s ‘cause Samu’s a pig,” Atsumu says derisively, chomping on his own truffles.

“I also have something else,” you say shyly, pulling out two rolls of paper, handing them to each twin.

Atsumu wipes his chocolate-stained hands on his pants and unwraps his sheet, unfurling the sketch you made the night before. It’s a rough sketch of his house, complete with sharp lines and careful shading, with the most minute details recorded, from the speckling of the roof tiles to the shine of their nameplate. You even had little arrows pointing towards special features, like Atsumu’s and Osamu’s windows, and the place where they like to throw water balloons during the summer, alongside a simple compass rose in the corner.

“It’s your house,” you say, lacing your fingers together. You’d spent the entire night peering through your window at the outline of the twins’ home, pulling out old pictures where the house is visible in the background.

“And our house’s north, ain’t it?” Osamu says.

“It is,” you say. Lately, since you haven’t been mapping much, you also haven’t had as much time to take Kaasan’s compass with you around the neighborhood, now that your days are filled with studying and running around with your friends. It makes you worry that the compass feels neglected, even though you know the thought is silly.

“‘S pretty good. Since ya worked so hard on it, I’ll pin it ta my desk,” Atsumu says, and you swear you can hear the repressed sniffle in his voice, as if he’s fighting back tears. When he notices your inquisitive stare, he clears his throat and abruptly adds, “Well, we got ya something too. Samu, show ‘em!”

“Don’t tell me what ta do,” Osamu grumbles, but he sets his school bag down and unzips it, pulling out a hardcover book with thick pages. “This is for you, Minami.”

“We saved up for it,” Atsumu says proudly. “Didn’t even ask Kaasan for a single yen!”

“And I made ya this,” Osamu says. “Couldn’t decide what ya liked, so I made a ton. Tsumu, show ‘em.”

“Ya mean WE made it, Samu. Quit takin’ all the credit, and don’t treat me like yer errand boy!” Atsumu snaps, but he still pulls out a plastic container from his bag.

The twins have never looked more alike as they shove their presents in your face, sporting matching smug smiles and a puff to their chest, as if assured of the quality of their gifts as you gingerly take both the book and the container, hugging them tightly to your body.

The book has a glossy picture of Kobe on the cover, an aerial view of the city with sleek buildings shooting up like plants, and the kanji on the title proclaims that it’s a book of maps of the Hyogo region. The plastic container, after being shuffled around in Atsumu’s bag, is a colorful jumble of warabimochi, dango, daifuku, and small squares of chocolate, sweets smushed into each other.

You can hardly contain your joy as you put the gifts down and throw your arms around Atsumu and Osamu, pulling the two of them into a tight hug. “Thank you so much! These are wonderful,” you say. “I promise I’ll treasure them forever and ever. I’ll put everything on my shelf and take good care of them!”

“Don’t forget food’s supposed ta be eaten,” Osamu says. “Ya can’t just display it, Minami.”

“‘S a pretty good gift, ain’t it,” Atsumu says. “So don’t forget that we were the ones ta give it to ya! Yer not gonna find a better pair of friends in all of Japan. Beats anything some other lame scrub might give ya.”

“Let me feed ya, Minami,” Osamu says bluntly. While Atsumu was talking, he’d picked up the plastic container of sweets, prying the lid open, and now he has a piece of chocolate pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hah? What’s wrong with you?” Atsumu says, shoving him with his shoulder. “Feed ‘em? I can do that.”

“Yer just gonna drop the food.”

As Atsumu and Osamu bicker, you crouch on the floor of the rooftop and flip through your new book of maps, tracing the complicated veins of the city. To prevent the argument from escalating further, you decide to eat the sweets all by yourself, with Osamu stealing a few pieces of his own creation. It’s all so sweet on your tongue that you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to taste another flavor again.

When the lunch period is close to ending, as Osamu heads down the stairs, Atsumu dawdles at the rooftop door, a cold winter breeze stirring at his hair. You touch the sleeve of his blazer.

“Tsumu?” you ask patiently. “Are you okay?”

“Minami,” he says. “Yer really not mad at me, right?”

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m not the one you were rude to. I just don’t like it when people are rude.”

“I’m only rude ‘cause they’re all scrubs,” Atsumu says. “And I have you, and Samu, and Aran, too. ‘S enough. I don’t need anyone else. And you like me, don’t ya, Minami?”

You hesitate because the word “like” sounds so different on Tsumu’s tongue, syrupy and sweet in a way you’re not used to, like it’s a candy he’s savoring on his tongue. The answer is obvious. Of course you like Atsumu, and you can’t really imagine not liking him, even when he’s rude. But the words won’t come out, and Atsumu is the first to break the silence.

“‘S fine,” he says, and he raises a hand to ruffle at your hair in that way he likes to do, but the touch is slower and thoughtful this time, as if he’s savoring the feel of the strands along his fingertips. “Ya don’t have to say anything.”

“Did you,” you say, mouth dry, unsure of why the words are tumbling out, “Like any of the confessions you got?”

“I didn’t care about any of ‘em,” he says dismissively. “Did ya read your letter yet?”

You’d peeked at the letter during lunch with Kotone and Keita, skimming the contents, the writer a first year from your art club who just wanted to express her admiration for your sketches. “It wasn’t a love letter,” you say.

“‘S that so.”

“Are the two of ya comin’ or not? We’re going ta be late!” Osamu barks. He’s already reached the first landing, and looks up, irritated at the sight of the two of you still on the roof.

Atsumu, in response, flies down the stairs, scrambling to overtake his brother, and you follow along, a beat more slowly. One of the two always looks back at you, making sure you’re following right along, even in their competitive race back to their classroom.

—

The weather warms during the spring, flowers nosing their way through the cold ground, the nascent greenery a mist that blankets the fields and pathways home. Your second year is almost over, but high school entrance exams are already on your mind.

You’re waiting for the twins to finish practice, sitting on the steps of the gym to soak in the sunshine after a season of staying cooped up inside, homework spread across your knees. Atsumu and Osamu had texted you vehement reminders to wait for them and not to leave the school too soon, as if there’s ever been a time you’ve done differently.

In fact, you like to attend all of their volleyball games, cheering for them in the crowds, and they sneak you into their closed practices, telling you to hide on the second floor as you can watch from above. Volleyball is the one thing that Atsumu and Osamu never slack on, and they never miss a practice if they can help it. They streak across the court like stars, working in eerie sync to the point you’d think they can read each other’s minds. Osamu jumps before Atsumu sets, the ball finding a home under Osamu’s hand as if it was meant to be there.

It looks like a miracle, though it’s anything but, as Osamu explained to you once.

“It’s not trust or anythin’ like that,” he said after a game, towel slung around his neck, sweat dripping down his nose. “‘S just because I know Tsumu’s going ta be there.”

You understand what Osamu means. There’s a surety to Atsumu’s presence, a tangible weight to his confidence and belief. If he says he’ll do something, then he’ll do it.

Atsumu is always practicing for a few minutes longer than the others, running just a little further and pushing himself harder, Osamu keeping pace right alongside him. Atsumu loves volleyball in the same way most people breathe, like it’s instinct and not choice.

They’ve even made it onto television several times now, the three of you crowded in your living room alongside Miya-san, Tousan, Ojiisan, and Obaasan, Atsumu wildly pointing at his pixelated head on screen as he responded to an interviewer about his hopes for the upcoming season.

The Inarizaki middle school boys’ volleyball team usually does well at the Interhigh, having made it to nationals for the past five years. It’s a fact the twins always get a little smug about.

“We’re winnin’ this year, and we’re going to make it next year and win that, too,” Atsumu had said in the interview.

You’re so lost in your thoughts you don’t even notice when the door creaks open behind you, not until something cold touches the nape of your neck and you jump, a few loose papers scattering across the stairs that you hastily grab, and someone chuckles behind you.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean ta make you drop your things. This is for you,” Aran says, handing you a cold water bottle as he settles on the steps next to you, stretching out his legs.

You cup the bottle with both of your hands, taking a sip of cool water. “Thank you, Aran! Are you on break now?”

He nods. “Thought I saw you waitin’ outside, so I wanted to come over and say hi.”

“You’re graduating soon, right, Aran? And you’re going to Inarizaki High.”

“Yup. They’ve got a good volleyball program, and it only makes sense to go from Inarizaki Middle to Inarizaki High. ‘Sides, the coach wanted me there,” he adds, a touch bashful. “He said I’d do well on the team.”

“How does it feel, graduating?” you ask.

Aran looks up at the sky. You look up, too, watching billowing white clouds race across the sky. “I don’t know. Feels like a lot’s going to change, but that nothing’s changin’ at the same time. It hasn’t really hit yet. It probably will once I’m gone, but for now, I’m just countin’ down the days until graduation.”

“That makes sense,” you say. “High school is going to be different.”

Aran stretches out one of his arms, the movement loose and easy. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“What high school are you going to go to? What are ya going to do for the future? You’re almost in yer third year, so I bet you’re worryin’ about the entrance exams.”

You draw circles on your paper, tight, inky loops. You have been worrying about entrance exams lately, the future pressing down on you in a way it hasn’t before. Things can never stay the same, and after Valentine’s Day, that knowledge has always been hovering in the back of your mind. “I’m thinking of going to Inarizaki High, too. Are you going to keep playing volleyball, Aran? After high school, I mean.”

“I want to. If I do well in high school, it makes it easier to get scouted by professional teams. Helps to put your name out there, and ta get noticed by recruiters,” Aran says.

“You’re already famous. You have a picture in Volleyball Monthly!” you protest. Atsumu likes to spend his allowance on copies of the magazine, and he and Osamu will crowd around the pages and point at players they recognize, mumbling and shaking their heads over “future rivals who they’ve got ta study up on and beat” and “that scrub’s got a good aim, but his receivin’s shit, so how’d he get in there, anyways?”

Aran made it into the pages for being a power hitter and helping to bring his team to nationals, and he even had an entire page dedicated to him, along with a short transcript of an interview he’d done. The second Atsumu saw him there, he brought the magazine to school and passed it around for everyone on the team to see. This only lasted a few days before Aran confiscated the magazine, where you’re pretty sure it’s still tucked in his locker even now.

“Don’t remind me,” Aran groans, face in his hands.

“It’s cool, though!” you say earnestly. “You’re super cool, Aran!”

“Enough, enough! What about you? What do you want to do?”

“I want to make maps,” you say simply. “So I want to be a cartographer.” When you say the words out loud, you feel strange and ticklish, as if just the act of saying it makes it more real, bringing you one step closer to your dream.

“If you make a map, I want ta see,” Aran says, bumping his shoulders into yours. “I’ll use it ta get around Japan.”

“Okay,” you say, brightening and smiling down at your paper. “I’ll make a special map just for you, Aran.”

The gym doors burst open once again, and Atsumu and Osamu spill out, fresh towels around their sweaty necks and water bottles in their grip, hair clinging to their foreheads. They must have just finished drills and started their break, and you don’t doubt the only reason they stopped was because the coach yelled at them to rest.

“Aran! No fair! You’re hoggin’ Minami!” Atsumu accuses, immediately squeezing himself between you and Aran, pressing so close it feels as if the seams of your bodies are lined up, shoulders to shoulders, hip to hip, knee to knee.

“‘S cheatin’. You should be doing yer drills like the rest of us,” Osamu adds, plopping down on your other side so you’re sandwiched directly between the twins.

Heat radiates off of Osamu and Atsumu and seeps into your own body, and you’re so close you can smell the salt from their sweat, the faint whiff of air salonpas.

“We’re on break!” Aran protests, scooting over to distance himself from Atsumu.

If you crane your head, you can see the other boys on the volleyball team staring at the four of you, the audience to your private drama. That’s how it always is with the twins; they attract so much attention to the point they feel like they’re out of reach to most people. Atsumu pushes at Osamu, and Osamu pushes right back, and it never feels like they really need anyone else, even when they let people into their world. Not Aran. Not even you.

—

You enter your third year of middle school after bidding farewell to Aran at graduation, Atsumu choking back a few tears as Osamu hands him the bouquet the three of you bought on the way here, a swath of pink and yellow flowers that look like sunrise. During summer break, Atsumu and Osamu spend most of their time away at volleyball practice and summer training camps. There’s a tension that crackles like ozone whenever the two mention anything volleyball-related, as they manically throw themselves into their last chance to win middle school nationals.

They always trudge home in the evenings with dust caking their shoes, but as soon as they see you exploring outside, that familiar sketchbook and compass in hand, they launch themselves into your arms, covered in sweat as they complain and drag you into their home for ice pops and icy watermelon slices.

For your part, you wander around the neighborhood, sketching buildings and charting new paths farther and farther out, walking for hours to chart the shape of your home. Sometimes, you’ll bring out Atsumu’s and Osamu’s book of maps and use that to navigate where you go, to see if you can line up printed streets with the physical road around you. You can spend hours tracing the maps in the book with your finger, stomach down in your room, fan whirring as you explore cities you’ve never visited.

Keita and Kotone invite you out on occasion, and the three of you will go out to take a dip in the river or to see a movie. In the mornings, when you’re free, you’ll help Ojiisan in the garden, pulling up weeds and watering his beloved flowers. Other times, you’ll assist Obaasan with dinner, rolling up your sleeves and donning an apron, ready to clumsily cut vegetables or stir simmering pots with delicious smells. Even Tousan has more time off in the summer, and you can pass quiet evenings taking walks, the air noisy with cicadas, explaining the new places you’ve mapped out.

Still, you devote a few hours every day to studying, practicing for the upcoming high school entrance exams. There are three years of material and five subjects for you to review, and you’ve been preparing since spring.

You’re not alone, and you wouldn’t feel alone, anyways, even if the twins weren’t busy with volleyball and their final year at middle school nationals. In fact, breaks means they’re always at your house, or you’re at theirs, and they’re as close to you as ever. There’s just a strange little splinter in your relationship with them, a hairline crack that’s been there for months. You don’t think Atsumu or Osamu notice, and besides, your restless feelings are your own, not theirs.

The more you want things to stay the same, the more you want to ignore the uncomfortable loneliness in your heart, the more you’re afraid you can’t. Even if you wanted to say something, you wouldn’t know what to say. You want to blame the heat, making everything feel heavy and oppressive. It’ll go away eventually; it has to.

At one point in mid-July, during dinner, as your family picks away at a dish of steamed white fish and cold cucumber salad, Ojiisan says, “Do ya remember that old grill I used ta have? The one we used in the summer? I found it in the garden shed this morning.”

“I remember that one!” Tousan says, brightening. “You used ta bring it out all the time in the summer. Does it still work?”

“‘S rusty, but it just needs a little polish,” Ojiisan grunts. “I haven’t checked on it for a bit, but I can’t see why it wouldn’t.”

“Why don’t we fix it up? If it does still work, we can invite our neighbors over,” Tousan says. “I’ve been meanin’ to have Miya-san over for dinner, anyways. Doesn’t that sound nice, sweetheart? You’ve been studying hard lately, so wouldn’t a break be good?”

This question is directed at you, and you almost jump out of your seat when the full force of Tousan’s smile is aimed at you. “Yes, Tousan,” you say obediently.

By the time next weekend rolls around, Tousan and Ojiisan have cleaned the grill and bought charcoal, and Obaasan has extra beef from the convenience store she marinated overnight (“All on sale,” she says. “Don’t buy full price if you can.”). In the afternoon, you help drag out lawn chairs and a foldable table into the backyard yard, along with some paper plates, tongs, and Obaasan’s collection of sauces, ranging from lemon juice to ponzu sauce.

Ojiisan and Tousan are gathered around the grill, prodding at pieces of grilling meat on the net-top that fills the air with a delicious steam, Osamu hovering behind them, eyes glued to the cooking beef. He’d made a beeline straight to the grill after greeting you, and hasn’t left since, filling you with a faint worry that he might eat it all and you might never actually get to try any.

Obaasan sits perfectly still on a lawn chair, Atsumu sitting stiffly next to her. Even in the heat, she’s wearing a lovely yellow scarf the same color as a sunflower. When she leans over to say something to him, Atsumu jumps a mile in the air. You have a feeling that Obaasan knows how nervous Atsumu feels around her and is doing it on purpose, judging from the way she winks at you whenever you glance their way.

“She’s scary! Even scarier than yer Ojiian,” Atsumu whispered to you fiercely when he spotted the only open seat was next to Obaasan. “Feels like she’s peerin’ into my head every time she looks at me!”

“She taught me her udon recipe,” Osamu said in response. “I don’t see what’s scary about her.”

“Of course you would say that, Samu, ya scrub! You never care about anyone as long as they feed ya!”

You’re sitting cross-legged in the grass with your sketchbook and the book of maps spread in front of you, drawing once again. You’ve taken to copying the maps from the book into your notebook using a ruler, practicing your sense of scale.

Someone’s shadow falls over you. “I knew that book was for you,” Miya-san says.

“For me?” you say, looking up at her, squinting against the bright glare of the sun behind her.

Miya-san nods, and slides down next to you. She’s dressed more casually today, in a loose t-shirt and linen pants. “I saw ‘em carry it back home, acting all shifty, whisperin’ to each other. They were saving their allowance the whole month for it. Osamu cut back on his snacks, and Atsumu was clearin’ snow off the driveway for Daiki-san just down the street for an entire week.”

“I didn’t know that,” you say, lightly touching the glossy page.

“They must not want to make it a big deal. They don’t show it, but they get embarrassed easily. And they like ya a whole lot,” Miya-san says. “I can see why. Yer a cute kid. Way cuter than those two! Yer Tousan is lucky.”

You blush, looking down at your sketchbook. “Thank you, Miya-san. But Tsumu and Samu are cute, too.”

“Sure, they can act cute when they want somethin’, but I don’t know where they get their sly streak from,” she grumbles. “Ya know, I’m glad you moved here. You and yer Tousan. Thank you for being Atsumu’s and Osamu’s friend.”

“It’s no problem, Miya-san!” you say, flustered. It reminds you a little of the conversation you overheard between Miya-san and Tousan during elementary school graduation. “I like Tsumu and Samu, and I like being their friend.”

“If only they picked up yer manners, too!” she laments. “But no, I want ta thank ya, because I mean every word of what I say. Ya probably know this, but I have ta commute into Amagasaki for work. It’s a nice office building, where I am, but the hours are long and I’m not home as often as I want ta be. I used to ask Atsumu’s and Osamu’s Obaasan to come down and watch ‘em when they were too little to be on their own. And ya know how they are! Independent and closed off from others. I don’t know if they were ever lonely, but sometimes, they were alone, so I’m glad yer there for them.”

“Miya-san…”

“And I hope they can be there for you, too,” she adds. Her voice has a sort of warmth and genuine interest you’re not used to from adults, a motherly affection and concern that makes your heart ache. Sometimes, you don’t know how to act around her, her sincerity making you feel shy. “I’m not going to make assumptions about ya and what yer life has been like. But I hope those two have been makin’ you as happy as you’ve made them. How’ve ya been?”

“I’ve been okay, Miya-san.”

“Ya sure? Not gonna run away with Atsumu and Osamu again?”

“I’m not! I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t worry you or Tousan again!” you say quickly.

She laughs. “I’m just teasin’. I know ya won’t. But yer so mature, and middle school is a tough time for anyone. I just don’t want ya to feel like ya have to carry everything by yerself. ‘Course, it’s not my place to step in if ya don’t want me ta. I’m just a meddlin’ adult.”

“You’re not meddling,” you protest. You’re quiet for a bit, tracing the same line on your paper, back and forth until it’s darker than the faint pencil marking around it, before you add, “Well, there is something I’ve been wondering. What do you think about love, Miya-san?”

“Love?” Miya-san leans back, tilting her head up, so her face is awash in sunlight. “I don’t know. ‘S a complicated question, ain’t it? I thought I loved the twins’ father, back when we first met. He knew how to say all the right things and make all the right gestures, but he wasn’t the sort of person who knew how to make things last. I love Osamu and Atsumu, no question about it, and I’ll always love ‘em and be there for ‘em. So I suppose love is just something that’s always there. ‘S steady. Like a house ya build yerself, that ya can come back to time and time again.”

You really do like Miya-san, how she treats you like an adult and answers all of your questions seriously, how she looks right into your eyes when she speaks, with a clear, unwavering gaze. She has the same eyes as Atsumu and Osamu, so when you look at her, you see an echo of your best friends.

Of course, as much as Atsumu and Osamu are your friends, Miya-san is also Tousan’s friend. Sometimes, she and Tousan go out to a local izakaya in the evenings to chat, or they’ll laugh in the kitchen over a bottle of sake as you and the twins go about your own business. Every once in a while, your families will have joint dinners like today. In a way, Miya-san is also a part of your family.

Still, you can’t help comparing the answer Miya-san gave to Obaasan’s. Miya-san says love is like a house, and Obaasan says love is a choice that you keep making. But then what is love to you? Is it a house, a choice, or something else entirely?

“But that’s just what I think. Everyone has their own answers,” Miya-san says lightly when you don’t respond, still mulling over her words. “You’ll come to your own answer in time. ‘S not like everyone’s definition of love is going ta look the same.”

“Kaasan! Minami!” Osamu calls. He lazily waves a pair of tongs in your direction. “The barbecue’s ready! If ya don’t hurry, there won’t be any meat left!”

“Yer not gonna save a plate for yer Kaasan?” Miya-san yells back, pulling herself up.

“What about me, Samu, ya”—Atsumu begins, voice rising in an indignant pitch, before glancing at Obaasan next to him in the same way someone might look at a lion. He clears his throat, and continues in a meeker voice, tamed without a single word, to your amazement—“I’m going ta get a plate, so don’t eat it all.”

Around you, there’s a flurry of familiar voices and the smell of grilling meat, the sun strong on your shoulders and your sketchpage smooth under your fingertips. Everyone you love is in one place, and you let the summer memory wrap around you, your heart aching in strange, unexpected ways.

—

When you return from summer break, fresh into your third year of middle school, you start taking Kaasan’s compass with you to class. Every morning, you slip it neatly in your schoolbag in its velvet pouch, right next to your pencil case, and take it out to rest on your desk when you get home. It’s a nervous habit, born from the fact if you’re not at school or art club, you’re studying for exams.

Inarizaki High is a public high school, but it’s prestigious enough that it can be difficult to test into. Though you think your attendance and grades are pretty good, you still need to worry about passing the entrance exams. The general exams for Inarizaki High are held in February, so you mark down each passing day on your calendar until exam season, practicing mock tests with Keita and Kotone, heart thrumming in your chest.

If you’re particularly nervous as you study, then you like to pull out Kaasan’s compass and run your fingers along the smooth, golden edge, the needle always pointing unwaveringly in the same direction. It’ll guide you to where you want to be the most and the results you want. You only have one chance to test well. You can’t disappoint Tousan or Ojiisan or Obaasan with a poor performance.

You’re spending less time with Atsumu and Osamu as the days pass, because after club, you head straight to the library to study. You haven’t stopped by the gym as a result, hunkering down at a table with Kotone and Keita as you mark up each other’s practice tests and quiz each other on English vocabulary and math equations. Your head is swimming with notes from Japanese, math, social studies, English, and science these days, so that you don’t really have much room for anything else.

It’s not like you’re avoiding Atsumu and Osamu on purpose, because they’re still prioritizing volleyball and cramming the entrance exam in their room after practice, to the point you can see their window glow late into the night as you prepare for bed. Still, you receive several disgruntled texts from Atsumu that are usually just him irritably rambling about the scrubs on his team not keeping up with his sets, how progress on his jump serve is going, and how the team just hasn’t been the same since Aran graduated. Osamu texts you far less, and when he does, he only ever comments on how pissed Tsumu is, and how he wants to try making new foods for his bento tomorrow.

One afternoon in October, as you’re heading off to the library, you receive a completely different text from Osamu.

Osamu: I miss you.

It takes you ten minutes to reply to his message. Osamu is so bold and honest in expressing his own feelings that you find it hard to respond to. Just like Atsumu, he’s never felt the need to hide who he is or what he wants.

You: I miss you, too!

Osamu: Busy with studying?

You: Yes! But I’m okay. Kotone and Keita are usually with me!

You don’t receive any replies for a few minutes and you assume Osamu is at practice until he sends a follow-up, your phone buzzing.

Osamu: Looks like it’s going to rain.

You glance through the windows of the library, the crowds of gray clouds. It had been a clear blue sky only this morning, so you had thought it would last for your walk home, too.

You: I really hope it doesn’t! I didn’t bring an umbrella.

Your studying schedule is so consistent that you, Keita, and Kotone have a lucky table, one that Kotone swears she studies better at, tucked right at the corner of the library and sheltered by a long row of reference textbooks. Kotone brings little snacks with her to your afternoon study sessions in the library, cardboard boxes of jelly-covered chocolates that she pops into her mouth for a burst of energy.

“We’re going to get into Inarizaki High,” she mutters feverishly, like it’s a chant. “We’re going to get into Inarizaki High.”

“‘s going to be fine,” Keita mutters, rubbing at bloodshot eyes. “Most people from here get into Inarizaki High.”

The dim light in the library is made gray and watery by the storm clouds outside, and, just as Osamu predicted, rain beads the windows in a soothing percussion that makes you want to lay your head down and nap. Instead, you allow yourself one squeeze of Kaasan’s compass and then return to your notes.

“How’re Atsumu-kun and Osamu-kun doin’? I’m surprised they’re not studyin’ with you!” Kotone asks. She has one cheek pressed flat against the cover of her math textbook, peering up at you with wide eyes. It’s a clear effort to distract herself.

“They’re cramming between practices, but I think Inarizaki High’s scouted them, too,” you say simply.

“Lucky!”

“Guess the three of ya are going to be together again,” Keita jokes, propping himself up with a hand on his chin. “And I bet you’ll go to the same college as ‘em. And if I call ya in the future, Osamu and Atsumu will be right there, too.”

“Do you think so?” you say, but your voice must carry some sign of the strange knot your feelings have tangled themselves in over the months.

“Do you not?” Keita asks. Kotone is quiet, watching the two of you speak. “I mean, ‘s normal for people to grow apart, too. Not everyone can be together forever. ‘S just that the three of you are so close, I can’t imagine you apart from ‘em. They like ya a lot.” The sound of the rain falls like a curtain, a soft shushing over the world. Keita is looking at you carefully, a thoughtful frown on his face. “And ya like them too, don’t ya?”

It’s similar to the question that Atsumu asked you on Valentine’s Day. And the answer is usually so obvious, so clear to you. You still have the foxes they gave you as a souvenir, the white bird from the summer festival, the maps you’ve made with them tucked securely in your bookshelf. You’ve always, always wanted to stay with them forever, hoping that the summer you first met would stretch on golden and triumphant and eternal.

(The problem is that no one in your family loves in half-measures. The problem is that there are never any guarantees in the world.)

The library door obnoxiously clatters open, preventing you from responding, and just from that sound alone you know Atsumu and Osamu have entered the library, even before you hear the stomp of their footsteps and their muttered insults at each other. Atsumu slides into the open seat next to yours, tipping the chair back as he does, and Osamu puts his head on your shoulder, reading your notes and mouthing them out loud to himself.

“Yer still not done studying, Minami?” Atsumu complains, picking up one of your science textbooks.

“I told ya it would rain,” Osamu says, poking your cheek. Then, with narrowed eyes, he adds, flicking a casual glance between you and Keita, “Did we interrupt somethin’?”

“You didn’t interrupt anything at all!” you say.

“We were just takin’ a break. But if it’s late enough that you’re both off from practice, maybe we’ll just work for ten more minutes and go home,” Keita suggests.

For the next ten minutes, you try to study, but it’s hard to concentrate when you can feel both Atsumu’s and Osamu’s eyes on you the entire time. When you try to catch them in the act, they both slide their eyes away from yours, taking interest in the storm outside or picking at nonexistent dust on their blazer. Their hair is slick to their foreheads, the edge of their clothing damp with the faint scent of rain. Osamu has dragged a chair over to read whatever notes you aren’t using, and Atsumu tilts his head towards the ceiling, waiting for you to finish.

Eventually, the five of you pack up your bags and make your way to the shoe lockers. The silence is strangely oppressive, with even Kotone’s usual chatter dying down to a shy trickle. It’s the presence of the twins, the foreboding, impenetrable atmosphere that surrounds them. Irritation, like a lash of lightning through the storm clouds outside, flashes with every twitch of Atsumu’s eye, the disinterested set of Osamu’s mouth.

(But they’ve always been like this, the twins. Ignoring everything and everyone they don’t need in their world. Resenting even the suggestion of an intrusion.)

You’re huddling near the entranceway, hand gripping the straps of your bag tightly, watching the rain, when Atsumu slings one arm over your shoulder, dragging you flush to his side, as if he’s pulling you back to where you belong.

“Did you forget yer umbrella, Minami?” he says.

“Yes,” you say. “So I don’t know what to do.”

“I didn’t forget my umbrella, ya know,” he says importantly.

“Only because I reminded ya to check the forecast,” Osamu adds, slinking up from behind, his umbrella opening like a translucent flower. “Otherwise ya’d be waiting here, too, scrub.”

“Shaddup. Ya know, Minami, my umbrella’s prettyyyy big,” Atsumu adds. “Probably has enough room for two people.”

“But there’s still not enough room for yer big head underneath it,” Osamu adds. “Minami, ignore ‘im. He’s just talkin’ nonsense.”

“What’re ya talking about? Yer the one talkin’ stupid, ya scrub,” Atsumu says. He pulls away from you to push Osamu, who sticks his tongue out.

Someone taps your shoulder. It’s Keita, who’s unfurled a simple black umbrella, watching the chaos in front of you. Kotone has disappeared sometime in the rush, running to catch a train, leaving you with only a quick wave. “Do ya want to share with me? I can walk ya back while they’re bickerin’.”

“Are you sure? Don’t you live in the opposite direction, Keita? It’d be out of your way,” you say.

“‘S no problem,” he says.

You tilt your head as you consider his proposal. It might be more trouble than it’s worth to share an umbrella with one of the twins, because whoever you don’t choose will be upset, but it’d also be rude to make Keita go out of his way to take you home. Before you can come up with an answer, Atsumu stalks indignantly up to you, shoving his clear, plastic umbrella in your face.

“Minami,” he says forcefully. “Ya don’t need to do that. Ya can use my umbrella.”

“Atsumu—” The umbrella is inches from your nose, but Atsumu shoves it closer until you have to go cross-eyed to look at it. “Okay. Thank you.”

“‘S only because I’m nice and ya can rely on me,” he says, sniffing. “And it’d be lame if ya got a cold.” He gives a quick, begrudging nod to Keita before running back and tackling Osamu so hard the two of them almost fall into the mud. “Move, ya pig! We’re sharin’ an umbrella, do ya hear me?”

“I don’t want ta share one with you. Ya can walk back in the rain,” Osamu says, shoving Atsumu with his shoulder.

“Tooooo bad. Kaasan’s gonna get mad at ya for not sharin’,” Atsumu taunts.

“What, yer bringing Kaasan into this? Are ya five?”

“They’re pretty noisy,” Keita says, half in disbelief and half in admiration. “Guess I won’t need to walk ya back after all. See ya tomorrow.”

You clutch the umbrella tighter in your hands. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Keita.”

The walk to the bus stop is punctuated by complaints between Osamu and Atsumu as they both crowd under one umbrella, where one of their shoulders inevitably gets wet as the umbrella sways drunkenly, tipping back and forth as the twins try to push their way into getting full coverage.

You’re clutching the handle of your own umbrella tightly, lagging just a step or two behind. There’s not enough room on the sidewalk to walk with Atsumu and Osamu while staying dry.

“What makes someone a scrub?” you ask.

Atsumu, who’s just shoved his elbow into Osamu’s face in order to gain control of the handle, turns back to you with a frown. “A scrub’s a scrub.”

“But how do you decide who’s a scrub or not?” you ask.

“There’s no decidin’. They just are,” Osamu adds, maneuvering himself into the circle of the umbrella while Atsumu is still distracted.

“Why’re ya worrying about somethin’ like that, anyways?” Atsumu says.

“I don’t know,” you say, gripping the handle tighter, staring out into the sheets of rain blurring the world around you into unfamiliar shapes. It’s important to voice your thoughts, to let people know how you feel, but what happens when the words can’t seem to form right, or when you don’t know what you’re feeling, or why? How can you communicate something so tangled that you don’t know how it begins and ends?

It seemed so much easier when you were eight and the world was vast and empty, ready for you to chart it with your makeshift maps, to color it in with scribbled lines. But now you’re fourteen, and the world isn’t so simple anymore. People are a shifting landscape of complicated feelings, and the bonds that tie them together seem so tenuous and fragile, threads that could snap in an instant.

You have a searing urge to pull out Kaasan’s compass, to grip the cold metal until it warms in your palms, to follow it as far as you can go until you leave all your feelings behind, into some foreign land where everything will melt away.

“Then don’t worry about it,” Atsumu says resolutely.

Osamu turns one last probing glance in your direction. “None of those other scrubs matter, but don’t ignore us, Minami,” he says.

“I’m not,” you protest, but Atsumu is yanking the handle out of Osamu’s hand before he can respond, and the two of them are drawn back into their squabbling.

—

Winter slinks in with a flurry of sudden snow and cold, sleepy commutes, of evenings spent huddling at the kotatsu to study until your notes blur in front of you. The closer entrance exams draw, the more you find yourself bringing out Kaasan’s compass just to hold its weight in your hands, waiting for the needle to guide you to where you need to go.

Atsumu and Osamu are always away at practice, busy with games and the national tournament at the end of December, whose qualifiers they’d made only a few months before to become Hyogo’s representatives. They’re comets streaking across the court, burning fiercely as they bring home win after win. It seems effortless to anyone who hasn’t seen them practice until the coach has to kick them out, where they’ll then trudge home late to eat and watch recorded volleyball games of their opponents, dissecting each play and movement.

A week before finals, Atsumu and Osamu corner you in the hallways on the way to your respective clubs, one boy pressed tightly on either side.

“Osaka. Half an hour from the Amagasaki station. Osaka Municipal Central Gymnasium. ‘S easy to find,” Atsumu says in a breathless rush. “Tournament’s a few days long, and we’re going ta make it for every round.”

“Ya can be late, but don’t be too late,” Osamu adds. “I don’t want ya to miss us. You’ll be there, right, Minami?”

“I will. I promise. I know the two of you will make it all the way to finals,” you say, temporarily blinded by the faint scent of sweat and air salpas that seems to cling to the twins, as if they’ve spent their entire lives on the court and any visitation to a different place is a brief respite before they return to where they belong.

Atsumu’s lips curve into a pleased smirk. “Yer right we’re going ta make it to finals. When we win, I might even let ya touch the trophy.”

They disappear in a muddle of quick goodbyes, Osamu squeezing your arm, Atsumu ruffling your hair, before they fly down the hallway to make it to the gym in time for practice.

When you go home that night, you linger by Kaasan’s picture. There’s already a plate of fresh mandarins set near the frame, probably from Tousan. During this time of year, her shrine takes on a new weight, a gravitas that draws you to her and makes your steps heavier, slower. It should have been easier, each year that passes.

Most of the time it is easy. You think of her fondly. You live your life. Like you told Atsumu and Osamu so long ago, it’s simply a fact of life that Kaasan is gone, and you hardly knew her in the first place. Tousan is the one who misses her the most, and you can’t tell how much of your grief is inherited and how much of it is your own, how much of it is missing who Kaasan was and who she could have been to you.

It’s when it’s closest to Kaasan’s death or you’re already feeling low that your thoughts return to her, and the grief lurking in your heart reminds you of its size and enormity, lurking without change, a seed that you grow new layers around each year.

“What should I do, Kaasan?” you ask.

Next week is the tournament. Next week is also the anniversary of Kaasan’s death, and it’ll have been ten years since she passed away. It’s a strange coincidence, how these events in your life line up so neatly.

You absently dig in your bag and touch the compass again as if you could derive some measure of strength from it or as if you can still feel her lingering warmth, the ghost of her touch from when she had held it for guidance, years ago.

—

You weave past passersby in Amagasaki station, murmuring “sorry” and “excuse me” as you rush down the white tiled hall, hoping the train hasn’t departed yet. The twins’ first match for the middle school boy’s volleyball tournament takes place in the morning. You’ve somehow slept past the alarm you set, having to run out the door while still shoving your items into your bag, only able to grab a bite or two of breakfast before you left.

Your heart pounds as you swipe your IC card at the ticket gate, jumping through once the doors whir open and darting towards the station to Osaka. You’ll have to transfer at Kujo, but you should be able to make it in time for the beginning of their match.

The local train pulls in just as you reach the platform, and you finally let out a sigh of relief, sliding into a seat and smoothing out your wrinkled clothing, placing your bookbag firmly in your lap. It’s unzipped, and you must not have noticed in your rush out the door, so you quickly draw the zipper down. The people around you look fresh and excited for their weekend plans in the city, the din of their cheerful voices echoing in your ears as you stare at the blurring scenery outside.

You’re always early, always on time, but this week in particular, you’ve been sluggish and slow. Your notes slip right through your fingers as if you forgot to grab them with any strength, and you’re drowsy in class, unable to focus, head on your desk. Even Atsumu had looked uncharacteristically abashed when you almost bumped into an open door while walking, grabbing your elbow and asking, “Are ya okay, Minami?”

Making the tournament is the only thing on your mind as you make your transfer, head out of Asahiobahi station, and walk down Yahataya park, where children run through the brown grass, their voices bright as sunshine in the chilly air. Cities are always a little barren in the winter, with naked trees and the dirty slush piled at the corners of the road.

Just outside the entrance of the Osaka Municipal Central Gymnasium, you linger in the glacial winter light. There’s an entire sea of excited family and classmates and onlookers who laugh as they pass through the polished doors, ready for the upcoming games. A paper list of the tournament bracket is taped next to the entrance, thick marker proclaiming the names of each school and the region they’re representing, as well as the times for each game.

You move out of the way of the crowd, opening your bag to check the contents again, just to be sure you have everything you need: water bottle, wallet, notebooks, sketchbook, keys, pencil bag, phone—and freeze. Where is Kaasan’s compass? You slowly go through the items again, and shuffle them out of the way, unzipping pockets and stuffing your hand in deep, desperately groping the bottom of the bag.

But no matter how much you search, it’s not there. In a burst of desperation, you pile all your belongings on the floor and flip your backpack upside down, as if the compass would simply fall out like a rabbit from a magician’s hat, a harmless trick.

But there’s nothing. Nothing but dust and the rising panic clouding your thoughts. You were stupid. So, so, so stupid and careless, and now you’ve lost something irrevocably precious.

You shove all your items back in the backpack, breathing fast, ignoring the concerned looks you’re getting from the people around you. When you look up, you can spot your wavering reflection in the doors. You’re a strange creature with a lost expression, and inside, past those glossy doors, Atsumu and Osamu are inside, warming up, about to head on to court, perhaps even glancing at the stadium to see where you are.

It’s that image that burns into your mind, the twins in their uniforms, ready to take on the world, as you spin on your heels and flee the streets, head swivelling, looking for the telltale gleam of precious gold.

(You can’t lose Kaasan again.)

—

It was evening when you and Tousan received the call.

You were a little over four at the time, swinging your legs at the large table in the joint living room and dining room as Tousan made dinner in the kitchen. Even at that age, you liked drawing, and you would spend all of dinner scribbling with crayons in a fat sketchpad Kaasan bought for you on one of her trips. You even got in trouble once for doodling on the walls, a clumsy city blooming under your toddler fingers.

When the phone rang, the landline echoing through the house, you didn’t look up, because phone calls were grown-up business only. But Tousan must not have heard the ringing, distracted as he was trying to wrangle dinner into submission, so you hopped off your chair to let him know.

As you passed by the apartment windows, you glanced outside; rain pattered against the glass, streaking down like tears. Storm clouds swirled in the sky, thick and oppressive. Kaasan was due back sometime tomorrow. The rain might slow down her travel.

“Tousan?” You popped your head around the divider between the kitchen and the living joint dining room, fingers gripping the plaster. “The phone’s ringing.”

Tousan, spectacles pushed up on his forehead and apron wrapped around his waist, hummed as he squinted down into the bubbling pot on the stove. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll come get it now. Can you watch over the soup for a few minutes?” he asked, turning down the knob.

You nodded obediently, settling right against the stove, eyes narrowed. Nothing would escape your gaze; you were given a mission, after all. Tousan bent down to kiss you on the top of your head, his stubble ticklish, before he walked out to pick up the phone. You giggled.

The phone’s ringing ceased in the distance after a bit. Tousan must have picked it up. For the next few minutes, you watched the steam swirl above the pot, the blue flames flickering on the stove in a hypnotic dance. But after enough minutes had passed, you grew restless. The soup was going to burn if he didn’t come back soon, and besides, Tousan never talked on the phone for very long, preferring to keep his conversations brief.

Even though he had asked you to watch the soup, you crept into the next room. The lights had been flicked off, which was odd. It took you a while to make out the shapes in the blurry darkness, the sound of the rain as loud as a heartbeat.

“Tousan?” you called softly.

Tousan was a looming shadow, and in the faint light from the kitchen, you could just see his outline, the way he was covering his mouth with the phone still pressed to his ear. At the sound of your voice, his eyes snapped to you.

“I need ta go,” Tousan whispered finally into the phone. Or was he saying it to you? You didn’t know, and his accent always got a little heavier when he was stressed. All you knew was that he suddenly sprang into motion, a furious, erratic burst of energy as he rushed towards the genkan, pulling on his coat and throwing on his shoes.

You hovered just a few feet away, frightened by the intensity, and the sight of Tousan’s red eyes in the light, as if he had been crying. “Tousan,” you whispered. He must not have heard you because he was already opening the door.

“Be good. I’ll be back,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at you when he said it.

You stood at the entryway, frozen, the sudden, gaping emptiness of your apartment pressing down on you with a new weight without Tousan around. Then you smelled something burning. The soup! You rushed into the kitchen to turn off the stove completely, the flames sputtering as they died.

For a long time after that, you waited for Tousan. You knew where the cutlery was, so you spooned soup into two bowls, where it congealed slowly on the table. You flipped on every light switch that you could find until the apartment was ablaze with light, glowing so brightly that it would serve as a beacon in the storm. You tried to draw, but the colors wouldn’t come out right, and you kept scrubbing at your eyes furiously.

Doing anything else felt useless, so you grabbed a blanket from your room and huddled in the genkan. It was long past your bedtime, but you couldn’t imagine going to sleep. So you waited with your knees drawn to your chest. Where was Tousan? What had happened? Why did he leave without taking you with him? You must have dozed off at some point, because when the apartment door swung open next, Tousan was back, illuminated by the pale, gold light of dawn.

“Tousan,” you mumbled, but he was already sweeping you into his arms, crushing you into a hug so tight you couldn’t breath.

“She’s gone,” he said finally.

“Hm?” You made a sleepy noise as you wrapped your arms around him.

“Kaasan is gone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Tousan said, and his voice broke, a deluge of tears soaking into your back as he sobbed. It was the first time he had ever cried in front of you. You had the odd feeling you were the adult and he was the baby, as you wrapped your arms around him again, clumsily patting his back.

Tousan said sorry a lot in the days after that. He didn’t shave and stared vacantly into space, without even the strength to head out to work. He slept at odd hours on the couch, and if he ate, you weren’t there to see it. You covered him with a blanket when you padded out into the living room and saw him curled up there still. You tried to cook for him, clumsily cracking eggs into a bowl and mixing, like you’d seen him do before, and frying it on the stove that in ordinary times, he wouldn’t have let you use. You packed your bookbag and walked to school on your own, gripping the straps as you waited carefully at street corners before crossing.

You only learned the details of what happened that night in bits and pieces, eavesdropping on all the visiting family friends and coworkers as they passed through your home to put together the story. Adults seemed to think if they talked in a quiet voice, you wouldn’t be able to hear them, but that wasn’t true. You were good at listening, and during those days, you got even better.

What they talked about was this: Kaasan had died in a car accident on her way home from the airport. It was dark and rainy, and the other driver had run a red light. The car crash had killed her instantly, but the driver who hit her had survived, only needing to spend a few days in the hospital before he was released.

It was funny how life worked like that, how the same accident could spare one person and not the other. It wasn’t her fault, because how could Kaasan even control something like that? But you couldn’t stop wondering why she left you, why she died, and why she wasn’t here when you needed her the most. More than that, why had she taken Tousan with her?

He lived like he was already dead, like he couldn’t see you at all. You were all alone in that apartment all by yourself, even when you sat right next to Tousan, curling up in his arms as he slept.

“Your parents loved each other,” one of your mother’s coworkers told you, on a visit to drop off some of her office supplies and some pasta in a container you could heat up.

She said that, but you could see it for yourself. Kaasan and Tousan loved each other so much there was no room for you. Love was terrifying, destructive, all-consuming in that way, how it felt like Tousan almost died in those days, too. So you had to be strong for him. You had to be good. You had to be someone there would be no reason to leave.

At Kaasan’s funeral, you hadn’t cried. Instead, you clung to Tousan’s hand, surrounded by a sea of black, staring blankly into the horizon. The sky was an icy blue that day, and so pale you thought that all the color had leeched away. Everyone had so many good things to say about Kaasan, too, so many speeches on how kind and dedicated she was. You still remembered the smell of her perfume, her warm arms, the maps she showed you. Those were all the scraps Kaasan had left behind that you tried to cling on to, to remember, instead of all the bad things.

Kaasan had left you alone and almost taken Tousan with her, and Tousan had loved her so much he had, for a moment, forgotten about you. You would take all these emotions, and you would let them go, sending them free into the sky like birds, fluttering so far away they couldn’t hurt you, instead of letting them nest in your heart.

—

The hours blur together as you search for Kaasan’s compass. You scour the streets of Amagasaki, taking the train back and forth several times just to see if you left it behind at one of the stations. You even inquire at both stations’ lost and found counters, and the local police boxes, too. But there’s no sign of it, even though the nice people assure you up and down they’ll call you if someone turns in the compass. You look in restaurants, along the riverbank, and pop in the local konbini to see if the owner saw anything.

Maybe you left it at home, but you’re certain you’d tucked it into your bag that morning. Only, you had been busy, trying to make it to the train on time, that you really can’t say for sure if you did or not. When you make a stop at your house, you pound up the stairs without greeting anyone, frantically rummaging around your room, trying to ignore Kaasan’s accusing eyes, glaring down at you from every family photo.

Could it be at school? Or maybe with one of your friends? Or maybe—and the thought is so absurd you want to cry—Kaasan took it back somehow. Maybe she’d looked down at you, your anger at her, your desperation to avoid anything uncomfortable, your passive desire to keep everything the same—and she thought you no longer deserved her compass. There’s no need for you to make maps or navigate new areas, not when you want to stay in the same area forever.

For a long while, you crouched on the floor of your room, head tucked between your arms, arms wrapped around your legs, curling yourself up into a ball. You’ve lost Kaasan again. Her precious compass, your one memento, is gone, and it’s all your fault.

Your eyes water and you wipe them with your sleeve as you pull out your phone, wondering if you can call Atsumu and Osamu, or maybe even Kotone or Keita, to ask if any one of them have seen your compass, when your phone lights up with a backlog of notifications.

There’s several missed calls from Atsumu and Osamu apiece, along with a few messages asking where you were and if you wanted to meet up on their break, or if you wanted to join the team for dinner after they finished their match.

There’s one from Atsumu in particular that makes you imagine the frustration with which he had punched out his message: I’ll be looking for you in the stands, you scrub!!

You stand on wobbly legs, looking out your window, at the sun, fat and golden, and much lower in the sky than it had been when you first set out in the morning. It’s early evening. Has that much time really passed while you were looking for the compass?

You’re dizzy as you remember your promise, and Atsumu’s and Osamu’s tournament. They were playing at nationals, and they had two matches scheduled today. Your breath is fast and short as you fly down the stairs, running out the door again. Maybe you could still make the last one. You can’t miss their game. You can’t disappoint them like that.

(You can’t give them a single reason to leave you.)

By the time you make it back to the Osaka Municipal Central Gymnasium, you’re sweaty and out of breath, having run out the train doors as soon as they opened and raced down the streets without pause. There are still stragglers standing outside the gym, clumps of people chattering excitedly about game-saving dives and intense rallies, but you can’t focus on anything but the tournament line-up posted outside, running down through the names until you’ve found what you’re looking for.

Inarizaki Middle School’s second match was three hours ago. Even if they played to the maximum number of sets, you’d still have missed it. Atsumu’s and Osamu’s most important match of the season, and you weren’t there to see it, even though you promised them you would.

Your mouth wobbles, but you press it into a firm line, refusing to give in to your emotions. You float home, cushioned by a mixture of disbelief and numbness. You make it home in one piece, but Obaasan opens the door before you can even put the key in the lock, the warm light of your home spilling out from behind her. There’s an uncharacteristic expression of worry on her face, and she asks, “Are ya okay? You’ve been runnin’ in and out of the house all day.”

You open your mouth to tell her you’re fine, but at her words, you burst into sobs, tears raining from your face, shaking your head as she pulls you into her arms. You cling to her, burying your face into her sweater, unable to say a single word as she pats your back.

—

It takes you a while to calm down after your crying, at which point Obaasan leads you to your room, and you lay curled up in your bed, tucked among your many blankets. You’ve tried to call Atsumu and Osamu back, send a few texts apologizing and explaining you’ve lost Kaasan’s compass, but there’s been no response at all.

Maybe they’re mad at you to the point they no longer want to be your friends. The thought makes you so miserable that you curl up among your blankets, wrapped up so tightly you feel like a bit like a potsticker.

There’s a soft knock on your door, and when you let out a miserable, “come in,” you see it’s Tousan, balancing a tray of food in his hands. It must be leftovers from dinner, which you’ve skipped. When Obaasan knocked on your door and asked if you wanted to eat, you told her you didn’t.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

You shake your head.

He hums, then sits on the edge of your bed carefully. “You should still eat somethin’,” he says. “Food is good for the heart.”

You find enough energy to pull yourself up into a sitting position, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like armor, and Tousan hands you the tray. It’s a plate of warm rice, lightly seasoned soup with cubes of tofu and egg, and stewed vegetables and braised beef. You eat slowly, sniffling all the while, and Tousan does nothing more than sit with you in silence.

“Do you want to talk yet?” he asks.

“I don’t know what to say,” you mumble, your voice more of a childish whine than you want it to be.

“That’s all right. You don’t have to know right away. Maybe you can figure it out as yer telling me,” he suggests. “Or we can just sit here, sweetheart.”

You slump towards Tousan, still wrapped in your shell of blankets, and he pats your back soothingly. It makes you feel young again, vulnerable, and it would be so much easier if you were eight, or four, or an age too young to feel everything you’re feeling now.

You let in a shuddering breath. “It’s just…I’m scared Tsumu and Samu hate me now,” you mumble. “And I’m scared that they’re never going to forgive me, and they’re going to move on ahead without me, and they won’t want to be my friend anymore. I’m scared Kaasan’s never going to forgive me for losing her compass. And I’m scared of how everyone keeps changing, and growing, and talking about complicated things like love, and I don’t even know how I feel about anything, and I hate it, Tousan! It’s confusing and I hate it!”

Tousan pats your back all the while. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Atsumu and Osamu care about ya a lot. And I don’t think they’ll be mad once you talk with them and explain what happened.”

“I don’t want to argue with them.”

“Arguments are good, sometimes. It doesn’t mean you’ve done anythin’ wrong. It just means you’re close with someone, and you both care strongly about something. And sometimes caring about somethin’, or someone, isn’t easy.”

“It should be,” you say. “Caring about people shouldn’t be hard. It shouldn’t feel this bad.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Tousan agrees. “And as for Kaasan, she would never be angry with you, even if you lost her compass.”

“You don’t know that,” you say, drawing yourself tighter into your blankets. Maybe if you tried hard enough, you could curl into your comforter forever, and never leave your soft cocoon.

“I do know that. I know that she loved you a lot, and she wanted ta give you that compass so you would never lose your way. If you lost it, it only means you used it so much, and it guided ya well. She would understand that.”

“But I don’t want to lose anything, Tousan! I didn’t want to lose the compass. I still need it. I want to use it forever.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says. He’s still patting your back, arm curled around you as if he could shelter you from the entire world. With his other hand, he carefully brushes away the tear tracks on your cheeks. “I know. It’s hard losin’ things. And it’s hard growing up, and havin’ things change. But no matter what, I’ll be here for you.”

“You can’t promise that. You haven’t been here before, and you’re just going to go away again when it’s hard,” you say, and the bitterness in your voice surprises you. It surprises Tousan, too, from the way his eyes widen and his breath hitches. It’s not you, you think. This isn’t you. You can’t listen to the child inside of you, the clumsy four year old that wants to sob and scream and demand more. You’re better than that. You have to be better than that. You let all those feelings fly away into the air a long time ago.

You open your mouth to apologize, to wipe away your words like chalk from the chalkboard, but Tousan sighs, lifting up his glasses to rub at his eyes. “You’re right, I can’t,” he says softly. Every year you grow, Tousan seems to grow smaller, but really, you’re just growing taller. There are more lines in his face, and his hair isn’t as thick as it used to be. One day, he won’t be the man you see in front of you, and he’ll be as old as Ojiisan and Obaasan. “I won’t always be here. I can’t make things better, and there are things I can’t change. The world is unfair and cruel, and you’re growin’ up, sweetheart. Soon, you won’t need me anymore. You’ll have a life of your own. And I haven’t always been the best father. You’re my only child, and sometimes I wish that yer Kaasan was here to help me with everythin’, if only because she knew what to do better than I do.”

“Tousan… I didn’t mean to say… I think you’re the best father ever,” you say anxiously. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m your only father, sweetheart,” he says, letting out a laugh as soft as a breath. “And I’m glad I am. I told you before, didn’t I? I rely on ya too much, and you grew up too fast because of it. But I’m still yer Tousan. I’m glad I’m your father, and I’m so, so happy you’re my child. I’m glad you’re so smart and kind and thoughtful, and that you always try to do what’s right. Even when ya grow up and go to live your own life, I’ll never, ever feel any differently.

“And you talk to me now. You wouldn’t have before,” he adds, poking your cheek, making you wrinkle your nose. “I’m glad ya do. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best to be here from now on, whether you need it or not. Because I’m yer Tousan, and you’re not alone, not as long as I’m here. If things get too hard, you can just fall back on me, all right? I won’t disappoint ya again, not like before.”

You try to say his name, but you let out a choked sob instead. Even though you feel a bit like a wrung out rag, your body’s capacity for tears continues to surprise you, how there’s always still more to shed. It feels like there’s an endless wellspring inside of you, a flood built up through all the years you’ve refused to cry, pouring out now in a rush as more tears trickle from your eyes.

Tousan wraps his arms around you, and presses a kiss to your forehead, his stubble scratching your face. “I’m proud of ya, and Kaasan would be proud of you, too.”

“I miss Kaasan. What…What was she like?” you ask hesitantly. You haven’t asked him this question before, couldn’t bring yourself to, not when any mention of Kaasan made him so sad.

“She was a little like you,” Tousan says, his voice melting into something slow and soft. “Kind, and thoughtful, but always lost in her own world. She moved at her own pace, but she could also be stubborn, and when she was mad? Well, even I was scared of her then. She was also a little clumsy, if ya can believe it. Always misplacing her papers and her notes. She was the most wonderful woman in the world.”

“We need to go see her soon,” you mumble. The memory of her hands and her perfume have faded like old paper, the image of them getting less clear with each passing year. Tousan grows older, but Kaasan grows farther away from you, forever frozen at the same age, distant and unreachable. One day, you’ll be older than her. “She’ll be lonely if we don’t visit her.”

“Of course, sweetheart. But why don’t you rest first? You’ve had a long day,” Tousan says. “And if things are still hard in the morning, you can find me. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You must have slipped off into a quiet doze, soothed by the warmth of your father, because when you next open your eyes, it’s to complete darkness. You’re tucked up in your blankets, head on your pillow, your eyes puffy from crying; Tousan must have moved you when you fell asleep.

You scramble for your phone, which has been buried somewhere in the blankets, but your heart drops at the empty screen. No new messages from Atsumu or Osamu. Of course, they must be mad, and if they made it to the next round of the tournament, they must be busy resting and preparing for that instead.

But the idea of waiting until tomorrow to see them is sheer agony. It’s selfish, but you want to see them now; the idea of going to bed and waking up to another day where you’re uncertain of your relationship with them is unbearable.

You slip out of bed, throwing on an old sweater over your pajamas, and creep down the stairs in the darkness. It reminds you a little of when you tried to run away as a child; the only difference now, though, is that you know exactly where you want to go.

Slipping on your coat and your shoes, you trek across the street, crunching through a fresh layer of frost. It must have snowed sometime in the night. Your breath clouds the air as you stop in a backyard you’ve played in for so many countless summers, the Miyas’ house as dark and silent as an open mouth.

Before you can lose your nerve, you grasp a loose pebble from the ground and toss it gently at Atsumu’s and Osamu’s window. It lands with a plink before bouncing off. Ringing the doorbell might disturb Miya-san, and you have no intention of breaking in like an actual thief. Instead, you collect a few more pebbles in your hand, letting them sail one by one against Atsumu’s and Osamu’s window, a cacophony of wishes that you hope reach them.

You’ve never really been a pushy person, and so you feel like a wobbling, newborn deer taking its first steps as you anxiously try to decide what your next course of action should be. You would stay out here all night if you could, and you want to talk to your best friends, but if they really are determined not to see you, is it rude to keep trying? In times like this, you wish you were a little more like Atsumu or Osamu, people who are never afraid of reaching for what they want.

As you deliberate, you hear the crunch of twin footsteps behind you. You whirl around, hands raised as if the pebbles in them could serve as a weapon, the thought that you might have just run into an actual thief darting through your head, just as Atsumu and Osamu come into sight. Osamu has his sports bag raised threateningly as some sort of makeshift weapon.

For a second, the three of you blink at each other, open-mouthed, caught in awkward positions, before you say, “Tsumu? Samu?” at the same time, Atsumu and Osamu say, “Minami?”

The pebbles clatter to the ground as you rub at your arms instead, self-conscious, surveying Atsumu and Osamu. They’re raggled and mud-splattered, their hair wind-swept and uncombed, their ears and noses red, as if they’ve spent hours out in the cold. They’re still in their volleyball club jackets and sweatpants, so it doesn’t look like they’ve gone home since they’ve left Osaka.

Atsumu looks at you just as awkwardly, gaze lingering on your puffy eyes, the sleep-mussed set of your hair, your hastily thrown-on clothes. Just when the silence stretches for so long it feels unbearable, Atsumu elbows Osamu roughly. Osamu steps forward, fishing in his pockets until he unveils a familiar circle of gold, albeit a bit dingy and dented.

“‘S yours, isn’t it?” Atsumu asks, voice hesitant and scratchy. Osamu’s eyes track your expression closely, but you can’t even speak, can barely even breath at the sudden, overwhelming flood of emotions that fill you as the sight of Kaasan’s compass.

You gingerly pick up the compass, cold and smooth, clutching it so tightly your fingers hurt. It is Kaasan’s compass. You would know it anywhere, from appearance or touch alone, the familiar weight settling in your hand like it’s finally found its way home.

Before either of them can say another word, you place the compass in your pocket and launch yourself at Atsumu and Osamu. They must not have been expecting you to do that, because your arms wrap around as the three of you tumble onto the frosty ground with so much force your teeth chatter. You make an awkward three-headed snow angel on the ground, and you’re cushioned somewhat by the weight of Atsumu and Osamu below you.

“Minami! What was that for?” Atsumu yelps, but he makes no move to get away from you.

“My back hurts,” Osamu complains.

“Thank you,” you say breathlessly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Their arms curl around you, tentative and careful, as you cling to them all the more tightly. “Thank you so much! How did you…? Where did you…? I thought you two were mad at me.”

Atsumu and Osamu exchange glances, as if debating what to say, though they’re so close you can feel the puff of their warm breath against your face, clouds that dissipate in the air. Atsumu is the one to speak up first in a rushed huff.

“I was mad,” Atsumu says. “You skipped our tournament, ya scrub. And I was even gonna save ya a seat on the bench, so you could be right up close and see all my jump serves. I was lookin’ for ya for forever, and ya didn’t even show. We had to do team dinner with a bunch of scrubs, too.”

“I’m s—”

Osamu interrupts you before you can finish your sentence. “And then we saw yer texts. It still sucks ya didn’t come, but yer Kaasan’s compass is important to ya. So me and Tsumu decided ta look for it. Went around all of Osaka—”

“—and Amagasaki—” Atsumu interjects.

“—and the train station’s lost and found, and the police box, and we asked people on the train if they saw yer compass,” Osamu finishes. “We even went around the neighborhood.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” you ask plaintively. “Or call me back?”

“We were gonna, but we didn’t charge our phones. Tsumu forgot ta,” Osamu says unrepentantly.

“Samu, ya scrub! Stop blamin’ me. Yer the one who also forgot. It wasn’t just me,” Atsumu shoots back.

“Where did you find it?” you ask.

“‘S weird,” Osamu says. “We were goin’ around the train station again, when one of the employees stopped us and showed us yer compass. Asked if this was what we were lookin’ for. Said that the conductor found it on the floor of the train, under one of the seats, and he noticed it when he was leavin’.”

“That was nice of him,” you say. You clutch the compass tighter in your hands; you had come so close to losing it, but now it was in your hands, safe and sound.

“Yer welcome, Minami,” Atsumu adds.

“Thank you,” you say again. “Thank you so much! But Tsumu, Samu…I was really worried.” Your voice dips in a quiet, shy strain, halting and stilted, birds that want to flee before they can land anywhere. “I thought…I thought the two of you hated me. And that you didn’t want to be friends anymore. I think…I’m always worried…the two of you are going to leave me behind.”

“Are ya stupid?” Atsumu asks immediately, shaking his head, crunching the grass beneath him. “Do ya think I’m gonna spend every day with someone I hate?”

“And yer you, Minami,” Osamu says. “Why would we hate ya?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “The two of you are always in your own world. I just thought maybe one day I wouldn’t have a place in it. Or maybe you would find someone you like more. And I felt lonely.”

“What’re ya talking about?” Atsumu reaches up and pinches your cheek, stretching it out. “Samu is Samu, but you’re you. And all those other scrubs are their own scrubs. Those are all completely different things. ‘Sides, yer the one getting close to other people, and joinin’ different clubs, and leaving us behind. Don’t think I didn’t notice ya were avoidin’ us this semester!”

“Huh?”

“That’s right,” Osamu says, pinching your other cheek. “You’re the one who’s always lookin’ ahead and tryin’ yer best. Tsumu’s not the only one I’m tryin’ to keep up with. I’m always tryin’ ta keep up with you, too.”

You let out a squeak, but Atsumu and Osamu have stretched your cheeks out so much you can barely get a word out.

“I told ya before, so I’ll tell ya again,” Atsumu says forcefully, with such conviction in his voice it feels impossible to refute him, even if you wanted to. “Don’t ya worry about those other scrubs. You, and me, and Samu… That’s different, got it? There’s no way I’m going ta like anyone else as much as I like you.”

“I’m always going ta be yer friend,” Osamu says, voice calm yet just as intense as Atsumu’s, as if he wants to imprint his words into your memory. “S too late for you to back out now, Minami. So don’t run from us, either, or I’ll have ta chase ya down and remind you again. Only scrubs worry about things like that by themselves.”

They finally let go, and you massage your sore cheeks. “Are you two saying…you were both also worried about me leaving you two behind?”

“Yup,” Atsumu says.

“Then we were all worried about the same thing?”

“Guess so,” Osamu says.

You can’t help the quiet giggle that escapes you, the first bit of laughter you’ve experienced all day. “Um…Is it weird to say that it makes me feel better to know we were all worried about the same thing?”

“It’s super weird, Minami,” Atsumu says. “So yer lucky I don’t care about that at all.”

“‘S just how it is,” Osamu says. “When yer close to someone else, I mean. Tsumu and I argue all the time, but ‘s not like I’m going ta leave him just ‘cause he pisses me off. Maybe if he keeps eating my puddin’, though…”

“Ya bought an entire six pack!” Atsumu argues. “And yer too stingy to let me have even one? Yer a pig!”

Your relationship with Atsumu and Osamu feels like a piece of sunshine, and you clutch it close to your heart, letting it warm you all over and spill out into your smile as you beam down at the two of them. You really do like them, every part of them. For some reason, Atsumu coughs and looks to the side, and even Osamu can’t keep his eyes on you.

“Can we go inside? Yer heavy, Minami,” Atsumu complains, still unable to meet your gaze.

“Oh, right! Sorry! Are you cold, Atsumu? Your face is really red right now.”

“I’m not! Ya just look like a scrub right now!” Atsumu snaps, ruffling your hair as fast as he can, as Osamu lets out a loud, heavy sigh.

Somehow, the three of you manage to extricate yourselves from each other, and you help pull Osamu and Atsumu off of the ground. You’re all silent for a while, breaths clouding the cold air.

“I should go home,” you say.

“Do ya want to?” Osamu asks. “Because if ya don’t, ya can just sleep over.”

“But…”

“Don’t worry about it. Ya just gotta wake up before Kaasan even notices,” Atsumu says confidently, grabbing your hand. Osamu takes your other. Their fingers are cold, but the longer you hold them, the warmer they get.

The three of you trundle into Atsumu’s and Osamu’s house, slinking upstairs with as minimal of noise as possible. Atsumu and Osamu both look at each other before they start pulling their pillows and blankets down onto the floor in a makeshift nest, in some silent understanding their beds are too small for more than one person to share.

You sink into the soft, pillowy heap, exhausted beyond words. You’ve cried and run and talked so much today, and the weight of everything that happened hits you all at once. Neither, it seems, do Atsumu and Osamu, who’ve curled up on either side of you, too tired to even clean up in the bathroom.

The weight of your childhood friends, your best friends, on either side of you is soothing, warm and comforting as a lullaby or an old memory. They’re so close you can hear their faint breathing as they sink into slumber, so close you don’t have to reach very far to touch them. If you ever have to map Atsumu’s and Osamu’s feelings, you would need miles and miles of paper, all colored in the same maroon, a pure and unbroken color. Even then, you could never hope to capture the extent of what they feel.

(You could never hope to capture the extent of what you feel, either.)

“Good night, Tsumu and Samu,” you mumble.

“Night, Minami, Tsumu,” Osamu says.

“Hmgrh,” Atsumu says, a strange grunt you’re going to assume is his attempt at a good night.

It’s quiet again, and your eyelids are so heavy, you can hardly keep them open anymore. And then, in a voice more tender than you’ve heard from him, Atsumu mumbles, “We’re always goin’ ta be by yer side, ya scrub. So don’t worry about useless stuff like that anymore.”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want ta do,” Osamu adds, voice laced with sleep. “I told ya already. No more runnin’ from us.”

In the darkness, when you grope for their hands, Atsumu and Osamu reach right back, fingers lacing with fingers, palms snug against hot palms, hands that are calloused and rough from volleyball and still so, so dear to you.

Even as you drift off into sleep, you let Kaasan’s compass rest against your heart, the chilly metal warming as it makes contact with your skin. Against the darkness of your eyelids, you imagine you see the red needle glowing, having come to a rest on north, pointing, like it always does, towards home.

—

Sunlight lies heavy and golden against your closed eyes. The bedding is soft and downy underneath you. There’s a tangle of legs around yours—whose? It’s a familiar weight, from someone who’s done this before. And someone else’s arm is flung right over your face, and their head is pressed up right up in the crook of your neck. And your hands are so, so warm. It’s so nice and toasty, and you don’t want the feeling to end.

In your sleepy haze, voices filter through, one apologetic, the other amused.

“—Told ya they would be right here—”

“—I’m so sorry for the trouble, Miya-san—”

“—’s fine, I bet the twins dragged ‘em into this—”

A sigh. A laugh. And then, a fond, low, familiar voice: “But the three of them sure have gotten close, huh? I’m almost jealous.”

“‘S not everyday ya make a friend as good as these two have. I hope they’ll be close for a long time.”

“I think they will. I don’t doubt it. It’s just a little lonely, seein’ them grow up.”

There’s quiet again. For a second, you almost drift right back to sleep, but then someone claps their hands, and hollers, “Time to wake up, ya sleepyheads! Atsumu and Osamu, yer gonna be late to yer nationals game if ya don’t get up right now!”

You startle awake, eyes flying open, jerking upright, just as Osamu and Atsumu attempt to do the same. But with how braided the three of you are in bedding and pillows and each other, you bump into Osamu’s head, and elbow Atsumu’s side, and then Osamu falls into you, then you’re all hopelessly tangled up again, sore and a little confused, blinking up at Miya-san and Tousan, who are laughing in the doorway of the twins’ room.

“Sweetheart,” Tousan says sternly, but the effect is lessened by how his eyes crinkle at the corners, “I hope you know you’re in trouble. You gave me quite the scare when I woke up and ya weren’t in your room. I’m just glad you didn’t run away too far this time.”

“And ya two! I never gave either of ya permission to sneak yer friend in here,” Miya-san snaps, hands on her hips. “Yer really going to hold a sleepover right before nationals?”

“Sorry, Tousan,” you murmur meekly.

“Well, it’s fine as long as you aren’t hurt. But we’re goin’ to have to discuss the consequences of your actions later,” Tousan says.

“Get dressed! And get ready ta head out!” Miya-san barks. “We took the day off ta watch yer match, so I don’t want to see ya in a sorry state out on court just ‘cause ya were irresponsible!”

“Kaasan!” Atsumu groans. Osamu only shakes his head and attempts to rise to his feet, hair askew.

“Hear that, sweetheart? You better get ready, too. We’ll be heading over as well with Ojiisan and Obaasan,” Tousan says.

You nod, and carefully touch your chest, where Kaasan’s compass still rests like a second heart, clutching it in your hand. Then, you slowly stand, ready to start another day.

—

There’s only a few people that Atsumu can stand in the entire world. There’s Aran, of course. There’s also Osamu, though in truth, his brother pisses him off that he only half-counts as someone that Atsumu can stand. There’s Kaasan, obviously. And then there’s you.

In total, there’s four people that he genuinely, truly cares for in the world, an amount small enough he can count it off on one hand. In Atsumu’s opinion, that’s enough. He knows what he likes, and he likes what he likes. Why bother with people who don’t meet his stringent criteria? Most people pass through his life, blurry-faced and unremarkable, and he has no need to grow close to any one who can’t even begin to keep up with him. Compromise is for scrubs.

But that’s not to say Atsumu doesn’t have any worries. He’s worried about improving his jump serve, and about Osamu realizing he ate the pudding he was saving, and Kaasan getting on his case about his grades.

And he’s always just a little worried about you. And it’s not like he worries about you often, or anything, or as if it really bothers him. But you do tend to linger on his mind a bit more than anyone else. Kaasan might scold him, but she’ll forget about whatever he’s done the next morning. Aran will sigh and roll his eyes, and even Osamu will glower all day before the two of them inevitably settle down to play video games before bed, bickering like nothing happened. Arguments, in his experience, are storms that always quickly blow over. Intense when they happen, sure, but nothing that ever causes lasting damage.

With you, though, Atsumu is always a little anxious about where the line is. He can tease you, push you around, mess up your hair, but he can’t treat you as roughly as he does anyone else. Your tears set him on edge, and you’re so thoughtful and quiet someone might bully you if he’s not looking out for you. It’s such a weird, uncomfortable feeling, trying to be considerate of you, that it makes him want to pull your cheeks out like mochi until he feels better.

Because what if he finally does something that you can’t forgive? What if he goes too far? What if you hate him? Or you never want to see him again? What if you look at him again like you did during Valentine’s, with such disappointment? But really, you shouldn’t have been disappointed at all, because why were you worrying about some random scrub who was interrupting his time with you? And why would you take her side, and not his?

And there’s the fact you’re always hanging out with Keita and Kotone, whose names he memorized simply because you’re friends with them, as if those unmemorable scrubs from elementary school are somehow more interesting than him and Osamu. And there’s also the fact that the art club eats up most of your afternoons, so you’re never at volleyball practice anymore. And how you aren’t in his class, and how sometimes, during lunch, you insist on eating with Keita and Kotone instead of him, and how there’s just never enough time in the day to spend with you.

(Atsumu is greedy. When he likes something, he always wants more of it. You don’t seem to understand that he’s not the type to share, or to give what he likes to someone else.)

All these uncomfortable thoughts are always in the back of his mind, all the time, when it comes to you. And it’s your fault, really, for making him feel like this.

But he really doesn’t want you to leave him—or to leave your side, either. That’s way more of a pain than anything else. It’s why when you take him and Osamu to visit your Kaasan’s grave in Kyoto, only a few days after he and Osamu place third in the nationals boys’ volleyball middle school tournament (ranking after scrubs from Itchiyama and Shiratorizawa—he’s going to memorize their names and rub all of their faces into the courts in high school), he sits close to you on the train, extra close, as if he could somehow press the two of you together.

(You almost ran from him once, and he didn’t like it at all.)

Graveyards have always been strange places for him, and it always feels like a ghost might pop out at any second, some youkai from one of Obaasan’s stories. More than that, though, he’s never quite understood the obsession with clinging onto things.

But maybe it’s different for you.

“I brought friends over, Kaasan,” you say gently to the grave, gesturing at Atsumu and Osamu.

“Thanks for having us,” Osamu says.

“Thanks,” Atsumu echoes.

You fill a wooden pail with water from the nearby faucet, washing stains, brushing away the snow, and plucking weeds from your Kaasan’s grave with a single-minded, methodical focus. He and Osamu help where they can, careful to be quiet for once. There’s a funerary peace here he doesn’t want to disturb (and unlike what Osamu says, he knows when he should be respectful. He just never feels like it).

You light incense, laying out a plate of oranges and red bean soup in front of the stone, your Kaasan’s favorite foods, before you finally ladle water over the grave. Each movement is done with a certain care and grace that makes it hard for Atsumu to look away from you.

Finally, the three of you clap your hands together in front of the grave. Atsumu screws his eyes shut as you and Osamu are lost in your own prayer.

What should he say to your Kaasan? Of course, he hopes that she’s resting well, and that he’s glad they found her compass again, but he would have found it no matter what, even if he had to look through the night. You would have been sad if it was gone forever, and he can’t stand the thought of that. Oh, and she definitely shouldn’t worry too much about you. Sure, you’re spacey, and a little slow, and for someone so smart, you can be clumsy and a bit of a scrub, but that’s fine, because you aren’t alone. He’s here, and he’ll always be here by your side, no matter what.

And oh, in case your Kaasan has seen how he’s acted before, maybe, just maybe, he has to change a little bit, too. Just enough so that you won’t get disappointed with him or hate him, and you’ll trust him to take care of you so if you ever feel lost, you’ll rely on him to help you find your way.

(And as much as Atsumu wants things to stay the same and for it to be the three of you forever, he also knows things have to change. He’ll never be a scrub who’s afraid of embracing the future, even if it’s hard. It’s even lamer to be someone who can’t let go when they have to.

The three of you will grow together. You, and Osamu, and him. He’ll chase after you for the rest of his life if he has to, no matter how far you seem to pull ahead. You’re strong enough to always look ahead, to always pick yourself up and keep going no matter how difficult it is. Which is fine, because he’s a fast runner, so there’s no need for you to hold yourself back for him. Besides, there’s one thing Atsumu knows for certain: no matter who you meet or where you go, no one will ever be better at loving you than he is.)

i need to put it out there that. at the heart of the matter. ushijima is a loverboy. do NOT be fooled by the fact he's very blunt, straightforward, and has all the social tact of the proverbial elephant in the china shop. for ushijima, love is an active choice he chooses to make and not just a feeling, and as such, he approaches love with great care and awkward consideration. he's very devoted once he decides to love someone, because he falls in love so rarely and meticulously. ushijima isn't built for casual relationships, because he's very intentional about his choice to love someone else, and treating it like a whim would feel like a disservice to both you and himself.

however! there are some things you need to be aware of in a relationship with ushijima: namely, the fact he's very straitlaced and has terrible social skills (he's another very undersocialized child). his terrible social skills can basically be summed up like this: ushijima can convey his thoughts, but he's not great at communicating them. to elaborate, ushijima is able to articulate what he thinks, but he doesn't always do it in a way for other people to understand. sure, he'll tell you he "feels xyz" but that's the extent of what he'll say. there's no elaboration on how this fits into his current action or mindset. similarly, he'll nod and take what you say in stride and file it away with no follow-up. he'll pat himself on the back for a job well done communicating but he doesn't. build off of the knowledge he gains. he just states things and expects that to be enough to convey himself!!

also, i think ushijima struggles with processing his own emotions because he's just. not in-tune with his own desires sometimes, or doesn't give them enough attention. he's great at taking care of himself physically, but emotionally? oh boy. sure, he's had a very stable (and privileged) upbringing, but he's not used to being "wrong," or being challenged! this is mostly bc 1. he doesn't have a lot of friends, much less close friends, and 2. he's good at what he does so no one has ever pushed back against him. conflict, to some extent, is healthy in any relationship, and ushijima just hasn't experienced a lot of friction or tension in his life that's necessary to give him the skills and a broader perspective to navigate social situations. he's a bit insular, has a set worldview, and is steady to the point of being uncompromising.

on that note, i think he lowk struggles w conflict in a relationship precisely bc he's not used to it. he rarely gets upset and bc of the aforementioned communication/emotional issues, he is. not great at handling his partner when they're mad or having an off-day, especially if it's not something that can just be talked through. this is also a personal take, but even though ushijima is very taciturn and stoic, i personally believe he's a lot more gentle and agreeable than most people expect! i think he would value you, be content with letting you make all the decisions, and put you first no matter what. he wouldn't get into a rls if he didn't think he could give you the attention you need. he cherishes you deeply and handles your rls with the sort of meticulous, diligent care he gives to volleyball!!! sigh. loverboy...

tendou is a trickier case when it comes to love. on one hand, he's very irreverent and carefree, choosing to go at his own pace in life. he's weird and relishes in the reactions he gets out of others. on the other, i think he also has some lingering hang-ups about the way people view him and his rls with others as a result. part of his desire to lean into being strange is a response to his childhood bullying: if he's creepy, then he'll act creepy on purpose to take some control back from those interactions! he can't be hurt if he chooses to act this way, and there's no point in fitting in as a result. at the same time, he also just has no interest in people who are quick to judge him lol, bc he's comfortable doing his own thing. this means he's surprisingly more insecure/cautious when it comes to a romantic relationship.

i think tendou is weirdly avoidant and skittish and clingy in equal, confusing measure!!! he's a bit wary of the idea of "love" and someone who likes him for who he is, chalking it up as something that feels too good to be true, where he's always waiting for the other shoe to drop. the more serious the emotion, the more uncomfortable it makes him, bc it's no longer something he can brush off so easily. so he'll self-sabotage by acting a bit distant and keeping you an arm's length as a sort of balancing measure. mostly, if he likes you, then he likes you, and he'll be alllllll up in your business. he's clingy, draping himself all over you like he's a coat and you're a coat rack, seeking you out at all hours, and it's. almost invasive, how much it feels like he wants to integrate himself into your life and he asks questions with a purposeful lack of social tact.

sometimes it feels like he's trying to test you by showing you all the different sides to him to see if you'll stay regardless. he's both confident in who he is, and oddly insecure about opening himself up to the vulnerability that love demands. but tendou has a lot of good points, if you're someone who can put up with his attitude, and more than that, enjoy it. i think he's actually very kind to you, and likes to make you laugh, and he's attentive and socially aware in a way that ushijima isn't (tendou just doesn't care to live by those rules lol). he's paying a lot more attention to you than you might initially realize!!! maybe it's the guess monster + middle blocker instinct in him, but he likes to just observe you. and pick up on all your little habits and microexpressions, and tuck them away like they're treasures.

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.)