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It had been three days since they fought.
Of course, the Miya brothers fought all the time. But it had never been quite like this.
Atsumu was still fuming three days later.
“I can’t believe you think you’ll be happier runnin’ some restaurant on yer own.”
“Shut it, Tsumu. Won’t ya drop it already?”
“How could I drop somethin’ like that?!”
Osamu had always been this way. He’d always acted like being happy and being successful were two different things. And what kind of idiot thought like that? Everyone knows that being rich and famous is the way to go, that’s why all the fuckin’ kids these days want to be Youtubers and not chefs.
It wasn’t like he hated Osamu’s cooking. Of course he didn’t, not with how he practically inhaled Osamu’s onigiri whole. But why did Osamu want to pursue the one thing that Atsumu had never been involved in? Why didn’t he choose volleyball?
Osamu scoffed. “I’m not explainin’ myself to ya again, asswipe.”
“YOU’RE the asswipe. I’m going to be the greatest volleyball player in the world.”
Osamu frowned. That particular one, where the bottom left of his face got scrunched up and matched with this cold look in his eye. One of those facial expressions that Atsumu had never been able to imitate. “See, the difference between me sayin’ I’m gonna be a chef, and you sayin’ yer gonna be the greatest in the world, is yer gonna have to prove it.”
“You’ve seen those shows on the food channel! Becoming a chef ain’t exactly easy.”
They watched competition shows for hours, each contestant cooking their ass off, coming up with amazing recipes on the fly just to win the prize money that would go towards opening up a restaurant. The kind of money no one just had lyin’ around.
“Well, if yer gonna be the greatest, then you can give me a loan.” Osamu stood up, heading to the door.
Atsumu scoffed. “Where ya goin’?”
“Got a date with Suna.” He checked his phone. “He’s outside.”
Atsumu sat on his bunk bed, open-mouthed, as Osamu vanished out the door. Right in the middle of their conversation.
“Hey!” He sprung up. “I wasn’t done talkin’!”
“I was.” Osamu grabbed his jacket. “Bye.”
Osamu’s back vanished through the door.
Atsumu was waiting for him to come home hours later.
[Text to: samu] its almost ten. ma’s gonna kick ur ass
[Text from: samu] im sleepin over dumbass
He sunk his fingers into his volleyball, wondering if he could tear it to shreds.
The next day was so normal that it drove him fucking crazy. Well, it wasn’t exactly normal. He didn’t have anyone to shove out of the bathroom in the morning, or kick under the breakfast table, or lean on when taking the bus to school.
But the court was some kind of place out of time, where if he set the ball to Samu, he’d hit it in a clean line without hesitation, as though nothing had changed, and Atsumu had never been abandoned. The realization that they were in sync hit him so hard that during their practice match, he didn’t see the ball coming.
“Atsumu!”
It fell beside his feet with a quiet thud.
Only then did he blink back into reality. A millisecond passed, and then— “My bad! I was just thinkin’ bout lunch.” He wore one of his signature grins.
Aran shifted on his feet, and he could feel Osamu’s stare burning into his back.
Suna snorted. “Of course you were.”
The rest of practice went normal.
“Tsumu.” Osamu said as Atsumu toweled off his hair, looking at his shoes. “Tell Ma I’m gonna be late. I’m—”
“Going to Suna’s?”
His mouth pressed into a line. “Yeah.”
“Well go on then.” Atsumu stood from the bench, walking to the door. “I gotta get used to it, don’t I?”
He wished that he lived in a movie. Maybe then Samu would have called out to him, or put a hand on his shoulder, said something about how they’d always be brothers no matter what.
But this was no movie. The only thing behind him was the heavy sound of silence.
He didn’t wait for Samu when he got home. Just went straight to bed in his school uniform, too angry to eat.
At some point, between his thoughts churning like tornados, he fell asleep.
“Is that the best you can do?” Kita frowned. Disappointed. “This is nationals.”
Thud. The ball hit the floor.
Suna snickered. “Thinking about lunch again?”
“What? No, I—” He set the ball, only for the ground to swallow it whole.
Aran clicked his tongue. “We should have known we’d lose without Osamu.”
“Samu?” He whirled around, only to find the court empty.
The stands were full, though. Wide, unblinking eyes on him. Just as Atsumu opened his mouth to ask what was going on, rotten tomatoes rained down.
“You’re nothing! Nothing!”
Nothing.
He woke up sweating.
With Osamu around, he didn’t notice how alone he was.
But now the other bunk bed was empty. There was one pair of loafers on the shoe rack. No one elbowed him away from the bathroom sink.
“Didn’t Samu come home last night?”
His mother snorted over her cup of tea. “Of course he did, he just left early.”
“Probably wanted to go with Suna,” Atsumu grumbled before opening up the fridge. “Where’s my bento?”
“On the counter.”
“Whadja make?” He hoped it was leftovers from the dinner he hadn’t touched last night.
“I didn’t make it.”
His head snapped up, and he nearly tripped running to the counter. He pulled the lid open to find onigiri and cherry tomatoes fresh from the garden. On top was a sticky note: ‘To my least favorite brother. Hit a good serve today.’
It was all Atsumu could do to not season it with salty tears.
He couldn’t do it without Osamu. And he didn’t have to.
“That idiot. I hit a good serve every day!”