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☾ - title: a compass always points towards home

☾ - chapter four: southeast

☾ - series summary: After your father loses his job in Kyoto, you move in with your grandparents in Hyogo prefecture, right across from a pair of twins who just can't seem to leave you alone. ☾ - chapter summary: In the second half of middle school, you worry about entrance exams and your own unresolved, complicated feelings from the past. ☾ - chapters: one | two | three ☾ - pairing: miya atsumu x reader, miya osamu x reader ☾ - word count: 21.5k ☾ - tags: childhood friends, neighbors, fluff, angst, growing pains, depictions of grief and mourning, mention of car crashes, parental death ☾ - author's notes || read on ao3 - ☾

The winter break of your second year of middle school finds you, Atsumu, and Osamu sprawled under your kotatsu, sandwiched side by side as the television drones on in the background, playing a variety show that you only pay half-attention to while the twins ignore it entirely. You’re tucked right between the two of them as you always are, the twins always leaving a gap between them for you to slot yourself in.

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.)

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