Work Text:
Miya Atsumu is a jerk .
Osamu wasn't a stranger to this fact. He heard it from everyone. It started when they were 5, inseparable as they played in their neighborhood. Atsumu had pushed a kid off a swing for taking too long. He remembers the teary-eyed boy on the ground glaring at Atsumu and screaming:
"Atsumu-chan! You're such a brat!"
When they joined Inarizaki, he would hear it from teammates who bore the brunt of Atsumu's relentless drive for perfection. Suna would scoff, sweat dripping down his back, and whisper:
"Hey, 'Tsumu. Stop being a fuckin' jerk, will ya?"
Freshman girls would corner his brother, flirting and twirling their hair, but Atsumu – who only cared about volleyball and himself – would ignore them with a glare. Afterward, they'd run to him whining:
"Osamu-senpai, why is Atsumu-senpai such a jerk?"
Osamu's response was usually a tilt of the head and a resigned huff because honestly, they were never wrong.
Miya Atsumu, his twin brother, was truly the biggest jerk on earth. He would readily admit this truth, with evidence stacked high from their childhood.
Atsumu was always jealous, his need to be the center of attention embedding itself in his soul from when they were barely a year old.
As toddlers, he would grab toys directly from Osamu's chubby hands, babbling loudly with spit bubbles forming around his lips, muttering something like "It's mine" while waving the toy around.
Osamu would cry in frustration and pull at Atsumu's short hair, just like his own, trying to reclaim what was his.
At five, Atsumu would raid Osamu's desk and steal all the apple slices from his lunch box. Even though their mother packed identical lunches, Atsumu always claimed he never had enough.
He would munch them loudly in front of Osamu and thank him obnoxiously while Osamu silently wished he'd choke on a slice or two.
When they played volleyball, Osamu would be left gasping for air, blinking away black spots from the strain Atsumu forced upon him to reach his level. All because he believed they had ‘potential to be the best duo in Hyogo,’ completely disregarding Osamu's desire to simply have fun.
Even through exclusion from teammates and isolation throughout middle school, Atsumu remained adamant about dragging Osamu to hell with him.
During midterms, Atsumu would steal all of Osamu's notes after he finished studying, claiming he ‘needed them more’ than Osamu who was already a ‘nerd who would burst his head into a million pieces if he kept at it.’
And Atsumu would usually end up with a nasty bruise on his shoulder by the end of the night.
Sometimes at midnight, Osamu would venture to the kitchen for a late-night snack only to discover Atsumu had devoured all his saved leftovers, leaving a note that said "it was delicious" atop his empty tupperware.
On those nights, Osamu would slam the fridge door and pray Atsumu would wake up with incurable diarrhea.
Osamu believed his list was endless because his twin truly was a jerk: inconsiderate, loud, and obnoxious without a care in the world, riding his high horse knowing everyone was too soft to challenge him.
He never cared about others' opinions, fixated only on being the best.
Atsumu's selfishness and terrible traits pushed Osamu to be better, he refused to become like his brother, not in a million years.
So yes, countless times Osamu wanted to grab Atsumu by the shoulders, lock him in a closet, and pray he'd suffocate on his own pride.
And yes, he often yielded to fury, putting Atsumu in his place to satisfy the rage coursing through his veins whenever his twin opened his mouth to brag or say something snarky.
Osamu knew Atsumu was a jerk, and now at 28, standing outside his newly established Onigiri Miya branch in Tokyo, he couldn't agree more.
He stared at the massive banner beside the entrance, his brother's face in his Olympic uniform with "These Onigiri’s are approved by Japan's Ace Setter Miya Atsumu!" written in bold letters.
Osamu's eye twitched with annoyance, fueled by the desire to trash the banner or reduce it to ashes.
His hand hovered near the edge of the banner. Just for a second. Then he dropped it, letting it flutter in the wind—loud and proud, like Atsumu always was.
Sighing, Osamu acknowledged that Atsumu was obnoxious and full of himself—he'd lived with him long enough to know this well.
But because he'd lived with him, he also knew Atsumu wasn't entirely that big of a jerk either. Don't get his words twisted in a knot here, Atsumu wasn't perfect, of course not. What brother is?
It's just that sometimes, just sometimes , Atsumu was kind.
He was kind in ways only Osamu noticed because he was his brother.
Even through all the pushing and stealing when they were young, Osamu remembered when Atsumu had waited patiently under the monkey bars as Osamu hung there, too scared to move forward for fear of crashing onto the concrete below.
"'Tsumu, I'm gonna break my legs! I swear!" Osamu would scream, but Atsumu would just retort with a smirk, "Just move it, 'Samu! You're being stupid," and laugh.
Yet through his fear and anger at being called out, Osamu managed to move forward because Atsumu's fingers hovered near his shins, occasionally grazing them to let him know he was there—that if Osamu fell, he wouldn't fall alone.
During dinners, Atsumu would leave all the drumsticks in their mother's curry because he knew Osamu preferred them, despite liking them himself.
When questioned, Atsumu would huff and say, "The breast has more protein. I gotta get stronger than ya, scrub. I'll eat 'em all."
Osamu knew it was a lie—Atsumu was always ravenous after practice, but his chewing would slow as he worked through the tougher meat.
All while placing more drumsticks on Osamu's plate.
Once during practice, Osamu forgot his gym uniform for the day. His stomach sank when the Coach barked for everyone to line up. Osamu debated if he should just ditch practice but he had been falling behind.
Atsumu, already heading out, didn’t say a word—just tossed his own uniform at Osamu, and jogged off to the court in his school shirt like nothing happened and before Osamu could retort.
Of course, Atsumu got yelled at for being out of dress code. He took the scolding without so much as a glance back.
Osamu never said thank you, embarrassed as he stood next to Atsumu. But Atsumu nudged his arm and smiled, he never asked for it anyway.
One winter, Osamu was down with a horrible fever. Osamu hated being sick, but while he was bedridden and shivering under the covers, Atsumu placed ice-cold towels on his forehead while their mother worked another night shift at the hospital.
Osamu had whispered, " 'Tsumu, I feel like shit," while silently crying from the pain. He'd braced for a comeback, glancing toward Atsumu at his bedside.
But Atsumu had only clicked his tongue, pulled down his sleeve, and wiped the sweat and tears from Osamu's face.
"It's okay, I'm here," was all he said.
On New Year's Eve when they were 15, Osamu experimented with a new version of their mother's curry.
Hesitant to serve it to anyone, insisting it wasn't great, Atsumu had perched on the counter and savored every bite before giving his brother a thumbs-up. Osamu detected the poorly hidden grimace behind Atsumu's smug smile. "It sucks ass, but you tried. It ain't too bad."
Atsumu spent that entire New Year bedridden with a horrible stomach ache, all with a smile and, surprisingly, no complaints.
And when Osamu announced he wanted to pursue cooking instead of volleyball, after loud arguments, several punches, and a long silent treatment, Atsumu tossed a small set of professional knives onto his desk—bought with his savings—saying if Osamu was going to cook, he might as well do it right.
Now, wiping down the kitchen stove in the small hours after celebrating the opening of his new branch, Osamu hears the door open and the bell jingle. He can hear the banner flutter loudly for a moment before a smirk crosses his face. The door closes and he doesn't need to turn around to know who it is from the familiar heavy steps.
"Hey Big-Shot. Can I get a plate or nah?"
Osamu watches as Atsumu plops onto a stool in front of the counter, wearing that same smug grin from when they were kids, dropping his duffel bag to the floor. He's sweaty, with red, droopy eyes, and Osamu knows he's come straight from a long day of practice.
Osamu nods as he shuffles around, "Comin' right up," grabbing the ingredients he'd set aside for this moment, moving through the familiar motions perfected over years of service and practice.
"Did ya like my surprise?" Atsumu asks with a grin as he points outside towards the banner.
Osamu chuckles and flicks a piece of carrot at him, hitting him square on the nose and drawing a childish whine from the athlete. "Obnoxious fuck. Had yer fangirls comin' in squealing and askin' me to plate them yer favorite onigiri."
"Brought in business, don't see a problem. You're welcome again." Osamu says nothing, only sighing and muttering "whatever" under his breath with a huff. "Here, yer fatty tuna onigiri with mayo and spring onion." Atsumu licks his lips excitedly and pulls up his jacket sleeves to dig in, but pauses before grabbing the onigiri. "Oh—I almost forgot."
Osamu raises his eyebrows questioningly as Atsumu digs through his duffel bag.
"Here." Atsumu says as he places a blue bento box on the counter.
Osamu stares at the box placed before him and blinks in confusion. After a pause, he whispers dumbly, "Huh?" Looking up, he sees Atsumu shrugging like it's nothing, like it was expected .
"I know you've been busy, runnin' around all day. Bet you didn't eat anything, so I made ya some chicken yakitori." Atsumu says casually before grabbing an onigiri, biting into it with a satisfied grin.
Osamu slowly opens the box to find haphazardly arranged chicken skewers with bunched up steamed vegetables on the side, like they were thrown together in a rush. The glaze on the chicken shines under the dim overhead lights, and his stomach reminds him how little he's eaten today with a quiet rumble.
Atsumu swallows a bite and rambles on with a whine from the lack of response, "I know it's not as great as your cooking, but we got the same genes so it'll work. Let’s eat together.”
Osamu bites into a skewer and smiles gently despite the sauce coating his lips. It’s cold from being prepared long in advance, the chicken’s tough around the corners and the sauce is slightly burnt but Osamu chews on it and says, "It's salty."
Atsumu gawks, rice falling from his mouth unattractively, "Just appreciate it, will ya! I'll eat it if you—" As Atsumu reaches for the skewers, Osamu quickly devours the rest and shakes his head.
"It's good. Thank you."
They look at each other for a moment before laughing. As they eat and discuss their respective days, Osamu realizes he's fortunate to be the only one who sees this side of Atsumu.
Because yes, while the world calls Miya Atsumu a big jerk for being obnoxious with his comments, loud with his words, and condescending in his play.
Osamu knows—as he enjoys his skewer while listening to his brother recount Hinata and Bokuto's practice antics with a soft smile—that:
Miya Atsumu is a scumbag of a brother who is gentle with his words, thoughtful in his actions, and generous with his time.
And that would be his little secret to keep.