Chapter Text
(Page 1)
Things always come in threes.
This is an ironclad rule of thumb you discover very early into your life.
At four years old, unfittingly.
Your mother is the first one to tell you this. She explains it to you in the middle of the night, bent on her knees as she stuffs all of your meager clothes and belongings into a duffel bag the two of you will share. You’d been slowly helping her gather items in the room the two of you shared with your father, a bit reluctant even though she kept rushing you, telling you to hurry (but you didn’t wanna go, why were you guys going?) She only took the necessities, swiping items left and right in a process that didn’t make much sense to you.
“Mama, why do we hafta leave?”
She didn’t once stop her packing, dumping a drawer of socks into the bag. You handed her the box of toiletries. “Because this place is no good anymore.”
You consider her words, crouching down beside her as you watch her pack. Your mother doesn’t once spare you a glance, a woman on a mission as she grabs a blanket, stuffing it into the duffel. There’s a carry-on sized suitcase already full of the rest of your things and food from the cupboards. An electric hot water machine, some utensils, and a handful of other items are shoved in there too.
“Cause of papa?” you ask. She nods. “Okay.”
You don’t completely want to leave, only cause it seems like a pain, but you think you might get it. Your father tends to switch from that loud, roaring voice of his that booms across the walls and hurts your ears to a soft, happy man that laughs, tossing you into the air. He promises trips to the beach and the amusement park and sometimes he follows through. The days he follows through are fun, so it’s only the memory of those kinds of days that make you hesitant.
But...
Leaving seems like it will be much more fun than watching your father toss another coffee table across the room or letting him pet your hair and tell you how much he loves you when your mother glares at him from the otherside of the dining table, cheek swelling.
(You kinda hate the way he smells.)
You don’t know why your father hits your mother. He doesn’t hit her in threes, but his attacks do come in threes. Then he takes a break and the cycle starts again after he does another three nice things. It might be because he’s just an angry person, or maybe your mother and him just can’t get along. He’s a bully though, technically, if your vocabulary is right.
(You are never excluded from this cycle.)
“Will somethin’ bad happen after this too?”
Your mother does stop for once at that. She looks at you, closely, carefully. To this day, your memories of her expression are blurred—you were a kid after all—but you do remember what she says to you and how she holds your arms, tight, with an iron force. You remember her scent, the warmest, the fiercest it has ever been for someone of her tiny stature.
“No,” she says. “Because things only come in threes.” You perk up in interest. “Papa hit me last week. He broke the mirror yesterday. That’s two bad things that have happened to you, right? Now we’re moving. This is the third.”
She strokes the light purple streak on your cheek, “Nothing bad will happen after this.”
“Three?” you repeat.
“Three,” she affirms. “Always three. Got it, baby?”
You nod. She grins at you and shoves your box of toys your way, pointing as she resumes her rapid packing. “Pick three. Pick them good, okay?”
You freeze, suddenly weighed with the horribly heavy responsibility of choice. Your eyes bulge, carefully dragging over each and every toy in the box. It’s a meager box, not even halfway full, but there’s more than three toys so that still means you have to choose to leave something behind. You worry at your bottom lip, brows furrowed in deep concentration as your mother digs through your father’s drawers.
She finds what she’s looking for, scoffing at the thick cashier box. You squat down, carefully inspecting each toy and lifting them up to the light while your mother loudly tosses the box against the wall. It bursts open with a clang you ignore as she gathers up the wads of bills, stuffing pachinko tickets into a bag and throwing that into the duffel.
“Need help, hun?” your mother asks, looking over at you as she rips one of your father’s shirts out of spite. You shake your head, finally pulling three items from the box.
She comes over, standing over your shoulder and observing your choices.
The first is a beaten up manga you never got a chance to return to the local library, the third volume of the series. You wouldn’t be returning it anyway and you liked the story, so you figured why not. Your mother always told you to grow up smart so bad things wouldn’t happen to you. The second is a deflated ball that would need to be pumped up.
The third and final toy is a beaten up fox plush, soft and knitted—your mother made it for you when you were born—faded a bit to a softer orange. A good wash would bring it back to its original charm, but the color would still be light.
Your three treasures.
Your mother eyes each item, lingering on the fox before she rubs your head, pinching your cheek. She grabs all your meager belongings, stuffing them into the duffel but giving you the fox to hold. In seconds she has you bundled up in extra layered coats to save space in the suitcase and then she shoves your mittens on, waiting for you in the genkan as you tie your laces over your scuffed up sneakers and come to stand beside her.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Yeah,” you say, taking her hand.
It was snowing the night you and your mother left your father. And cold. You’ll always remember how damn, damn cold it was.
(Page 2)
“Okay, hun,” your mother says, the two of you standing in front of the door to the landlord’s office. “Third time’s the charm, right?”
You nod dutifully, a bit excited to see the rule of threes play its magic. It took the two of you three long train rides and transfers to make it to the other side of Tokyo, staying in three different capsule hotels while your mother searched for a more temporary residence. Most complexes wouldn’t allow the two of you to stay without a larger deposit, and your mother needed a month-to-month deal until she found a better job.
(You understand later why it’s so hard for your mother to find a job. Not just because she was a woman. Never just because of one gender.)
Your mother stares hard at the door. She fingers your hand, squeezing it tighter. Thoughts are going across her faces in flickering shadows that make it hard for you to read.
“Three,” you say to her.
She looks down at you for a long moment before dropping your hand. You blink, watching as she ties her hair up and lets it sweep beautifully to the side, showing the long, silk column of her neck. Your mother is one of the prettiest people you’ve ever seen, and you don’t just say that because she’s your mom. She picks your hand back up and smiles, opening the door.
(Page 3)
“I-I’m sorry, miss, we’ll need a deposit first to rent you the room,” the landlord says. Your mother’s face remains determined as she faces him, never relenting as he shuffles papers over and over. “I… We can’t do it monthly because it causes problems with the contracts. After at least three months, we can move to monthly.”
“I need one month,” your mother says.
“But miss, that’s essentially no deposit at all—”
Your mother gently strokes the side of her neck, letting her fingers drift down to the blank expanse of her collarbone. It’s creamy like silk, no longer spotted with bruises. The landlord pauses, following the trail of her fingers and nervously darting to the gorgeous column of her neck and then to her eyes, where your mother knowingly watches him back.
He quietly sniffs the air. You look up at the sound from the travel magazine you were skimming through. Your mother bats her long lashes and offers him a warm, gentle smile. You love that smile.
You experimentally sniff the air. It smells like flowers. You like this smell on your mother too.
“I think,” your mother says. “We can do a deposit after all. Five months worth?”
The landlord adjusts his tie, nervously scratching the back of his neck before he nods at your mother. She smiles, all teeth, eyes shining at him.
You take the travel magazine with you as you and your mother leave the office. It has really pretty pictures of places in Kansai you’d like to visit one day. A whole prefecture filled with deer—deer! Who let them roam around like that?
Your mother hoists you into the air, laughing as you both shout “three!” and race to your new room.
(Page 4)
Things come in threes.
The big lady draped in furs and shimmering makeup on the screen during a fortune telling segment that comes on late at night is the next person to tell you about this rule of threes.
It’s on one of the nights where your mother would leave the television on for you to block out noise until you fall asleep, setting up a bed for you on the couch in the living room while she would talk to someone in the bedroom until morning.
You don’t really have the heart to tell your mother she always turns the volume up too loud, so you usually just bite your tongue, eat convenience store snacks and sit through the random churn; of Japanese tele-dramas, anime, sports recaps, commercials you know by heart and then finally, the last, loudest segment of all—
Madame Fortuna’s Fortune Forecast.
You were amused at the segment for all its colors and the cool, tacky theme they did at the beginning. Madame Fortuna herself is audacious and colorful, so you can’t help but watch her too.
(When you grow a few more years, you like it because the fat lady on the screen, covered in furs and yet still oozing with some kind of audacious prowess is honestly your best friend throughout long nights, companion, and closest confidant.)
Her advice makes sense.
Out of money? “Get a job!” Madame Fortuna would say.
Trouble in paradise? “Confront the problem and fix it!”
You didn’t know what that meant but if there was trouble anywhere, you should fix it, so Madame Fortuna was pretty accurate.
Sometimes people call in with problems— “I think he’s cheating.” “Ah, child, then I will tell you your fortune… yes, check the closet.” And lo and behold, the caller would reveal a new pair of lingerie (you didn’t know what that was but it was something “scandalous” apparently) in their lover’s closet.
“Three!” Madame Fortuna would say. “Three is the magic, fortune number! Never doubt the power of three!”
You dropped your egg sandwich, blinking at the screen with wide, shining eyes.
Madame Fortuna might’ve looked gaudy, but she was frighteningly…. Powerful. Her predictions were apparently on the dot for many and she left you hanging off the edge of the couch, watching in rapt attention. Then she would go on to deliver the daily fortune for the following day.
One night, a caller phones into the show with an issue you haven’t heard yet. It’s different from the lovers' quarrels, the hopeless job interviews, the worries about life or mid-life crisis (your mother praises you each morning, staring in wonder over her spoon of yogurt how much you’re learning about weird things)—it’s on the stranger side.
“I’m a beta,” the caller says quietly. Madame Fortuna lowers one of her furs and listens. “I… I’ve never had much to complain with just that. I know I should be grateful for anything in life, but… the person I love is an omega. She’s better off with an alpha, someone who can really take care of her… but I…”
These are terms you’ve never heard before. You blink curiously at the television screen, sitting closer. No, maybe you’ve heard them before. Once or twice, leaving your mother or father’s lips—where else? School?
“Dear,” Madame Fortuna says. “Are you listening?”
“...yes.”
“I tell fortunes,” Madame Fortuna says. “I use the stars to help guide your life. Things like second genders, such silly, silly things like that are engraved in stone, not the stars. Are you with me dear?”
“Yes,” the caller says, softer, heartbroken. You frown, touching the screen, silently rooting for the caller.
“But these things are set in stone,” Madame Fortuna says. “Will never change. The same way you being born on a certain day does not change. The color of your eyes do not change. These unchangeable things are not things to worry about because they cannot be changed. What you should be focused on instead are the things you can change right now.”
The caller is silent and Madame Fortuna races on, slapping her table, shaking the glass ball, “ Do you understand? You and that woman you love — that is something you can change. The things between our legs, on our chests, in our genetics — they do not define us. The things in your heart, dear, your heart! Yes, these define you. These can be changed.”
You stare at the screen, all the colors from the show illuminating your small face in the darkness of the living room.
Madame Fortuna stares straight into the screen, pointing a long, bright purple fingernail.
“You can always change.”
(Page 5)
“Mama, what are second genders?”
Your mother stops in the middle of marking job openings in the newspaper. A small kettle is on the stove, steam slowly beginning to roll out of the mouth but not quite boiling yet. You stand beside the table, playing with the edge of your shirt, waiting for her response.
She stares at her paper for a long, long time, focusing on the red marks before she calmly looks at you.
“Second genders,” your mother says, nonchalant. “Where’d you hear about those?”
You point at the television playing the news.
Your mother follows your finger. She considers it for a moment, eyeing the news reporter discussing how a young man was now rising up in the entertainment industry despite adversity for his status as an omega.
(You wouldn’t snitch on Madame Fortuna like that.)
She scoffs at the news, turning down the volume and finally turning back to you. “They’re stupid for starters, remember that. Take a seat, hun.”
You blink, curiously taking a seat at the small table only big enough for two. Your mother taps her pen on another part of the paper. “When we’re born, we normally are either a boy or girl, right? Like how you’re a girl.”
You nod. Your mother laughs, “Well, there’s more to it than being boy or girl, but you can worry about that later. Now, aside from that, we’re also born with what people call a second gender. It’s either beta, omega, or alpha.”
She draws out the symbols for you and you study them, nodding. “Depending on which one you’re born with, it can… change who you are as a person.” You look up quickly at the word change . “How you act. Your body. More stuff mama will tell you later. They’ll talk about it in school too, but don’t worry about it until your teachers bring it up, okay?”
You nod obediently, staring at the symbols. “...we can’t change those, right?”
Your mom smirks, “Yeah, that’s right. Girl or boy is something you can change if you try hard enough. Second genders you can’t.”
You mull over your mother’s words. But… they change you? How does that work? Which one is the best kind of change then?
“Which one’s the best?” you ask.
Your mother frowns at the paper. She taps her pen against it, staring at the three symbols, looking back up at you for what feels like hours before she finally circles the one in the middle.
“Beta,” your mother says. “Betas are the best. Most people in the world are betas, you should hope you’re one too.”
You digest her words with care. The caller had been a beta. You didn’t mind rooting for someone like that. “What about the other two?”
“People will tell you alphas are the best,” your mother says, crossing out the alpha symbol. “That they’re the cream of the crop—remember what that means?” You nod. “But they’re not. Alphas are losers too. Your dad was an alpha.”
The two click in place for you. You nod quietly at your mother, bringing your hands down to your lap. Your mother stares at you, something crossing over her features before she sits back and grabs a pudding cup she’d been hiding for you, pushing it your way. You perk up, grabbing the plastic spoon as she smiles, resuming her job search.
“Which one are you, mama?”
Without hesitating your mother taps the last symbol. “Mama’s an omega.”
You chew the pudding around your spoon, staring at her curiously, “What do you think about omegas?”
Your mother’s lips quirk. She scribbles the symbol over without any mercy, not even looking up from the job section. “Omegas are losers too.”
“Mama, you’re not a loser.”
“Thanks, hun.”
You glumly realize you’ve got a one out of three shot of not being a loser. Oh. Three. Look at that.
“Mama,” you say. “Your fortune is good today. I think you’ll find a job.”
Your mother looks up in interest. “Oh, yeah? Well, third time’s the charm, right?”
(Page 6)
Your mother lands the job. An entry level secretary that forces her away from the house more and brings less strangers home to her room (you still stay up for Madame Fortuna) but she seems happy with it so you are too. She looks refreshed so you feel refreshed.
She enrolls you into the local elementary school, sending you off with a brand new backpack and a pair of shoes. She follows you all the way to the train station in her new office attire, waving the entire way as she watches you hop backwards up the stairs to wave back at her until a station guard warns you to be careful.
You guys haven’t had a chance to buy a pump for the ball yet, but you’ll work on that later.
You’re a pretty fun, chatty kid who doesn’t stand out too much in class, so you get along quickly with others around you, blending right into the crowd. Your mother beams when you study hard at the dining table, eager to catch up to your classmates. The two of you even start to acquire more things; some new clothes, a new coffee table, and a kotatsu. You love the kotatsu.
You count the things on your finger during school one day—a new house, a job for your mother, and now you get to go back to school.
You grab your three fingers, grinning.
(Page 7)
You and your mother live three solid, happy years on the other side of Tokyo before your mother opens the door one evening to a familiar smell.
It seems it took your father three years to hunt the two of you down in the bustling, wild city. He comes in a maelstrom of fury and anger. Things break. Your small room floods with his putrid scent. The police come.
Three bad things happened that night. It becomes the only night you miss Madame Fortuna’s segment.
You’re seven when you and your mother pack up, taking three even longer trains until the two of you arrive in the Hyogo Prefecture.
It’s there in Hyogo too, that the three of you finally meet.
(Page 8)
The apartment complex is a bit weird in your opinion.
It’s small, which isn’t the weird part. It’s run-down and strangely dinky looking, which isn’t really weird either. The rent is cheap, they do monthly payments instead of hefty deposits, it’s in a decent location with a school not too far away, your mother had been eyeing help wanted signs in the shopping district and there’s a cool, old bath house located right on the right of the apartment building, closest to where you and your mother will stay. The landlord is a stern older lady but she’s not that mean and seems keen on keeping your mother in check but fond of her. You and your mother even get separate rooms, which has never, ever happened.
The only weird thing about the apartment is that it’s missing a third floor. It shouldn’t even matter to you because you’re on the first floor, smack dab in front of the street and right across from a row of houses that start the neighborhood area. But it does!
“The builder of the place didn’t like the number three,” your mother shrugs, lifting another box and kicking the door open. “Just skipped it.”
You’re in love with the number three, so it hurts your heart a bit, but you settle for the fact that this is the third place you and your mother have tried and it worked out this time. Your rule of threes has come for you once more.
You stand in front of your new home, examining it from the middle of the street. A large white band aid is stuck to your right cheek, another one wrapped around your forehead and neck, making you look a bit silly. Your small arms are wrapped tightly around the box of your own belongings—your three treasures still proud by your side—and you turn your head sideways, trying to look at it from every angle.
Well, even if it doesn’t have a third floor, you still decide you like it. It’s cheap after all!
“Atsumu, stop pushin’ you’re gonna knock us over!”
“Shut up! Yer the fat one hoggin’ all the space!”
You blink, turning around.
For a moment you wonder if you were seeing double.
The two boys blink owlishly back at you, arms hanging over the top wall of the front of their house. They’re essentially identical, in hair and features and eyes. Even expressions. You rub your eye a bit and make sure there are two of them and realize, yeah, there are because their hair parts are the only thing different about them. They’re two, sturdy looking kids with dark brows that remind you of a shrine fox’s. Black hair cropped close to their head along their neck before flops of soft hair layers across in bangs.
Your new neighbors.
The two black haired boys look at each other and then back at you, still staring. You meet their gaze evenly, holding your box of things with your fox plushie sticking its head out. Your eyes drop to just below the boys’ chins where their family name is plastered neatly and nicely on their wall.
Miya.
“Boys! Where did the two of you—Atsumu! Osamu! Are you two spyin’ again? I said stop bothering our neighbors!”
“(Y/n)! Come check it out, we have a backyard!”
The two boys urk , paling at what sounds like their mother’s booming voice from inside their house. It’s a nice one, you notice. You turn your head back to your apartment door, shuffling the big box in your arm. You spare the twins one last look, offering them a toothy grin before you waddle back to your apartment.
“You brats! Get off that wall right now!”
Osamu shoves Atsumu, jumping down first so he doesn’t get in trouble. His brother squawks, grabbing his ankle as he falls. Osamu hurriedly runs to their mom, grabbing her pant leg. “Mom, a mummy moved in next door.”
“A what ? Atsumu, get off the floor!”
“ Moooom .”
(Page 9)
It takes three meetings before the three of you ever say anything to each other.
The move-in was the first. The second run-in comes more with their mother than with them.
“Oh, hello dear!”
You stop in the middle of your tracks, looking up with curious eyes. Three heavy grocery bags hang off your arms, one on either shoulder, making you look pretty stupid while you heft the third in front of you. There was a great sale at the grocery market today and your mother coached you through everything you’d need to buy while she shot off to go job hunting.
“Buy two, get one free!” your mother shouted, running off after handing you the wallet. “Three!”
A bundle of leeks stabs your cheek and you nudge it aside. You managed to score three packs of pudding cups. One for you, one for your mom, and you two could wrestle for the last one.
A bright, beaming woman stands before you, right outside the house wall where the twin boys had been watching you and your mother move in. She has dark black hair pulled into a high bun and equally dark eyes. She’s a vibrant, energetic looking woman and you figure this must be the same woman who hollered from what sounded like the second story.
“I was just grabbing some mail,” she says. “I’ve only gotten a chance to meet your mother. I’m Miya Mina, honey. It’s nice to meet you.”
You turn on your feet, bowing politely to her. “Hello, Miya-san. I’m (L/n) (Y/n.)”
A leek threatens to slide out of your bag and Mina quickly shoves it back inside before you notice. You straighten back up, hefting your bags closer. Mina smiles warmly at you, “Aren’t you the cutest? I’ve always wanted a girl! Ended up havin’ my hands full with two boys instead.”
“They’re cute kids,” you say. Mina laughs, slapping her mail against her chest.
“Look at you! Mature and adorable. How old are ya, honey?”
“Seven,” you say.
“My Atsumu and Osamu are turning seven this year!” she says. “You must be a few months older. How is the move treatin’ you and your mama?”
“Well,” you say. “Thanks for asking. Please let us know if there’s ever anything we can do to help you.”
Mina almost seems to swoon on her feet, utterly infatuated with you. “Gosh, lookin’ at you really makes me think about tryin’ for a girl again! Their papa is too rowdy, so maybe another kid will do ‘im good, huh?”
“If he’s a bit rowdy, you should keep him on his toes and tire him out,” you say, quoting Madame Fortuna’s advice to a similar issue. “Don’t expand your family unless you really want it too. Sometimes you love what ya have too much for more.”
Mina stares at you, eyes bulging from her head, her jaw falls open. The mail in her hands slips to the floor.
You stare at it awkwardly, not really able to pick it up with all your items but you try anyway, barely managing to grab it between your fingertips while she still stares, frozen like she’s short circuited. You remember your mama telling you to be nice to your neighbors unless they weren’t nice to you and how she mumbled about gifts, so you fish for a three-set pudding cup pack, handing it politely to Mina.
The older woman takes it with numb fingers, still blinking in confusion. You bow again, “Please take care of us. Thank you very much.”
Mina is left gaping at the front of her house while you calmly make the few steps it takes to make it across the small street to your own front door. You walk a bit past the Miya household’s front entrance and blink, staring back at two pairs of identical eyes with their heads shoved obscenely out the front door, eavesdropping and staring owlishly at you.
Atsumu and Osamu. You kinda wonder which one is which.
The two boys blink at you. You’ve still got the bandages around your head and neck and on your cheek too. You stare back for a moment before using your shoulder to use the leek to wave at them. One of them spits, breaking out into laughter that has the other shoving him and shouting something.
You make it to your front door—only a few feet from their own front entrance—and prop the door open with a shoe as you shuffle the bag. Hurried shouts and rushed screeching comes from behind you and you frown, half-turning as Mina disappears and—
“No, mom, don’t grab that one!”
“This one. This one.”
“I can’t give them that, ya idiots!”
“Here, mom, this one too!”
“Oh, you brats get back to your room! You have summer homework to finish!”
“Aw, mom!”
You’re about to slip back into your apartment when Mina rounds the corner of the front wall, quickly waving you down. You awkwardly stop, holding it open as she hurries to you and pants quickly handing you a big, bursting plastic bag. “For you and yer mama! We’re glad to have you!”
You nod in thanks. Mina beams, wiping sweat from her brow and rushing back to her house. You watch her for a bit before closing the door, taking a seat on the ledge of the genkan and observing the contents inside.
It’s a melon. You blink. You and your mom haven’t had a melon in a long time. There’s also a rice ball thrown inside and a bag of chips that makes you wonder if they were supposed to be there in the first place or were tossed in—and all of these items sit next to a big roll of sports tape.
You sit there in the genkan, staring at the items before quietly bringing them inside. You arrange the melon on the altar the way your mother showed you, setting the rice ball down next to it beside the bag of corn chip snacks.
You take the sports tape back to your room, setting it down on your little nightstand.
(Page 10)
The third time the three of you encounter is one week after the second, and you’re no longer sporting bandages on your head or neck. The big plaster on your cheek is replaced with a small, ball patterned bandage instead. You’re shoving your shoes on in the genkan, ready for a thorough day of exploring the neighborhood when your mother stops you in your tracks.
“Honey, should we toss this out?”
You quickly look up at her words, a bit of a hoarder yourself. You blink with scandalized eyes as your mother holds up the dirty, deflated ball you’ve been toting around since your first move—one of you specially chosen treasures.
You gape at your mother, betrayed.
“I’m sorry!” she says. “But look at it. It’s all dirty and messed up, and we still haven’t found a pump for it yet. How about we toss it and I’ll buy you a new one, okay?”
She squints at the sad thing. “What kind of ball even is this?”
You hop up from the genkan, grabbing it from her fingers. “I’ll find a pump! I’ll ask the landlady while I explore.”
Your mother doesn’t look convinced, but she lets you take the dirty deflated ball anyway. You beam at her, tucking it under your arm and hurrying out in your shorts and shirt. “Good luck job hunting. Third times the charm!”
“Third times the charm,” she agrees, watching you leave.
When the door closes behind you, you carefully examine the dirty ball, frowning at it. You remember tossing it around and kicking it too, but you’re not even sure you remember what ball it is under all that grime and abuse.
What would Madame Fortuna say?
“Fix your own problems, you deadbeat loser!”
You straighten, quickly hurrying around the side of your apartment with your deflated ball in hands. The landlady might have some tools you can use.
“Hey, she’s not a mummy anymore!”
You trip, falling flat onto your face, ball hoisted into the air so it doesn’t get even more squashed.
Two identical snickers split the air. You wince, rubbing your bruising chin. Ah, that didn’t hurt that bad though. Your pain tolerance is now stupidly high these days. You look up to the two familiar faces standing a few feet from you as you settle onto your knees.
Osamu and Atsumu.
(You still don’t know which one is which.)
“Now she’s just a klutz,” one says. The other snickers again and they both look at you.
They’re dressed in shorts and t-shirts too. Their hair is messy and it's clear they’ve been playing around in the front yard.
“Ah,” you say, shuffling on your knees and bowing a bit to them. “Thanks for the gifts. My mom really liked the rice ball.”
The one on the left looks silently proud, perking up a bit at your words. The one on the right scowls instead though, shoving his hand deep into his pocket. “Wasn’t us. Our mom gave ‘em to ya.”
“Men and women alike,” Madame Fortuna always said. “We’re all dishonest human beings!”
You shrug, ignoring his words and standing up as you brush dirt off your knees. The two boys straighten, quickly assessing your height and seemingly pleased to know they might have an inch up on you. They stand shoulder to shoulder, looking nearly joined at the hip. They remind you of those projects you do in school, cutting one side of the paper to fold it so the other is exactly the same.
“I’m (Y/n),” you say, holding your deflated ball in one hand and reaching out with the other. “Hi.”
They both share a look with each other first before they scrutinize you. You keep your hand raised in the air, face calm until two hands come from either side, clapping roughly around yours.
You’ve never shaken two hands at once before. It’s a bit difficult.
“He’s Osamu,” the one on the right says.
“He’s Atsumu,” the one on the left says.
Ah. You realize. This is going to be a bit hard. You sniff the air. They both smell like sun and sweat. The only tell is apparently the way they flip the fringe of their hair, Osamu to the left and Atsumu to the right, but how the heck are you supposed to remember hair?
“Where’d ya come from?” Osamu asks.
“Chiba,” you say. “Then Shinjuku.”
“Oooh,” they both chorus. “How old are ya?”
“Seven.”
They both instantly looked irked by that, shooting each other looks. They both thrust fingers to their chests, puffing them out, “We’re both six , so we make twelve, yeah?”
You frown, “...yeah?”
“Ya finally comin’ out ta play?” Atsumu asks, shuffling on his feet. Osamu shoves his hands into his pockets now, the two of them picture perfect nonchalance. “We were bettin’ you were a wimp or somethin’.”
“Nah,” you say. “We were still unpacking. Mama needed me to help around the house. Now I’m gonna explore.”
They both perk up in interest. “Oh, yeah? Where to?”
“Wherever,” you say. “I saw a riverbank so I wanna see where it goes.”
“Oh, that riverbank,” Atsumu says loudly, huffing as he rolls his eyes and rocks back on his heels. “I know that one. We’ve already been there. Explored all of it.”
Osamu frowns, looking at his brother incredulously. Atsumu kicks his shin and Osamu pinches his elbow. The two twins quickly round on each other baring their teeth as they seem ready for a rumble. You watch the two of them, fairly amused until your eyes catch on the round object tucked under Atsumu’s arm.
A soccer ball.
Your eyes sparkle.
“Well,” Osamu says finally, still glaring at his brother while Atsumu sticks his tongue out at him. “We were playin’ earlier, but if ya need someone to help ya out, we can come explore with ya.”
“So ya don’t get lost,” Atsumu adds. “Cause we’re kinda the experts around here.”
Osamu rolls his eyes.
“We know all the cool spots,” Atsumu continues, chest puffing up in pride. “The coolest, and maaaaaybe we wouldn’t mind takin’ ya around too—”
“Hey,” you say, quickly holding your deflated ball with both hands. Osamu blinks at it while Atsumu looks wounded that he’s been cut off, like a chip in his nursing pride. “Do you guys have a ball pump?”
“A pump?” Osamu says. “For the ball?”
You nod vigorously, pointing to their soccer ball. Atsumu holds it up, looking at it and then back to his brother. They share a frown before looking at you, staring at your overly excited face and shining, hopeful eyes.
“Yeah,” Osamu says. “We do—”
“We do !” Atsumu declares loudly. His brother looks at him like he’s about to shove Atsumu down a flight of stares. “We totally do. We’re experts at pumpin’ balls. Right, Osamu?”
Osamu mulls it over before nodding, “Yup.”
“But it depends on what kinda ball ya got!” Atsumu says expertly. Your eyes widen in understanding, nodding quickly at their words. Atsumu practically eats up the attention, growing more excited as he continues, “Cause there’s different pumps, ya know? Lots and lots of ‘em.”
“I didn’t know,” you say. Atsumu sticks his nose into the air. You gingerly take the dirty ball in your hands, frowning at it. “It’s been awhile, so I’m not sure what ball it is too.”
“Huh?” Atsumu and Osamu chorus together, looking at you like you’re stupid. You shrug at them, holding the ball out. The two brothers frown, knocking their heads together as they squint at the ball. Osamu takes it into his hands, inspecting it.
“...I think it’s a soccer ball,” he says finally.
“No way!” Atsumu yanks the deflated ball out of his hands. “I bet it’s a basketball!”
“It’s too small to be a basketball, dummy.”
“It’s a baby basketball, idiot!”
“Stupid.”
“Ugly!”
“We have the same face, stupid .”
“...do you think we’ll be able to pump it?” you wonder, holding the deflated ball up too while Osamu and Atsumu each hold one side. They break their squabble and look quickly back at you. “Should we try one out?”
“Hah!” Atsumu says proudly. “Lucky for ya, we have all kinds of different pumps! Osamu and I play different stuff all the time because we’re friggin’ awesome!”
“Yeah,” Osamu agrees. “We can just bring them all out and see which one works.”
Your eyes brighten, shining like stars. You bow to them, “Please!”
Atsumu fluffs up like a peacock. Osamu’s chest swells a bit too at your words, the both of them looking utterly pleased with themselves. Atsumu breaks apart first, hurrying back into their house as he hollers for the two of you to wait there. The front door slams shut behind him and you can hear a dull thump thump before Atsumu’s voice carries from somewhere inside.
“ Ma! Mom! Where’s the ball pump?”
“Atsumu, stop runnin’ in the house! Which pump?”
“All of them! Hurry! Where are they?”
“All of—stop orderin’ me around! Hold on, you brat! Do ya even know how to work it yourself?”
“O-Of course I do! I watch all the time!”
“Uhuh. Call me if you need help.”
Before either you or Osamu can say anything, Atsumu comes racing back out of the house, rounding the corner entryway at rapid speed before skidding to a leisurely halt before you two. He holds out a hand and you dutifully hand him the deflated ball, the three of you squatting in the middle of the street as he hunkers down and drops a bunch of thin metal needles and small air pumps.
“Five hundred yen it’s a soccer ball,” Osamu says.
“Yer on,” Atsumu says. “It’s a basketball. Hey, (Y/n), which pump you wanna try first?”
You blink in surprise, the two of them staring impatiently at you. Your eyes search the various little needles before pointing to one. Atsumu frowns, grabbing the needle and assessing your deflated ball. He spits onto it, wiping away a clod of dried dirt while Osamu makes a noise of disgust.
A thin little hole appears and Atsumu quickly shoves the needle in, examining the screws and pumps now with creased brows. Osamu wordlessly picks one of the pumps up, working the screw to assemble them together as Atsumu grins, holding it out to him. “Alright! Now we just pump.”
“I can help,” you say, stretching your hands out. Osamu and Atsumu scrutinize your thinner arms but you stare back, determined. They share a look before handing you the pump and ball, waiting with hands on their knees as you quickly start to pump the lever.
“If ya get tired just say so,” Atsumu says.
“Might be faster if we do it,” Osamu adds.
You ignore them, pumping as quick and hard as you can. All three of your eyes start to light up as the ball slowly starts to take on a better shape. More hardened pieces of dirt start to fall off as it grows rounder, firmer. Atsumu and Osamu jostle each other, watching eagerly to see the outcome.
The ball takes proper shape. All three of you blink.
“...it’s a volleyball,” you say finally, blinking again. “Right?”
“A volleyball!” Atsumu says, scandalized. He observes it every which way before grunting. “Dang! It really is. And a cool one too! They use these in the Olympics! Man, a volleyball’s pretty cool too. Ugh, can’t complain.”
“Soccer Ball is closer than a basketball,” Osamu says. “You owe me.”
“No, I don’t, you goon! We both lost!”
“Nuh uh.”
You marvel at the newly shaped ball in your hands. It’s still dirty and in desperate need of a wipe down, but you can’t stop moving your hands over it. Can’t stop staring. You look at the alternating colors, drifting your fingers over the printed letters and realize it’s the first time you’ve ever seen this ball pumped up. Literally the first time since your father brought it home, wrapped up saying it was some kind of consolation prize—all these years and it’d never been pumped up. You remember how much you wanted to play with it, but the chance never came.
“I’ll look for the pump next time.”
“You wanna play?”
You blink, looking up with wide eyes.
Atsumu and Osamu are staring back at you, waiting impatiently. You blink again, staring owlishly. “Me?”
“Uh, duh ,” Atsumu says. “Who else are we talkin’ too?”
“She probably thinks you’re crazy, Atsumu.”“Shut up!”
“We’re pretty good,” Osamu says, pointing to himself and his brother. Atsumu nods vigorously. “We’re gonna join the club youth team when we turn ten, cause they don’t let smaller kids join yet. They only let us play around a lil’.”
“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “It’s easy .”
“...is there a third one of you?”
Atsumu and Osamu blink. They look at each other, squinting for a second before they look back at you.
“Huh?” they chorus.
“A third one of you,” you repeat. “Like, a triplet or another sibling.” You’re a little wary about taking an offer in twos—the two of them is already great, but if there isn’t one more thing to balance it out, what if something bad happens? Or what if it makes a third bad cycle start instead?
“Playing with three people,” you say a bit shyly. “Just seems more fun.”
Atsumu looks at you like you’re stupid. Osamu pretty much looks at you the same way, the two of them eyeing you strangely before they cock their heads in the same direction, nearly knocking them together.
“Aren’t you the third?” they both say.
You stop.
Oh.
You’re… the third?
“Well, sure, we can’t play teams with three,” Atsumu says. “But whatever! We’ll just pass and rally—I bet you can’t even do that yet!”
“Yeah,” Osamu agrees. “Don’t get too cocky, new girl. Let’s go play by the park.”
They quickly stand, looking back at you and waiting impatiently. It takes you a few seconds before you hurriedly grab the ball, standing up. The two of them grin and then the three of you are hurrying off to a park you don’t even know the direction of, heart racing in your chest.
“We’re washin’ it first, I don’t wanna touch Atsumu’s nasty spit.”
“Aw, shut up!”
(You’d never thought about counting yourself before.)