[queenelleee]

♡  Hi! I’m Elle!  ♡  21  ♡

I love reading

So, I came here to read, and reblog arts and fics that I love.

This is mostly a read-only blog. 

Mini Masterlist: 

♡  His Quiet Love  (S. Kiyoomi)

♡  these are the hands (O. Tо̄ru)

♡  in onigiris and broken Japanese (M. Osamu)

♡  happy birthday, Omi (S. Kiyoomi)

♡  small wins (M. Osamu)

♡  hmm... it isn’t so bad after all (M. Atsumu)

♡ happy birthday, Tо̄ru (O. Tо̄ru)

Anyway, I love Oikawa and Sakusa >.<

[plagalkey]

talent is something you make bloom

[loveandloaf]

faded photographs from february 及川 徹 ﹕ oikawa tooru

content. timeskip! oikawa tooru (20), plays for the japan national team. angst. exes to lovers. slight chatfic.

authors note. was listening to laufey the entire time i was working on this . . . (⋟﹏⋞) i miss my boyf (tooru). i also wrote this on the tumblr app + didn’t beta read it, so if there’s any mistakes: please disregard them!

word count. 2.3k

nostalgia hurts worse than any other pain.

you know that because, as you stand in the subway station, people rushing from point a to point b, you feel an indescribable ache in your chest. one that you know cannot be fixed with an antacid or an ibuprofen.

oikawa tooru is plastered on the wall in front of you, promoting some cologne you’ll never be able to afford. his hair is perfectly gelled, his skin flawless and shiny. but his smile, his wide, flashy smile — it isn’t quite real. it doesn’t reach his eyes the way that it should.

behind you, the train whirs to life and rockets down the tunnel, leaving you behind. you can’t find it in yourself to care, too entranced by the advertisement. even though it’s only been eight months, he’s so . . . different.

you don’t even know how to accurately describe it. like, it’s not just how he looks, but also the air around him. you’re not even looking at him in person and you can tell at least that much.

you miss him, you think. just a little bit, just in moments like this. you’ll never admit it out loud. you were the one who broke things off; if you go back now, it’ll just make you look like a gold-digger.

your neck hurts from looking up for too long, but you ignore it in favor of keeping your eyes on his. you’re so proud of him — more than he will ever know. you don’t even realize you’re crying until a light breeze sweeps through the tunnel, chilling your face. you sniffle, wiping the tears from your cheek as fast as you can.

how embarrassing; crying over your ex-boyfriend in the middle of the subway station. you wrap your arms around yourself as a singular shiver runs down your spine.

you need to turn around and get on the train. you need to go home and feed your cat. you need to shower and do some of the homework that’s in your bag. you need to—

“holy shit. y/n?”

the unmistakable voice of matsukawa echoes throughout the tunnel, shaking you to your core. what is he doing here? at this time of night? god, you hope he doesn’t bring up tooru.

you wipe at your cheeks again, this time as discreet as possible, and turn to the brunette with a practiced smile. “hi, matsukawa. funny seeing you here.”

if he notices your glossy eyes, he doesn’t show it. instead, he smiles back at you, laughing. “yeah. small world.” he pauses, glancing over at the large picture of oikawa staring down at you two, then shakes his head. “uh, how are you? it’s been a while. like, what, seven months?”

“something like that,” you nod politely. “i’m good. school is busy, but that’s not new.” you shrug, pressing your lips together. “how are you? how’s t— um, how’s everyone else?”

“we’re good, yeah,” he nods back. his tongue darts out to wet his lips — a nervous tic of his. “iwa’s still in california, partying it up. makki just started a new job . . .” he trails off, eyes darting to the advertisement. “shittykawa’s still annoying as ever.”

you laugh, ducking your head as you do so. “makes sense,” you say softly, smiling. “is iwaizumi coming back for christmas break at all? i assume not, since most school’s are already out.”

“ah, yeah. he wanted to, but . . .” he shrugs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat. “money.”

once again, you nod.

“he misses you, you know.”

“iwaizumi?” you ask, brows furrowing as you tilt your head. matsukawa shakes his head, and your smile slowly fades as you realize who he’s talking about. “oh.”

“you should—” he cuts himself off, shoulders rising as he takes a deep breath. “you should call him. or text him. or anything. he—”matsukawa chuckles, “he never shuts up about you.”

“mattsun,” you say, almost like a warning. “he doesn’t want to hear from me. i— i broke up with him.”

“yeah, because you wanted him to focus on his career,” he says, brows pinching together. “as you can see by the giant poster of his face, he’s doing pretty good for himself. he made the national team — youngest to ever do it. he has sponsors and he’s the number one setter in the country.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. you’ve though about it a couple times; reaching out to him. to say congratulations, to send him a snapchat flashback of a fond memory, just to say hi.

the sound of the next train pulling up vibrates through the air, and you glance over at the tracks, then back at matsukawa. “i’ll— i’ll think about it, okay? it was good seeing you, mattsun. let me know if you need anything.”

12:51 pm | you -> tooru. i ran into mattsun yesterday. he told me i should text you, so umm here i am, texting you. hi. read.

you’re not sure what’s more embarrassing: the fact that you actually took matsukawa’s advice and texted tooru, or the fact that he left you on read.

truly, you should have just ignored matsukawa. said hello, and walked out of the station before he could say anything else. you would have had to walk home, but who cares? that would have been infinitely better than this.

you feel like a second year again, stomach churning as you pace outside of the gymnasium, grip tight on your camera, trying to work up the courage to talk to the captain of the volleyball team.

after staring at your phone for three minutes, waiting for a little bubble to pop up, you groan and flip your phone over — face down, so you don’t have to see your reflection.

you busy yourself with homework instead. chewing on your bottom lip, brows pinched together; you drown out everything else and, by the time you finish your assignments, it’s nearly 4 o’clock.

you pick up your phone on instinct, then drop it when you see a notification from tooru. he texted you back. two hours later, but still.

2:58 pm | tooru. -> you sorry i was at practice can we talk in person? at that cafe you like? 3:00 pm | you -> tooru. right now? 3:00 pm | tooru. -> you yeah if you’re not busy 3:03 pm | you -> tooru. okay yeah. i’ll be there in a bit 3:03 pm | tooru. -> you great

as you gather yourself together, you try not to think about how tooru remembered your favorite cafe. eight months isn’t a long time, and by no means did you forget anything about him, but it still makes your heart flutter a bit.

the walk to the cafe is short and uneventful. you can’t calm your nerves, no matter how hard you try. you tell yourself that tooru isn’t a stranger; you’ve spent countless nights with him, talking about anything and everything under the sun. he’s funny, and he’s smart, and he’s thoughtful, and he’s—

standing outside of the cafe, staring down at his phone. you feel like you can’t breathe. you feel like you’re going to throw up. or cry. or both.

he’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, probably because he just got done with practice. his glasses sit low on his nose, his hair is messy, stray pieces framing his face. it’s all so painfully him.

you open your mouth, to call out to him, maybe, but you can’t speak. what are you supposed to say to him? sorry i broke up with you so i wouldn’t get in the way of your career. i’m still in love with you, by the way?

before you can form your next thought, there are big, brown eyes staring back at you, accompanied by a soft smile. he brings his hand up and gives a small wave, then jogs over to where you stand.

“you came,” he breathes out.

you bite the inside of your cheek. “you asked me to.”

he laughs, running a hand through his hair. “do you wanna go inside? they have cranberry scones, since it’s almost christmas.” he pauses, shrugging. “or we could go on a walk. it’s up to you.”

“a walk sounds nice,” you say with a nod. he turns back the way he came from, and starts walking down the sidewalk. “so, um, how have you been? i saw your ad for that cologne. it’s all over the subway station on third street.”

he glances over at you, his cheeks link. “ah, yeah, that. my coach said it’s good that i have brands wanting to work with me, but . . .” he sighs. “i don’t know. i’ve been okay, though. what about you?”

“good. i’m— i’ve been good. thanks.” you’re making a point not to look at him. you can feel him look back at you every so often, but your eyes are glued to where the soles of your shoes meet the pavement.

a silence falls over the two of you. not exactly awkward, but not comfortable, either. you sneak a glance over at him, studying his side profile. his eyes are forward, his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. has he been working out more? his arms look huge, even under his hoodie.

“i missed you,” he says suddenly, avoiding your eyes. “i feel like i went through the five stages of grief when you broke up with me. i was—” he laughs, “i was really pissed off at first. at you, at myself, at everyone. and then it finally hit me.” he stops walking, just ahead of you, and turns around. “why didn’t you just tell me you thought you were holding me back? that you broke up with me because you didn’t want to be a burden?”

you blink at him, taken aback. you knew he was going to have questions, you just didn’t think he’d start asking them five minutes into seeing you after eight months.

“i . . .” you start, but don’t finish. you have no idea what to say. what does he want you to say? what will give him closure? “i just— i didn’t want to . . . i didn’t want to be any trouble. and i didn’t want to—” you sigh frustratedly. “—hold you back. volleyball is the most important thing in your life, and—”

“and you,” he interrupts, brows furrowed. “you and volleyball are the two most important things in my life.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re twenty years old, tooru. i appreciate the effort, but you don’t mean that. i’m replaceable. the love you feel for volleyball, however, is not.”

“you made a decision for me without even asking about how i‘d feel about it!” he exclaims, almost incredulously. “i love volleyball, yeah, but i loved you, too. and that wasn’t going to change just because you thought it would.”

loved. past tense. tooru doesn’t love you anymore. what were you expecting? for him to wait eight months? it was a pathetic wish.

you look back down at the ground, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip in a lame effort to not cry. “i think . . .” you mumble hesitantly. “i think this was a mistake.”

“what?”

“i shouldn’t have even texted you in the first place.” you shake your head, voice cracking as you speak. “i’m . . . i’m sorry, tooru. okay? i’m sorry for breaking up with you, and for suddenly texting you eight months after, and i’m sorry that i wasn’t the best girlfriend, and i’m sorry—”

he cuts off your cries by wrapping his arms around you, warm fabric pressing against your tear-stained cheeks.

there is no doubt about it now: you missed him.

your fingers clutch the back of his hoodie, bunching the fabric in your fists as another sob escapes you. it’s humiliating. dramatic, too. but tooru only tightens his hold, one hand settling on the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“i think you’re making a scene,” he murmurs into your hair; you can feel him smile against you.

you let out a wet laugh. “you’re so annoying.”

“there she is.”

when he leans back — slowly — to look at you, his glasses have slipped down his nose. you reach up to fix them before you can stop yourself.

“sorry,” you whisper, pulling your hand back. “muscle memory.”

“i wanna get back together,” he blurts out, like he can’t keep the words in. his eyes go wide as he processes what he said, and then he blinks. “uh, i mean. do you . . . want to? do you— do you still . . . love me?”

it would be easier to lie. to make a joke, deflect, tell him you’re not sure. easier to protect yourself with distance and pride and all the same things that got you here in the first place.

instead, you nod once.

his eyes squeeze shut immediately, muttering something that sounds suspiciously close to thank god. then he opens them and says, “okay. great. cool. amazing.” he smiles nervously. “can you tell i’m trying to be normal about this?”

“you’re failing.”

“i know.”

you laugh again, and this time it feels like a weight off your back. like something unclenching in your chest.

“can i kiss you?” he asks. when you simply blink at him, he laughs. “i’m trying out the whole healthy communication thing.”

you reach up, take his face in your cold hands, and kiss him first. he makes a startled sound against your mouth before melting into it completely, hands finding your waist like they still belong there.

when you finally pull back, after a moment or two, both of you are smiling so hard it hurts.

“does this mean you’re my girlfriend now? or do i have to make a grand gesture?”

you hum, tapping your chin. “how grand?”

“i’ll get down on one knee right now,” he says, backing away and maneuvering into a lunge. you giggle, shaking your head, and he stands back up, laughing as well.

“i’ll be your girlfriend again.”

for once in his life, oikawa tooru is speechless.

it lasts three whole seconds. and then he scoops you off the ground in one smooth motion, spinning you despite your shrieked protests.

“now who’s causing a scene?” you shout, squeezing your eyes shut. “toor— tooru, haha, put me down!”

8:12 pm | mattsun -> you you’re welcome ;)

[loveandloaf]

“why are you face-timing me at two in the morning?”

on the other end of the phone, tooru oikawa smiles, eyes crinkling behind the frames of his glasses. “it’s not two in the morning,” he says, “not for you, anyway. it’s only two pm in japan.”

you narrow your eyes as him, and he shakes his head with a laugh.

“what, a guy can’t just call his girlfriend for no reason anymore? jeez. i’ve only been gone for two months and the rules are already changing.”

“tooru,” you drawl out, scrunching your nose up. “you have practice tomorrow. you should be asleep.”

“i can’t sleep,” he admits, scrunching his nose back at you. he shifts slightly, chest muscles flexing with the effort. even in the dim light of his bedroom, you can make out the firm lines of his pecs. you roll your eyes at him, and he sighs dramatically. “god forbid a man miss his girlfriend.”

you stare at the screen for a moment, then let out a sigh. you prop your phone up on the sugar container and turn your attention back to the pan on the stove, pressing your spatula against the piece of bread. “you’re lucky i’m not at work.”

“yeah,” he hums absentmindedly. “what’re you making?”

“grilled cheese.” you lift the pan, showing him its contents as best as possible, then set it back down. “i didn’t feel like making anything too extravagant today.“

“oh, god. that sounds so good. coach has the whole team on this stupid ass diet . . .” he trails off, letting his head fall to the side as he groans. “i’ve been eating rabbit food for the last two weeks — i’d kill for that grilled cheese right about now.”

you snort out a laugh, shaking your head. “you’re so dramatic, tooru. i’ve seen your instagram stories; rabbits don’t eat rice and steak for dinner.”

he lets out a series of indecipherable words, pitching his voice up an octave to mock you, but then snickers — at himself — and smiles at the phone.

“i miss you,” he mumbles, eyes softening. “i think about you way too much. i don’t think it’s healthy. seriously, i might need to see a professional.”

again, you roll your eyes. you turn the stove off, sliding the now finished sandwhich onto a plate, and pick up your phone so you can sit at the table.

“i miss you, too, tooru. tell me about your day while i eat.”

without missing a beat, tooru launches into a rant about his day: how he woke up late because he forgot to plug in his phone last night; how his coach made him run extra laps because he was late; how tomas wouldn’t shut up about his forgetful brain; how he thought about you hundreds of times; how he had to ice after practice, because his knees are acting up again; how he went for lunch with some of his teammates and accidentally ordered a really spicy dish, then spent ten minutes in pure pain.

he’s so animated as he talks, you almost forget that it’s two in the morning for him. he looks tired, though. and handsome — black glasses sitting on his nose, brown hair messy from trying to find a comfortable position, freckles scattered across his cheeks from the argentina sun.

it makes you . . . well, not sad, per se, more like melancholic. you understand how big of an opportunity argentina was — is — so you don’t fault him for leaving, but . . .

you miss him. you miss waking up next to him, limbs tangled together, arm tingling because of how long tooru has been laying on it. you miss the sound of him humming while making his nasty protein shakes — hell, you even miss the sound of him singing very off-key in the shower. you miss his stupid jokes and the wide grin he gets when you roll your eyes at him.

you get so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t realize tooru stopped talking a long time ago. you blink yourself back into awareness and tilt your head when you find him staring at you, a fond smile on his lips. “what?”

he shakes his head — as best he can, with it smushed against a pillow. “nothing,” he says. “you’re just pretty.”

“now i know you’re tired,” you say with a laugh, pointedly ignoring the way your face heats up. even after two years, his compliments still get to you. “you should go to sleep.”

he hums out a note, meant to be an agreement, you’re sure.

“i’ll stay on the call until you fall asleep, okay? i’ll eat my grilled cheese extra quiet, just for you.”

he snorts at you, but reaches past the phone to shut off the lamp on his bedside table. you hear the rustling of his bed sheets, and then a sigh. “‘kay, goodnight, babe. i love you and i’ll text you when i wake up.”

“okay, tooru. goodnight, i love you.”

[queenelleee]

Missing Oikawa hours

[atticraccoon]

The new beard doesn't bring much change to Bokutowl.

The new beard, for those who hadn't seen it yet.

[bb-kawa]

New illustration dropped. And new magazine out August 19th.

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[queenelleee]

I CAME HERE TO SAY...

OIKAWA MY BELOVED!! 😭🩵

USHIJIMA HOT HOT HOT 🥵🥵

and

...

BOKUTO HAS A FUCKING BEARD?!?! 🥵😭🩵

[queenelleee]

Wet hair Oikawa 🥹🤧 I'm obsessed!!!

[queenkeiji]

for the people who wanted spiderkawa 🕸️

[quirrrky]

AKAASHI KEIJI is reading to you the manuscript he's currently reviewing like a bedtime story.

"Mesmerized, he moved closer to her and leaned for a kiss," he reads and asks you, "Something's missing, don't you think?"

You agree, sitting up to speculate better. "Hmmm...show than tell, I guess."

Keiji stares at you. The light from the lamp shade gives your features a magical warm glow that turns a knot inside his stomach.

He smiles, the sweet kind.

"Show than tell, you say..." He removes his glasses and places it atop the bedside table. In a low voice, he whispers as he touches, "He tucks in strands that stray her face behind her ear." His fingers touch your lobe, giving you tingles. "His hand settles on her cheek, feeling her warmth and softness against his touch."

You gulp, eyes almost closing in the comfort of his hand caressing your face.

A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips and he leans near, his breathing fans across your lips. "He's dying to have more of her if he could." He inches his nose, nudging against yours and your mouth opens, anticipating him. "And he can't wait any longer."

You suck in a sharp breath and he takes it away with his lips. You feel like magic in his arms while you melt in the kiss. He's taking your breath away and your brain can't make up the right words to narrate the sensation. He releases your lips and tilts your head so he can kiss you deeper. Your hand squeezes the fabric of his shirt, caving in and savoring.

He parts, leaving you panting and yearning.

"Keiji..." you murmur, almost out of breath.

Chuckling, he gives your cheek a swift kiss. "Should I show more?"

@pixelcafe-network

[saturns-satellites]

BABY MIYA TWINS ♡

@Abusedmember

[iinoruu]

sweet summer 🍒

[magicmooshka]

i love haikyuu i wish volleyball was real :(

[startcarvingdarling]

@seiwas @yuujispinkhair

[akaanmo]

panel redrawing

[dictearchive]

[aleledan]

[kim-jong-chill]

i need feminism because when jesus does a magic trick it’s a goddamn miracle but when a woman does a magic trick she gets burned at the stake

[mattheuphonium-blog]

fabulous 

[tockthewatchdog-deactivated2020]

i mean they did also kill jesus. that was a pretty significant thing that happened. like i understand where you’re coming from here but they very much did kill jesus.

[counterpunches]

#HAPPY GOOD FRIDAY

[amjustagirl]

title: to rebuild a home pairing: kuroo x f! reader genre: angst / fluff, post timeskip! wc: 6.8k m.list

a/n: companion piece to the original love knows not its depth, from kuroo's perspective.

Kuroo Tetsuro is doing alright. 

He’s deftly juggling the roles life has handed him. His tenth wedding anniversary is coming up. He’s gotten a nice pair of earrings and a reservation at Tokyo’s hottest omakase for you to celebrate. The girls are doing nicely at school - Aiko’s grades are excellent, and Fumiko’s not gotten into any schoolyard fights unlike Bokuto’s trio of sons. His bosses seem happy with him too, paving the way for him to climb the corporate ladder rung by rung. He’s earned each promotion by burning days in the office, nights in the izakayas schmoozing with his bosses, but it’s worth it, even if it admittedly comes at the expense of being with you and the girls. 

It’s a sacrifice he has to make so he can provide you with the fairytale life he’s always promised you. Not that you’ve ever complained about the trade-off.  

“She’s the best wife and mom I could’ve asked for”, he tells Kenma, when the former setter asks about you. “I don’t know how she does it.” 

Kenma frowns. “You make her sound like a video game character.” 

“That’s cos she’s amazing -”

“Kinda sucks that she pretty much has to juggle a full time job and the kids on her own most of the time.”

“She manages perfectly well”, Kuroo enthuses, oblivious to the barb in his friend’s words. “By the time I get home, the girls are in bed, the house is clean, and there’s even a lunch box packed for me each day. She’s a rockstar at work too - should be up for a promotion next financial year.” 

“Huh”, Kenma sniffs. “I wonder when she gets a break.” 

Kuroo’s too distracted by the round of beers that’s delivered to his table to think deeply about his best friend’s apprehension. When he stumbles through the front door that night, he finds you crouched over the coffee table, frantically typing at your laptop. As expected, the girls are in bed, there’s nothing out of place. 

“All good?” he asks you in passing, his mind already filing the tasks on his plate for tomorrow - organising a publicity event jointly held by the JVA and Bouncing Ball Corporation to introduce new national team members, reviewing the proposed budget for this year’s international competitions, popping by the under-19 team to see if there are indeed any promising candidates - he’s already one foot in the bedroom, ready to call it a night. 

He doesn’t notice the violets blooming under your eyes. 

“Mm.” You don’t look up. “Have a good night.”  

Kruoo Tetsuro thinks he’s doing alright. 

Bokuto Kotaro, for some reason, doesn’t think so. “Mitsuki said you’re lucky you’re not married to her cos she’ll skin you alive”, he informs him, as if Kuroo shares his love for women capable of chomping his head off in one bite.

Maybe the Bokutos operate on a different metric - because yes, they’re the model of egalitarianism with Mitsuki the high powered general counsel for Kenma’s Bouncing Ball Corporation (based on his referral, he likes to add, cos’ it’s funny to watch Mitsuki growl) and Kotaro the part time coach, full time stay at home dad to his wolfpack of sons, but that doesn’t mean his marriage is on the rocks. 

As a child, he was the unwitting witness to his parents’ fights, which culminated in his mother walking out of the door, his father crying over a thick stack of divorce papers. His grandparents took him in, gave him stability and love and comfort but he swore to himself he’s never going to put his daughters through that. 

Sure, it’s been a while since you’ve had a night to yourself. The last time he remembers you taking time away from the girls was to go out for dinner with him to celebrate his latest promotion - his conscience stings a little that he can’t remember the last time you’ve taken a break from everything you’ve been doing for him and the girls, but he’ll make it up to you once he has time. You always understand. 

Still, just to be sure, he checks in on you again. 

“You alright?”, he reaches for your hand, when he climbs into bed that night. 

You’re lying in bed. He should find it odd that you’re still awake at this time of the night, staring up at the ceiling as if there’s something to be found there, but he falls asleep in the slow seconds, doesn't hear your response. When he wakes, you’ve already taken the girls to school. He gets himself ready for work, loops his tie around his neck, grabs his briefcase and the bento you’ve so lovingly packed for him, and hops on the train. He runs through his routine like clockwork, but there’s a niggling feeling that he’s missed something important, possibly something to do with you. 

Did you say something to him last night? 

It doesn’t matter. He makes a mental note to purchase a spa day for you - but that’s promptly forgotten when he’s greeted by a flood of emails and an invitation from his boss to go out for drinks that night. 

Kuroo still thinks he’s doing alright. 

“You’re lucky”, his boss toasts him. “Your wife doesn’t complain like mine when I go out drinking, even though I tell her I need to do it for work.” 

“She’s an angel”, Kuroo replies, quietly bursting with pride. “Never complains.” 

“Lucky man”, his boss says. “My wife is such a nag.” 

He misses the last train home that night, drops you a text not to wait up and stumbles around Shibuya trying to find a cab. It must be a busy night because by the time he manages to flag down one, it’s three a.m. and his head is pounding from the excess of alcohol and lack of solid food and water. He fumbles with his keys, almost falls through his front door when the lock gives way. “Tadaima”, he says out of habit, too-loudly, before his stomach lurches and he has to make a mad dash for the kitchen sink. 

“Tetsuro?” 

He wants to respond, but he’s too busy emptying out the contents of his stomach. He shouldn’t have woken you up. He shouldn’t greet you with a mess for you to clean up. He shouldn’t lean so heavily on you that you stagger beneath his weight. 

He shouldn’t do all of that yet he does so anyway. You tuck him, a grown man, into bed.

Tomorrow, he’ll apologise. Tomorrow, he’ll make it up to you. 

Tomorrow comes. He wakes up. 

You’re gone. 

Kuroo Tetsuro is not alright.

He’s ashamed to admit that he doesn’t even notice you’ve taken off until it’s way past lunch when your mother drops him a text to ask if he’s picking up the girls or if he intends to leave them with her overnight. 

“What d’you mean?” he texts her, confused.  

His heart stops when your mother responds to say you dropped off the girls at her place without much of an explanation, an overnight bag slung over your shoulder. You don’t pick up your phones, his calls going straight to voicemail. For the first time in forever, he sheepishly asks his boss for urgent leave from work so he can rush home to figure out what’s going on. 

You always take your laptop with you, but it’s sitting at home. He knows it’s an invasion of privacy, but he types in your password (his birthday), and your web browser reveals a booking for a ryokan in Hakone, where the both of you honeymooned almost a decade ago. It’s an hour away by train, far too much time for him to sit and stew in his thoughts. He wonders if you’ve become sick of your life with him, whether you’ve found someone new, and by the time he’s reached the ryokan and charmed the receptionist to let him into your room, he’s teetering on the edge of giving into his frustration, entertaining thoughts about yelling at you for being so goddamned irresponsible, cos how could you just walk out on him and the girls -

Until you walk in, thankfully alone. 

It strikes him that it’s the most refreshed he’s seen you look in a very, very long time. Your cheeks are glowing, your eyes sparkle, and there’s a spring in your step that he hasn’t seen since you’ve had the girls. 

Still, he can’t help but remain a little peeved. “I’ve been calling you all afternoon”, he informs you. “I was worried.” 

He immediately regrets his words as he watches the light die in your eyes. 

“Were you?”, you ask, as if you were addressing a stranger. “Really?” 

“Of course”, he frowns, slowly getting up to approach you, concerned when you start to sway. “You’re my wife and the mother of our girls, of course I care.” 

Laughter spills from your lips, an undercurrent of bitterness and contempt that’s threatening to drag you under before his very eyes. “If you really cared, you’d have noticed that your wife is broken”, you tell him between gasps, your shoulders caving in. “I tried fixing myself with a break, but you can’t even give me that.”  

He’s starting to realise that things aren’t alright at all. You flinch when he takes a step towards you, an action which stabs him clean through his heart because he’s your husband, your Tetsuro, your person. Tea, then, a neutral offering that manages to calm you down enough to take a seat, even if you’re still shaking, falling to pieces while laughing, laughing -

“Tell me what’s wrong”, he begs. “Tell me what I can do to fix you.” 

You take a sip of tea. It’s hot enough to burn you, but you don’t seem to notice. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Tetsuro.” 

“Don’t say that”, he snaps, his inner child recoiling because he can’t bear to have his girls go through what he went through, wondering if it was his fault, his very existence that caused his parents to split up. “The girls and I need you -” 

You don’t seem to hear him. 

“Princess”, he falls back on his pet name for you, rusty from lack of use. “Come back to me.” 

You’re unmoved, your eyes unseeing, deaf to his pleas. Sip after sip, you gulp down scalding tea, each action jerky, mechanical. Frozen, in an impenetrable placidness that he can’t read. You’re sitting right in front of him but you’re not really there at all.    

“Let’s talk when you’re back home”, he finally says. “Have a good break.” 

The immature little boy that still lives in his psyche is still unconvinced that it’s a bad idea to drag you back home with him posthaste, but you asked for a break, and it’s the least he can give to you.

You allow him to roll out your futon for you, to swaddle you in layers of blankets as if that would keep you from falling apart any further. As he kisses your forehead to bid you goodnight and goodbye, he feels the brittleness of your bones, the thinness of your skin beneath his palms and he spends the hour-long train ride home wondering how he managed to look away long enough for you to turn into a shadow of your past self.   

He goes straight to your mother’s house to retrieve the girls. As penance, he stands at the front door, head bowed, letting your mother yell at him in front of the neighbours for being a useless husband and an irresponsible father. After all, he deserves every word she flings in his face. He’s just thankful that she doesn’t ream him out in front of the girls. 

“Where’s mama?” Fumiko mumbles half asleep into his neck. “Want mama.”

He cradles her closer. “She’ll be home tomorrow”, he tells her, hoping with every fibre of his being that that does not turn out to be a lie. Aiko, older and wiser, just stays quiet, so he forces a smile on his face for her sake.  

Kuroo Tetsuro is far from okay.

The strain of the day wears on him and he’s sure there are burning emails in his inbox for him to firefight, but there’s a long list of chores to be done in your absence. The girls’ school bags need to be packed (in the case of five year old Fumiko) or checked (for ten year old Aiko), their uniforms to be laid out, the laundry sorted and folded. He barely gets any sleep before he has to hop out of bed to throw together a cold breakfast of milk and cereal that makes Fumiko burst into tears and Aiko’s face droops. By the time he shuffles his two cranky children out of the house and into their respective schools, he’s late for work. 

He meets Bokuto and Kenma for lunch since there’s no lunch bento waiting for him in the fridge, though he regrets the decision to leave the refuge of his work desk for the boardroom of Bouncing Ball Corporation when Mitsuki joins them and, sharp-eyed as ever, sinks her talons into him. 

“You look like shit”, she says to him as a greeting. 

“Thanks”, he grounds out. The girls demanded he work their hair into the neat braids they insisted you always do, so bedhead would have to do for him today. 

“I’ve never seen you without hair gel before”, Bokuto marvels. “You look weird.” 

“I had a crap morning, okay”, he snaps, biting the head off the karaage fish in his store bought bento, which he resents for tasting worse than those you usually make for him. “So I’m sorry if I look slightly less than presentable -” 

“You look like a man whose wife just left him - “ 

Mitsuki’s just stepped right on the wound he’s tried to keep hidden, festering and bleeding beneath his skin, so like an animal lashing out when it’s hurt, Kuroo slaps the table with both palms and snarls. 

“Don’t - don’t fucking say that, okay? She’s just taking a break. She’ll come home.”

He can’t stand to see the shock and pity on his closest friends’ faces. “She’s coming home today”, he repeats softly, almost to himself, as if he’s little Fumiko in need of reassurance that the person she needs most in the world hasn’t just abandoned her. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

Perhaps it’s the maturity that comes with fatherhood, because Bokuto is the first to react. “That’s right, you’re gonna be okay”, he soothes, pulling Kuroo into his seat. “Kenma’s gonna call your boss and tell him that you’re gonna spend the rest of the afternoon here to plan some event - “

“Sponsorship for the Under-19 team, done”, Kenma snaps his phone shut.

“Guys, I’m fine - ” 

“Pretending everything’s okay isn’t going to help.” 

Kuroo deflates. “Thanks, Kenma.” 

Shelving his worthless pride to lay bare the situation he’s found himself in, that by neglecting his duties as a husband and father, he’s forced you to the brink of a mental breakdown, bad enough that you’ve left him - temporarily, he hopes. In the span of a few hours, he’s already found himself at his wit’s end, struggling to handle both the demands of the kids and his job, something that he realises he’s left you to bear, alone. 

“But I can’t figure out why she didn’t just tell me she was feeling overwhelmed”, he says, pulling at a fraying thread in his shirt. “I would’ve listened. I would’ve done better.” 

“She shouldn’t have to tell you to do your part”, Mitsuki waves away Bokuto’s desperate gesture for her not to kick a man when he’s already down. 

“But I didn’t know -” 

“Y’know, I really can’t stand men like you. You guys are amazing at work, able to anticipate your bosses’ and clients’ needs. At this point, you don’t even need to be told by your bosses  to jump, you don’t even ask your clients ‘how high’ - yet, for some reason, you manage to turn off your brain the minute you walk in through the front door at home.”

 “Maybe I should ask her for a list of things I can help her with -” 

Bokuto claps his hand over Mitsuki’s mouth. “Ehhh..you might not wanna finish your sentence or Mitsuki might really bite your head off.” 

Kuroo winces, snapping his mouth shut. 

“Maybe you can think of it in a different way”, Bokuto says. “Instead of ‘helping’ her - cos that’s just placing the mental burden on her - at least, I think that’s the term Mitsuki-chan used when she explained it to me -” the affronted lawyer nods begrudgingly, and beaming, he continues - “you gotta do your half of the work!”

“Level up”, Kenma provides, rather unhelpfully.

“Open your eyes and use your brain”, Mitsuki says bluntly, rolling her eyes, though her tone is less sharp.

“Where do I start?” Kuroo asks. 

Step one. 

He picks the girls up from his mother in law’s place, bears with the lecture that’s awaiting him, and sheepishly asks them what their mama usually feeds them for dinner and breakfast, making a mental note of it. Tonight, he’ll cheat by feeding them gyudon at Sukiya, but he drops by the supermarket to procure the ingredients he needs for tomorrow’s breakfast and a bouquet of pink roses, even though he knows it’s probably too little, too late. He counts himself lucky that Fumiko loves bathtime, only needing supervision to wash and dry her hair, and Aiko’s responsible enough to work through her homework without prompting, but he’s still exhausted by the time they both head to bed. 

His job doesn’t end there. Running through the checklist Mitsuki begrudgingly allowed Bokuto to give him, he surveys the apartment, comparing it against the mental image of how everything was before you left it. Toys scattered, to be put back in place. Dust on floor, to be vacuumed up. A heap of laundry in the basket, to be hung, dried, ironed. 

Just as he finishes all these tasks, the front door swing opens. 

“Tadaima”, you call out, voice hushed. 

He nearly trips over his feet in his haste to relieve you of your luggage, usher you into a seat by the kitchen counter. “Okaerie”, he breathes, 

“The girls?” you ask. 

He’ll buy Bokuto lunch next time. “I picked them up from your mom”, he responds. “Don’t wake them up, I just put them to bed.” 

You peek into their rooms nonetheless. “Thanks”, you say, heading next to the fridge. “By the way, I’ll pay you back for the hotel room from my own money, don’t worry.” 

That’s the last thing on his mind. Besides, his sin is being a neglectful husband, not a miser. “It’s fine, I’ll cover it”, he scratches his head, embarrassed that you’re even bringing it up. “I should’ve realised you needed a break.” 

That makes you frown, but you accept anyway. He watches you stack bread, eggs, ham, cheese, and it strikes him that you’re already worrying about the girls’ breakfast when you look as if you haven’t even had your own dinner. 

“You haven’t had dinner?” he asks. 

You reply carelessly that you’ve had a bento on the train back. You don’t even bother to look at him. 

“I’ll take the girls in the mornings from now”, he tells you. “Sleep in and take a break.” 

That gets your attention. 

“Really?”

He plasters a confident smirk on his face to reassure you that he’s got it all in hand. 

“Oh”, you’re adorable when you’re confused, but he hates that he’s given you reason to doubt him. “Wake me up if you need my help?” 

“I won’t”, he promises. 

It’s time for him to level up.  

Step two. 

He’s not going to lie to himself that he finds it difficult to do even half of what you used to do. Taking over the responsibility of wrangling the girls out of bed and into school, coming home early enough for dinner with you, that requires him to have hard conversations with his boss about not being able to go out for drinks or come in early anymore which probably hurts his chances for his next promotion, forces him to give up an hour or two of sleep, but it’s worth it if it allows you to heal. 

“Don’t expect a gold star for your efforts”, Mitsuki warned him. “It’s just what you should’ve been doing before, so it’s time for you to go above and beyond.” 

He takes her words to heart. You deserve to go to work well-rested, to wind down at night with a hot bath. He’ll buy a robot vacuum and pour over its manual that’s thicker than a textbook, do laundry loads while hopping on and off conference calls, wrestle the iron to press down his own shirts. 

You seem baffled by the sudden shift in the winds, but he just pretends everything is normal. Business as usual. Things are just as they should’ve been. 

In his next push to right his wrongs, he organises a Saturday dinner date with you. The girls are packed off with your mother, he makes the reservation, books the cab, compliments your dress. He asks you about your work (tiring), your boss (a micro-manager), the books you’ve read recently (nada, zilch). In the uphill battle to keep the conversation from being stilted, he makes a fatal mistake. 

“We can make it work if you want to quit your job and stay home full time with the children.” 

In his mind, that was a reasonable suggestion to make since you seem to hate your job and boss with a fiery passion. But you stare at him wide-eyed, your initial confusion hardening into anger. 

“Did the guys at work tell you it’s easier to have a housewife instead of a working wife? Are you saying this because you don’t think I’m a good enough mother to our girls?” 

You don’t give him a chance to backpedal, shooting a sarcastic apology for being selfish enough to refuse to be reliant on him, so he just slumps back in his chair in defeat. 

“I just want you to be happy”, he murmurs. “Forget I ever said that.” 

Step three. 

To figure out step three, he schedules an emergency lunch meeting on Monday. The troops convene in Kenma’s boardroom to listen to his sorry tale with Mitsuki in charge of the post–battle analysis. 

“And remind me again, where did you two meet?” 

His face lights up at the memory of his first meeting with you. “Finance 102”, he replies. “We used to be academic rivals turned teammates after I convinced her I was smart enough for her to work with on projects.”

“What made you fall in love with her?” 

“As much as I hate it, I have to admit she’s probably smarter than me”, he says, though the fond smile that creeps onto his face betrays the fact that he loves that about you. “She’s just - her, she’s headstrong and funny. Did I tell you how she tried to stab me with her fork when I stole food off her plate -” 

“Only a million times”, Kenma interjects. 

“She’s always been independent and ambitious, with big dreams and an even bigger heart.” 

“Well”, Mitsuki says, adopting the mildest tone she’s used on him this month. “Does that sound like a woman who’d choose to stay home and depend on her husband? Not that there’s anything wrong with being a stay-at-home parent - Koutaro makes my career possible, and I’m the luckiest woman in the world to have him as my husband.”

“Babyyyyy.” Bokuto bawls, looking at MItsuki as if she hangs the moon in the sky. 

Gross. Kenma seems to agree. “Let’s get back to Kuroo’s failing marriage”,

“So I shouldn’t bring up the suggestion that she quit her job again?” 

His three person council shake their heads in unison. “Just keep what you’re doing”, Bokuto pipes up. “Sounds like you’re already doing the right things! Just gotta keep making sure she’s not holding up the sky herself.” 

He can do that. 

“And maybe talk to her?”, Kenma offers.

That’s the suggestion that he wants to dismiss right off the bat because he’s too much of a coward to even face the possibility that you might leave him. He doesn’t want to become his dad so he resolves to keep his head down and continue pushing ahead with his efforts to prove to you that he can be the husband you deserve, so you won’t wake up one day and decide to walk out on him again. 

But his subconscious fears force his nightmares into overdrive. Dreams of packed bags and stacks of divorce papers makes him yelp loud enough for you to roll over and shake him awake. He’s a terrible husband for disturbing your sleep, but in his sleep-dazed state of confusion he just sinks back into the pillow, exhaling a sigh of relief. 

“Thank the gods you haven’t left.” 

“Why would I leave?”, you mumble, turning away again. “It’s my home, isn’t it.” 

He sits up, rubs the nightmares away from his eyes. “I was afraid you left me.” 

The silence nearly suffocates him. The sudden need to know exactly where you stand eats away at him and he crawls towards you. “Are you going to leave me”, he asks, praying to all the gods in the universe that you’ll reassure him otherwise. 

His heart breaks anew when he hears a small sob, buried in the bedclothes. “I don’t know, Tetsuro”, you finally say. “I’m tired of being alone in a marriage when it’s supposed to be us working together.” 

“I’m sorry.” There’s nothing much he can say. 

A broken whisper. “I’m tired”, you exhale. “I think I deserve better.”

“I’ll make it better”, he promises. 

He will. He will. 

Kuroo Tetsuro is trying his best. 

He takes a cooking class on the weekends to learn how to prepare bento boxes that are nutritious and easy on the wallet. He takes over the ferrying of Fumiko to her swimming lessons, work on Aiko’s art projects with her. He hires a part time cleaner to pick up the deep cleaning, so you and he have time to take the girls out on weekend outings instead of spending all day on a week’s worth of cumulated chores. A dishwasher appears in the house. He makes it a game for he and the girls to load and unload dishware each night. 

“There’s a networking wine night for finance next Wednesday”, he tells you casually. “I’ll make sure to be home so you can go, if you want.” 

You goggle at him. 

“Go schmooze so the world knows you’re as amazing as I know you are.” 

You trust him enough to leave the girls behind in his care and go. He counts that as a win. 

Some nights he still can’t get home in time for dinner, but he always makes sure he’s home in time for a bedtime story and a goodnight kiss. Aiko avers that at the grand old age of ten, she doesn’t need her papa to tuck her to bed anymore, but she sidles into Fumiko’s room everynight and sits in the corner of her little sister’s bed as the littler girl listens to his tall tales. 

“I met a princess when I was eighteen”, he says with a grin when he notices you listening in. “Instead of a crown, she armed herself with a fork, ready to cut down anyone who’d cross her.” 

His heart skips a beat when he hears your voice from the doorway. “Don’t be dramatic”, you interrupt, a small smile growing on your face. “You were trying to steal my food and didn’t stop ‘til I stabbed you.” 

Fumiko huffs, unhappy that her story’s being interrupted, but he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from you. “You left it on the table, princess. I consider that fair game.” 

“Let ‘to-san tell the story, ka’san.” Aiko grumbles. 

He savours your laughter. It tastes better than the finest wine. 

“I can’t believe I have to fly all the way to Italy just to meet Kageyama-kun”, he huffs. “At least Hinata is meeting us there, I’ll revolt if I had to go up to Brazil as well.” 

“You know it can’t be helped”, you reply. “The promotional activities planned need your presence, and it’s only for a week.” 

“Will you be okay when I’m gone?” 

His fears melt away when you hand him his suitcase, a flask of his favourite tea. “I’ve always managed fine. Nothing’s changed.” 

His little monsters, realising that he’s about to leave, decide to launch a synchronised attack on him. Aiko throws herself at him in a bear hug. Fumiko yanks at his sleeve demanding a thousand kisses. 

“Yes, well. I’ll be home soon. Please wait for me” he says to you when the girls finally release him. The expression on your face is unreadable, but you don’t pull away when he takes the liberty of taking your hand in his. 

He feels your heartbeat accelerates. You glance up at him, almost shy. “I’ll see you soon.” 

He’s so tempted to call his boss and pretend that he’s too ill to get on that damned flight, but he’s pretty sure that would get him fired. Instead, he calls you and the girls every day, and brings home a luggage full of presents for all of you. 

When he’s home, he celebrates by putting on the frilliest pink apron he’s ever seen (courtesy of Yaku, who sent it to him all the way from Moscow as a joke) and throwing an elaborate takoyaki party, replete with customised toppings - octopus, cheese and shrimp, which the girls enjoyed even if he burnt the first batch and had to call Fukunaga frantically for tips to rescue the rest. It turns out to be such a success that he makes it a weekly event. Okonomiyaki is next, which he flips with expert confidence on a hot plate to the applause of you and the girls. 

“Itadakimasu”, you clap your hands together. “It tastes good.” 

He nearly melts into his pan. “Thank you”, he replies. “It means a lot, coming from you.” 

His nights are still plagued by nightmares.

Things are better with you, he likes to think. The violets beneath your eyes are replaced by roses in your cheeks. He hears you humming about the house again. You pick up reading again,  the shelves in the house start to groan under the weight of books belonging to the girls and you. You’re as eager as the girls to go on the next adventure, whether it be a summer night out in the park with sparklers, or a nerf gun battle at home on rainy days. 

Still, he doesn’t know for sure what he’s doing is enough for you and he’s too much of a coward to check. So he’ll wake up almost every night, fumble in the dark just to make sure you’re there. 

You’re there, until you aren’t. 

It’s three in the morning. The space beside him is cold and empty. 

He throws off the blankets, trips on his bed slippers. He crashes through into the living room and oh, there you are - sitting at the dining table, typing furiously at your laptop while mouthing off to yourself about the ridiculous demands your client makes. 

“What’s wrong?” you frown. 

He walks towards you, trying to discern that you’re real, you’re there, not some trick of the light.. 

“You’re - you’re still here.” 

You nod slowly, eyeing him strangely. “My boss called and asked me to send out an urgent email. I was just about to go back to bed.” 

He exhales, tries to force his trembling heart back into his chest. He thinks he’s doing a good job trying to act nonchalant, smoothing back his frazzled mane of hair, but you see right through him as you always do. 

“Tetsuro”, you say slowly. “Is everything alright? 

The truth tumbles out of his mouth. “I thought you were gone.” 

Then he hangs his head, looks at his feet, afraid that he’ll only see rejection in your eyes. He’s a pathetic failure of a husband who has a decade’s worth of sins to make up for, and there’s no justification for him to selfishly to seek your absolution. 

It comes anyway, in the form of soft hands pulling him forward. 

“I’m here”, you say, pulling him into your embrace, letting him rest his heavy head in your lap.

He doesn’t allow himself to sink into your warmth. “Are you happier now? Are things better for you?” 

“Yes”, he hears you say. The tension he’s been carrying around these few months lifts. “Thank you, Tetsuro. I appreciate it. I really do. You don’t have to work yourself to death - that’s never what I was asking for. If you’re tired -”

He shakes his head at your suggestion. He’s got a long way yet before he earns any reprieve. 

“Tetsuro -” 

He sits up abruptly, takes your hands in his. 

“Promise you won’t leave me”, he pleads. “I know you’ve had to carry what must’ve felt like the weight of the entire world on your own, and I don’t have any excuse for that.”

“You don’t”, you agree. 

He accepts the blow but he takes comfort that you don’t pull away. “I know that now. I know now how fucking hard it was to do it all alone.”

“It was hard. It was so, so hard, Tetsuro. I became numb to the pain. I don’t think I was functioning, I haven’t been for a while. For a long, long while.” 

“I’m sorry”, his voice cracks. 

“I know.”  You cup his face in your hands, offers him comfort he doesn’t deserve. “That’s a chapter of our marriage that’s past, that can’t be unwritten. But the past few months have been different. You’ve shown me that you’ve changed.” 

The first glimmer of sunlight after a long, dark winter. Hope blooms with your smile. 

“I think”, you say. “I think we can make this work again.” 

He stares at you, dumbstruck. Then the fact that you’re giving him another chance dawns upon him, and he crashes forward to rest his head on your shoulder, unashamed to cry tears of relief. 

“Thank you”, he exhales brokenly. “I won’t fuck this up again, I promise.”

You press a kiss to his forehead, curl up trustingly in his arms. “Don’t thank me”, you laugh. “Thank yourself for making me believe in you.” 

 He drinks up each drop of your affection, falls asleep in the cradle of your arms. 

“Is this what flirting is like?” 

He wakes up to Aiko’s impertinent question, her hands on hips looking distinctly unimpressed at finding her parents asleep on the sofa, entwined together. 

“Who taught you that word?” Kuroo asks, aghast that his ten year old daughter even recognises the existence of the opposite gender. 

Aiko sticks her tongue at him, and he’s too distracted by Fumiko taking a flying leap onto the sofa with them, chattering a thousand miles an hour about what’s for breakfast and whether they can go to the zoo this afternoon - though he pins his suspicions on Bokuto’s trio of sons. 

“Monsters”, he says. “Can’t even give your to-san a break to snuggle up to your pretty ka’san.” 

The girls shriek in dismay - Aiko, at being a witness to further gross displays of affection between her parents, Fumiko, at being called a monster despite being a self-proclaimed princess. You prod at the soft flesh between his ribs. 

“Don’t be mean”, you admonish him. 

He sniffs, taking the chance to draw you closer. “I’m cranky in the mornings unless I get a morning kiss.” 

You snort, swatting at him. “You make it sound as if kisses contain caffeine.” 

The girls giggle, but he protests. 

“Full of nonsense”, you tease, but you kiss him, again and again and again. 

Things settle into a steady, sustainable pace. 

You refuse to allow him to bear the weight of the household on his back alone. There are frank conversations to be had about what each of you can realistically handle without burning out. He leads the charge in the mornings, whipping up breakfast with the aid of his two sous chefs, building an expertise in braiding and french twists that could possibly allow him to moonlight as a hairstylist. You, on the other hand, take charge of evening pick-ups, cooking dinners, supervising homework and art projects until he comes home and tags you out. 

Chores are evenly split. He doesn’t allow you to assume the mental load of organising the household by yourself. “We both have a degree in business management”, he likes to remind you, because he now knows that remembering to run errands, scheduling appointments - all of this is work too. 

You force him to take breaks. If you get to relax with your friends, so should he. “If you get too stressed, you’ll lose your hair and we can’t have that.” He yelps when he imagines himself bald and obediently complies when you call Kenma up, talk him into getting him and Bokuto and Akaashi (when he’s feeling less morose about his singlehood) to go for a round of pick up volleyball. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself”, you note wryly when he returns home crowing about how he stuffed an Olympic player with a kill block. 

“I did”, he replies, catching your hips to pull you in, cheekily ignoring your complaints that he’s sweaty. “But I enjoy coming home to you even more.”

“Gross”, you grumble, but you seem content to remain in his arms. 

It’s another small moment he treasures. Life, he learns, is made of moments, both big and small. He’d made the mistake of only focusing on the big ones - graduation, playing at nationals, the day he was lucky enough to marry you, each of his daughter’s birthdays. Now, though, he cherishes each moment, each second he has with you and the girls, no matter how little, no matter how small. 

He likes to come into the bathroom each night, leaning his elbow on the edge of the bathtub as you chat to him about your day, luxuriating in the bath he drew for you. You and he take turns to complain about life’s inconveniences as you clear emails once the girls have gone off to bed- colleagues who shirk their work, bosses who nitpick overmuch, washing everything down with steaming cups of herbal tea. 

“Are you happy?”, he asks you, night after night. 

“Mm”, you say with an impish grin. “I’d be happier if you let me put my toes on your calves.” 

“They’re freezing”, he groans but scoots over anyway. “Better?” 

“Much better”, you hum, content. “Life is good.”

He’s not remiss in planning the big moments too. 

A year passes quickly to your wedding anniversary. He packs your suitcase, books the train tickets and whisks you back to the ryokan in Hakone, though this time he upgrades you both to their largest suite. “I feel like a princess!” you exclaim, twirling about the room. 

Your happiness is worth every yen he spent. 

You spend the day strolling down avenues lined with cherry blossoms, Mount Fuji looming in the backdrop, the evening exchanging heated kisses in the private onsen he booked. You’re older now, with laughter lines creased into your forehead, grey streaks in your hair, but you’re still the same girl he fell in love with all those years ago. 

“And you couldn’t wait ‘til we got back to our room?” you smack him. 

He also loves how there’s fire burning bright in your eyes, the way it always used to. “You kissed me first!” 

“You kissed me second!” 

“I don’t hear you complaining”, he cackles. 

You try to shush him, to no avail, as he draws the attention of everyone around him.

“What a happy couple”, an obaa-san remarks out loud. “They must be newlyweds.”  

Well, she’s not wrong. You’re as radiant as you were fifteen years ago, his spring bride, but he’s an old man doddering on, hopefully with his edges sanded off with time. “Just your regular old, married couple”, he chortles when you’re safely back in the room. 

“A happily married couple”, you reply, serenely sipping your tea. “That obaa-san definitely got that part right.” 

There’s a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow. “Are you happy?” he manages to ask anyway. 

“With you?” Your smile is warm, bright. Always.”

Both of you are doing alright.

a/n: it's been a while, hasn't it. i've been alright - how are you guys doing?