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Sometimes, Youichi still leaves him love letters.
At first, Haruichi wasn’t sure what the hastily written notes on shreds of notebook, post-it—grocery store receipts—were intended for. Some of them he couldn’t read and others were lists of things he never really understood, but as time wore on and patterns continued, he suddenly realized that they were simple I love you’s in chicken-scratch-scrawl and a number of things Haruichi is loved for, few of which dust his cheeks in the faintest of pinks.
Haruichi is reminded of high school when he sees them, when Youichi would drop off his composition book at his locker after copying notes from the elective class they shared, two little paragraphs peppered with metaphorical kisses following thirty boring bullet points. It was an unspoken exchange of all the romance he’d never expected of Youichi, not then.
Now that they’ve grown up, Haruichi realizes that he’s married the most romantic person he knows.
Youichi’s love is so tangible and real—it comes in so many forms. But Haruichi can say confidently that his written word—no matter how haphazard and unpoetic it can be—and these small tokens he pulls from beneath the magnets of their fridge or picks up from their bedside table, are some of his favorites. And it’s funny sometimes, that no one believes Youichi capable; he’s too brash, too thuggish and simple for love notes or romantic gestures. Haruichi takes the criticism in kind, usually. Their friends can be foolish, they’ll never understand, and that’s okay.
What can he possibly express to those who have never yearned for pen pressed to paper?
Haruichi will take these humble secrets in the form of folded up notebook scrap all for himself and hold them to the chest that bleeds so deeply for the only man he’s ever loved.
He’s memorized every word of every letter he’s ever received; just the sight of one of them sitting neatly in his keepsake box sweetens his tongue with heartfelt promise. If Haruichi closes his eyes, he can remember every instance he’s picked one up off the counter or found one in his coat pocket before leaving the house. He can even lovingly recall moments when Youichi would leave them on his pillow in the early hours of the morning and he would wake to funnily written this or that’s.
And he never misses a single one, Youichi makes sure of that, leaving them out in the open without mystery or obscurity.
Just the notion that he wants them to be found.
Which is why Haruichi’s a little confounded, holding a folded letter he’s never seen before in his hands.
It was by coincidence that his fingers found it tucked between their mattress while he was on his knees changing the sheets, rumpled and wrinkled and slightly yellowed with age. A date is written on it in Youichi’s perfectly awful handwriting, the pen ink slightly smudged, probably from touching it before it had a chance to dry—and that makes whatever year his husband scribbled completely illegible. Haruichi turns it in his hands, slumping against the side of their bed as he gets comfortable on the hardwood floor, and he curiously slides a fingertip between the fold.
When he opens the note, he realizes that there’s more than one page—nine in total, to be exact—but they’ve become so soft, the pages looking as though they’ve been folded and unfolded more times than one can count, and Haruichi realizes that Youichi must have opened this letter more than a hundred times if that’s the case. They feel so fragile that Haruichi handles them with the utmost care, afraid that this discovery will fall apart before he even has a chance to understand it.
He sucks in a deep breath as his eyes take in Youichi’s handwriting; the sheer number of small sentences and the numerous scribbles and scratched out words littering the page; the way he writes until there's no more room left to. It’s a beautiful mess and Haruichi brings it closer to his chest, rosy gaze focused on a short paragraph at the very top.
The first few lines make him smile.
And then he wonders if he should actually read it.
Part of Haruichi feels the sting of guilt in his chest for even opening it. He tears his eyes away from the letter in an instant.
If it’s been hidden away this long, is it now a secret?
He knows Youichi well, he thinks, better than anyone—he’s never been the type to keep secrets. At least, not from Haruichi. But this was so carefully concealed from sight that he suddenly believes it’s something Youichi never meant for him to see, something so sacred and close to his heart that he felt he had to keep it hidden.
It wouldn’t be fair, reading it like this.
But... there’s something in the details of Youichi’s handwriting, how there’s just slightly more pride in the way his words are written than usual, that catches Haruichi’s eye and tells him that it has to be for him—and that makes it his, too, perhaps. And even though just glossing over the first page makes his heart beat faster, as though he’s doing something he’s not supposed to, the urge to read it more thoroughly becomes more than he can take.
Even hidden away, if it’s meant for him, he should be allowed to look at it...
Right?
Haruichi’s head lolls back and hits the softness of their overflowing comforter not yet smoothed out against the sheets, feeling torn between looking down at the pages in his hands or folding them up and placing them back where they came from. It might bother him for days, choosing not to read it—weeks even—but he shouldn’t invade his husband’s privacy. He’s sure that when Youichi wants to give him this letter, he will.
But if he hasn’t given it to him by now...
Haruichi sighs.
And then he remembers that, before he was Kuramochi-san, he was a Kominato.
The very thought makes him smile mischievously as he shifts forward again, finally finding his resolve, shoving himself into the small nook one of the side tables creates against the bed frame. He hovers around the notes protectively, looking past a bunch of marked-out words until he finds the beginning of the letter.
Reading the first line over again, he can’t help but grasp at his chest, a fluttering sensation like freezing rain prickling his skin.
“De//H//ich//,”
It’s already scribbled out and Haruichi softens at how easily Youichi changes his mind.
“//ui////,
I will never forget the day we met.”
And he never gets it right the first time, he never has, but he keeps on trying.
“When I first met you, I never thought that you would change my life forever.”
Haruichi thinks that’s what he loves about him the most.
“But you did, and I hope that I’ve changed something in your life, too.”
Youichi’s changed everything, he muses.
Truly, Haruichi means that, and he tells himself that he needs to be a reminder of it every day.
He reads through each paragraph with an open heart, because the first page feels like a recount of all of Youichi’s doubts that Haruichi wishes he could have quashed; if only he had known. But he takes the past in stride, thinking that he knows Youichi better after reading them somehow—even if he couldn’t fix a thing back then.
These fumbling words feel like the most fragile, like the shedding of skin, like death in winter.
And when he flips the page, he sees what comes from the ashes of Youichi’s second thoughts.
“I used to feel like no matter what I did, no matter where I’d go, I’d nevr never escape where I came from.
But I think you proved to me that where I came from is why I’m where I am.
Jeez, does that even make sense?”
Haruichi notices a small line crossed through the beginning of the sentence before that dies out early, and he feels warm when he realizes that Youichi never went through with scribbling it out completely, even if he didn’t understand what he meant when he wrote it down.
That’s fine, Haruichi thinks, because he knows exactly what he’s trying to say.
“What I mean is //li/// that, I met you because all of that crazy stuff happened.
So I’ll never take it back.
I’ll never take you back. ”
Haruichi exhales in one breath a lungful of air he didn’t know he was holding, nodding as his eyes close briefly, as if to say ‘me, too.’
“You’re everything I ever wanted,”
And somehow, the tips of his fingers are suddenly lingering along his bottom lip instead of holding the corner of the letter opposite his other hand. Haruichi’s knees draw up in its place, resting the feathery stack against his lap, making sure the corners steer clear of the folds in his shorts.
He feels like curling in on himself, sinking into the feeling stirring in his chest, staying there forever.
“or maybe it’s more like I didn’t know what I wanted until I found you.”
Because everything is so incredibly, heart-wrenchingly exceptional when it comes from Youichi’s heart.
“Yeah, I think that’s it.”
And because, just like he’s proof that everything turned out alright for the man he loves, Youichi’s proof that there’s someone in the world who thinks Haruichi’s special.
It’s never been as apparent as it is right in this moment.
He takes his time reading page after page, every joyful memory referenced playing through his mind like a cinematic reel of times long passed, every nickname Youichi’s ever called him carefully sprinkled throughout the letter. And though there is some redundancy—some form of ‘you’re wonderful,’ ‘you’re perfect’—in every single paragraph, Haruichi wouldn’t have it any other way.
How wonderful it is, for someone to think him perfect and wonderful still, and after so much time has passed.
“I think you’re beautiful.
I just want you to know that right now, today, always, more than ever.”
Haruichi sets the letter down fully, still within sight, and reaches up with both hands to pat at his burning cheeks.
These mere last pages become more scarce in word, but they’re almost more meaningful than the ones before, bring the most brilliant shades of pink to his nose and the tips of his fingers. They focus solely on Haruichi himself, praised in a setting he can’t even begin to fathom, and yet—he’s entirely enamored.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to see you.
But I really mean it when I say I can’t believe the way you look right now.”
It makes him wonder when Youichi had even written this note, so heartfelt and soulful, though it sounds like it was penned right under his nose.
I know I wasn’t supposed to see you.
Haruichi dwells on the line as he continues, as though he’s trying to puzzle the pieces together, but before he can even decipher what that might mean—
“I really like your hair,”
He laughs softly at that, the back of one of his hands pressing to his chin as he smiles. And then—it's not just there to hold back a laugh, but to still his quivering lips as well.
I know I wasn’t supposed to see you.
What does it matter, what that might mean?
Youichi gets to see him every single day now.
“but nothing beats your eyes.”
He closes those very eyes for a moment, trying to keep them from spilling over because he’s too overwhelmed to hold the tethers of his heart together for a second longer.
This letter is a treasure that Haruichi can’t begin to express feelings for.
The language Youichi uses showers Haruichi with the utmost affection. Every word is carefully chosen even though he knows Youichi to be rough around the edges when it comes to what he says, never the poet and never a gentleman, but always enough. It’s the way he handles his words with great thoughtfulness when it comes to Haruichi that makes all the difference.
“I guess what I’ve been trying to say this whole time is that,”
Haruichi’s smile wavers in the ripple of his emotions as he reaches the end of the last page.
“ultimately, the one I love is you.”
The corners of his eyes bubble with the sudden pinprick of tears and he shifts quietly where he sits, reading and rereading every word until his chest feels like it’s unable to hold his growing heart.
He loves Youichi, too—but even more now, Haruichi thinks.
Even more now.
“Hey, Haru?” The call of Youichi’s voice doesn’t quite register—not when the letter in his hands begs for his undivided attention. He doesn’t look up, not once, even when Youichi rushes to their bedroom, collar buttons undone and coat hanging off his arm as he knocks his shoulder against the door frame. “Haru! I’m ho—”
Haruichi’s head snaps up—wide, watery eyes looking into Youichi’s own; he's caught red-handed.
Youichi’s gaping mouth clamps shut.
“What is that?”
“I-I’m sorry!” Haruichi scrambles up from the floor, socked feet slipping a bit, though he catches himself. He looks up to see Youichi had dashed forward to help him and just the gesture of it makes him want to cry. “It’s just—I found it! And it’s—it’s beautiful, ” he says painfully, his voice cracking as a tear slips down his cheek, though he does his best to keep the rest from falling as he flips a page or two. “Youichi, it’s—‘your eyes are like—’”
“Oh, God—don’t read it in front of me, jeez!” One of Youichi’s hands shoot up to cover his face, his dark skin illuminated to the shells of his ears in a pretty crimson as he mutters under his breath. “I never even got to read it out loud myself.”
“What do you mean?” Haruichi asks, pursing his lips to keep them from wobbling.
“Can we just drop it?”
“No! How can I drop something like this?”
“It’s not important now!” Youichi sighs, taking a step toward Haruichi, though he refuses to look at him. And Haruichi hangs onto every small action, from the way Youichi swallows thickly to the sudden look of guilt he wears on his face. “It’s just, when we were there in front of each other back then, I didn’t have the guts to just pull it out of my tux pocket.”
A gasp tears at Haruichi’s throat, the realization spurred by the hint of Youichi’s words weighing down his tongue, and he can barely choke out—“these are your vows?”
“Not anymore,” Youichi says instantly, a hand reaching up to pull through his hair, even greener now that he takes the time to properly care for the strands. “I ended up winging it.”
Haruichi’s heart pounds impossibly hard in his chest, the nine pages of worn loose-leaf in his hands bearing an entirely new meaning than they had when he found them.
“These are...”
“Haruichi—”
“These are your vows,” he snaps back, shrinking away the very next second. “Don’t say that something like this isn’t important.”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Youichi amends and when he steps forward this time, he’s looking nowhere but into flower petal eyes, his lips curling into a soft smile as he reaches up to thumb along Haruichi’s temple and the curve of his cheek.
Haruichi leans into the touch, smiling back just as softly.
Easily, Youichi’s forgiven.
“I loved your vows.” Haruichi looks down at the note in front of him, heart swelling, resisting the urge to pull the pages to his chest in fear of crumpling them more than they already are. His gaze follows the distinct hashes of Youichi’s handwriting with a fondness he can only explain as the trappings of long-lived affection. “And I love these, too—these almost vows.”
“Yeah,” Youichi’s smile grows despite himself, and Haruichi looks up to see emotions flitting through his eyes like wind carrying leaves in spring. “I should’ve read them, though. I spent hours thinking of everything I wanted to tell you.”
Haruichi can tell.
He can count the seconds Youichi spent on this love letter, can read the minutes he agonized over every pen-stroke, the hours flowing from his heartfelt words.
And, somewhere in his heart, he knows Youichi spent even more time reading it over. He knows that his husband must have folded and unfolded the pages more times than he can count for more reasons than Haruichi can even imagine—to remember, to understand, to absolve.
And maybe, to regret.
It must have been weighing on him, not saying his true vows at the altar. But Haruichi has seen them now, has cherished every word, and he knows all of the things Youichi’s held onto since the day they met—every single one; no more secrets.
All of that folding and unfolding, reading and re-reading, is in the past.
There’s just one last thing.
“Will you read them to me now?” Haruichi asks quietly.
“You want me to read you nine pages of wedding vows?”
“Yes!” His cheeks heat at his own sudden outburst and Haruichi averts his gaze from Youichi’s own for just a moment before pink hues tentatively trail their way back home. “I mean... when you wrote them, you wanted to read them to me, right?”
“I wanted to show them to you,” Youichi admits, taking Haruichi’s shoulders in his hands. “I wanted to make them real, ” he says, his words ever so profound, and Haruichi fights hard to breathe as he listens to them, watching as dark eyes crinkle at the corners and the grin he’s focused on becomes mirthless, tone almost self-deprecating. “I wanted to make all your wishes come true.”
His heart hurts at that—because Youichi has and he still doesn’t know it.
“Then start with this one,”—a beat—“please.”
Haruichi offers him the vows, but his husband doesn’t take them.
And when the seconds tick by silently, he tries to fight off the disappointment he feels, tries to ignore the ache despite the fact that he’s discovered something so incredible. Something that’s all his. Something he should be grateful for.
Youichi just shoves his hands into his pockets, answers him with the most breathtakingly soft smile. And he thinks that, if he had walls around his heart, they’d crumble to the ground at the very sight of those tenderly curled lips.
Haruichi inhales shakily, unable to move even though he’s completely, utterly moved.
And closing his eyes as if recalling a long lost memory, Youichi speaks.
“When I first met you, I never thought that you would change my life forever.”