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ziezii · 1 day ago

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kiis divorce au

I think I wrote something really nice.

It's about divorce LMAO.

“Mihya,” Yoichi says, the name landing heavy, intimate. His eyes hold, steady. “When you signed those papers—when we signed those papers—that was us agreeing to stop being in each other’s business. My only business with you is our kid together.”

Author's Notes: Honestly, this was just a passing thought of a plot. I just like writing co-parenting and complicated relationships. This is the lovechild of that.

Context:

Yoichi and Michael are divorced, and Michael has custody of their child given that he has better financial capacity than Yoichi. Yoichi was forced to quit pro football because of an accident.

At this point of the story, Michael is in Re Al Madrid and Isagi is a football coach for an elementary team in Toledo. They co-parent their child who comes to Yoichi’s only on weekends. This scene is when Yoichi drives their kid back to Michael's.

Word Count: 2,079 words

The living room holds its breath. One lamp burns low in the corner, throwing light across the shelves lined with trophies, across the framed jersey that glints like glass. The rest is shadow. Upstairs, Lina sleeps. Her small weight keeps the house quiet, keeps both men careful. Every sound has to be chosen.

Yoichi sits on the couch, spine curved forward, hands laced loosely between his knees. His jacket is folded into a neat square beside him, the way people fold something when they don’t want to touch it again. His body looks at ease, but his shoulders are stiff, his heel tapping once against the rug before stilling.

Michael moves like he doesn’t know where to put himself. He paces into the kitchen, boils water he doesn’t need, sets a mug on a coaster he never used to bother with. His hand lingers on the handle longer than it should, fingers drumming once against ceramic before letting go.

“Chamomile,” he says, voice pitched low. “The one you hate.”

“I don’t hate it.” Yoichi’s mouth crooks sideways. “I just think grass should commit to being grass.”

Michael brings the mug over, careful, two hands, like he’s afraid of spilling. He sets it on the table, the ceramic landing with barely a sound. Then he lowers himself into the chair opposite, knees wide, elbows to thighs. His fingers knot together, then separate again, restless.

“Lina asked if you’d come to her scrimmage next week. She wants you to blow the whistle.”

“I’m not the ref.” Yoichi doesn’t touch the mug. His thumb drags along his own palm instead, slow, grounding.

“She doesn’t care.” Michael’s smile flickers, a glimpse of something unguarded. “It’s about the power.”

“Ah. Power.” Yoichi’s eyes drop to the mug, then lift back up with a faint glint. “Wouldn’t it be cooler, at least? For her to say her dad’s in Re Al Madrid instead of… coaching eleven-year-olds in Toledo?”

Michael shifts back, jaw tightening. His arms cross, uncross. He finally sets them on his knees, palms open. “She doesn’t care about cool. She cares who shows up.”

Yoichi lets out a breath that could be a laugh, sharp and small. He leans back, spreads his hands out on the couch like claiming space. “That your way of saying money wins custody?”

Michael’s jaw works. His eyes catch the light, bright and quick. “That’s your way of making everything sound like punishment.”

“Not everything.” Yoichi’s gaze drifts sideways, away, then back. His voice stays flat. “Just the parts that sting.”

The silence stretches. The AC clicks on, hums, stops. Upstairs, a floorboard creaks. Both of them glance up instinctively, then return to each other like nothing happened.

Michael leans forward again, elbows braced hard into his thighs, fingers knotted. His weight tips closer to Yoichi without him meaning it. “I know you were offered a position here.”

Yoichi blinks, slow. He shifts one knee over the other, body closing in on itself. “What?”

“Gessner told me. Or his kid did. Their academy wanted you. Good offer.” Michael’s voice is steady, but his foot bounces against the floor, betraying the effort. “You said no.”

Yoichi leans down, rubs at the line of his jaw with two fingers like he’s smoothing something invisible. “Ah.” He doesn’t look at Michael when he says it.

Michael pushes up to his feet, restless, pacing a step toward the window. He plants one hand against the frame, the other curling into a loose fist against his hip. His reflection stares back at him in the glass.

“What’s in Toledo that Madrid doesn’t have?”

The room stills.

Michael turns, finally meeting Yoichi’s eyes. His face is open now, too much, as if the words pulled something out of him he didn’t mean to show. Want, regret, something softer underneath—it all flickers through.

Yoichi holds the stare. His body is motionless, but his grip tightens around his own wrist, knuckles pale. He doesn’t smirk this time. Doesn’t shrug it away. Just watches him, steady, the silence thick as breath.

Then Yoichi tilts his head, a sliver of a smile surfacing. It’s thin—sharp.

“Cheaper rent,” he says, voice easy. “Kids who think I’m Messi. A bodega that gives me free oranges if we win on Saturdays.”

Michael huffs a sound that almost becomes a laugh. His shoulders drop, his hand dragging down his face before falling uselessly at his side. “We have oranges here. They’re called sponsorships.”

“Those don’t fit in pockets.” Yoichi finally reaches for the mug, takes a sip, grimaces at the taste, and sets it back down with a quiet click.

Michael watches his hand linger on the handle. Watches too long.

Michael watches Yoichi’s hand linger on the mug. Watches too long. His lips part, then close again. He shifts his weight, rubs the back of his neck like the words itch under his skin.

“Don’t tell me you’re seeing someone out there.”

Yoichi’s thumb runs once along the rim of the mug. He doesn’t drink again. His eyes lift slow, deliberate, a small curve ghosting his mouth. “And would that be a crime?”

Michael’s shoulders tighten. His arms fold, unfold, restless. He takes a step closer, then stops himself, caught mid-motion. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“No. Just… a waste.”

Yoichi leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the top edge, posture opening like he’s daring Michael to keep pushing. His gaze doesn’t waver. “At least you’re honest.”

“About poor taste?”

“About wanting to know.” Yoichi’s tone is mild, but the words hang heavier than they should. He tilts his head, watching Michael shift under the weight of them. Then he finally lets the corner of his mouth tick upward. “Relax. I’m seeing my team. Cones. Grass stains. Kids who clap at offside goals. Real romance.”

Michael’s laugh is soft, caught in his chest. He runs a hand through his hair, musses it, lets it fall back. His eyes shine with something too close to relief. “You could’ve had the academy. You could’ve had—” He stops, bites down on the word. His hands hover, empty, before he shoves them into his pockets. “You could’ve had here.”

“I had here.” Yoichi’s voice stays even, but his shoulders dip just slightly, as if the weight of it presses down. He leans forward, forearms on knees, eyes steady on Michael. “Then I had the accident. Then I had a dozen doctors in neat suits telling me I will not have here again.”

Michael flinches like the memory is a fresh bruise. His arms unfold, hands spread as if reaching for something, then fall uselessly to his sides. His head bows, a sigh dragging through his chest.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think,” Yoichi says, sitting back again, “you prefer the version where I turned it all down just to spite you.”

Michael’s jaw locks. He paces toward the window again, palm pressed flat against the glass like he’s steadying himself. His reflection glares back, harder than he does.

“I prefer the version where you’re not three hours away.”

“Two-forty without traffic,” Yoichi replies. He adjusts his cuff, precise, like the detail matters. “I like the drive.”

Michael lets out a short laugh, disbelieving. He drops his forehead briefly to the glass, then looks back over his shoulder. “You like the drive?”

“It’s simple.” Yoichi lifts one hand, ticking the points off with his fingers. “Road, music, then kids who think I’m better than Messi. In Madrid? It’s busy. You’re busy.”

“Busy doesn’t mean—” Michael cuts himself off. His lips press together, his hands curl, open, curl again. Then, softer: “You could still be close.”

Yoichi’s eyes hold him, steady, unreadable. “To you?”

Michael doesn’t blink. His chest rises, falls, a fraction too quick. “To Lina,” he says. And the word sits beside another, unspoken but loud.

Yoichi exhales through his nose, slow, measured. He tips his head back against the couch, gaze lifting briefly to the ceiling, then returns to Michael. “I am close to Lina. In miles. In the ways that count.”

Michael’s hand drags over his jaw, rough, as though he’s trying to rub away the ache under his skin. He gestures vaguely toward the fridge. “She drew you today.”

Yoichi glances over. A piece of paper, magnet-pinned: stick figures, one tall with a trophy for a head, one shorter with a whistle drawn twice the size of its body. A third smaller figure in between, star hands reaching toward both.

“You’re the whistle,” Michael says.

Yoichi rises, crosses to the fridge, rests a hand against the door above the drawing. His thumb traces the air near the lines but doesn’t touch. His mouth lifts at one corner. “I always was.”

“You’re the megaphone,” he adds without looking back.

Michael laughs under his breath, quiet, helpless. “Rude.”

“Accurate.” Yoichi’s hand falls, his body leaning lightly against the counter.

Michael turns fully now, watching him with a look that lingers too long. His arms hang loose at his sides, his chest tight with something he doesn’t name. “You know Gessner wasn’t lying. It was a good package. Assistants, housing, health. You wouldn’t have to tape your cones together with hope.”

Yoichi lifts his chin, gaze sliding back to Michael. “Tempting. But the offer came from you.”

“From the academy.”

“You,” Yoichi repeats. His tone is quiet, not unkind. “Which makes it complicated. Which makes it a no.”

Michael’s mouth presses flat. His hands ball briefly, then relax, opening helpless. “Because we’re divorced.”

“Because boundaries keep the peace.” Yoichi nods toward the ceiling, voice softening. “She’s asleep. Peace matters.”

Michael’s gaze follows upward, then drops back, weighted. “And if I said we’re good at bending rules?”

Yoichi studies him for a long moment. His hand skims his jacket sleeve, smoothing a crease that isn’t there. His voice, when it comes, is steady, gentle. “I’d say you’re good at pretending bending isn’t breaking.”

“Yoichi—”

Michael’s breath catches. He looks down, fingers flexing, then still. “Right.”

“Right.” Yoichi slides into his jacket, the fabric whispering as he pulls it on. He checks his phone—time glowing blue, no new messages. He stands, shoulders squaring. “She wants me at the scrimmage?”

Michael nods, hands buried in his pockets now, like they’re safer there. “She wants you to blow the whistle.”

Yoichi’s mouth curves. “I’ll bring the loud one. The one you hate.”

“She’ll love it.” Michael’s smile flickers, weak but real. He rises too, more out of habit than necessity, hovering near but not too near. “You could stay the night.” He clears his throat, adds fast, “I mean the couch. The spare room is—”

“You never could tidy up after yourself.” Yoichi chuckles softly, adjusts his collar. “Your couch hates my back.”

“I can offer two pillows.”

“And a boundary we don’t trip over in the dark?”

Michael exhales, almost a laugh. “I’ll tape a line.”

“You always were good with tape.” Yoichi opens the door, cool air brushing in from the hallway. He pauses, one hand on the frame, glancing back. For a second he looks like the man who used to stand in this room and toss his keys where the lamp is now. “I should go before the road gets complicated.”

Michael nods once, then blurts, quieter: “Text me when you get in?”

Yoichi raises a brow. “That your way of breaking the rule?”

“That’s my way of caring.”

Yoichi watches him a beat, gaze softening. “I’ll text.”

Michael’s shoulders ease. “Good.”

Yoichi steps into the hall. Pauses. His voice drifts back without turning. “And Mihya—Madrid has a lot. Toledo has oranges. It’s not always a competition.”

Michael’s mouth parts, but the words stick. He stands there, empty-handed, as the door clicks shut.

Michael stares at the door like it might open again, then presses both hands into his pockets, holding tight to nothing.

#never thought id be here to say im a fan of post-divorce au's now #that said gimme fourteen of these...#kaisagi

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