#i wrote this on my phone at the beach/on the way to japantown so if the formatting is weird

[chimielie]

great regular flavor

if kita is the boy next door, you’re the wild child always running after him.

where you were scolded, kita was lauded for his model behavior; where your knees were scraped, he was always unmuddied and unhurt. the initial sting had always been the worst of it, anyway, because as soon as you fell he was there on his knees in front of you, little antiseptic wipe and frog band-aids at the ready.

“this might sting,” he’d always tell you first, so serious in his little-boy lisp.

“i know,” you’d say, putting on a brave face, tensing your leg so you wouldn’t flinch when he pressed the cold wipe to the broken skin. it was never as bad as you thought it would be, because kita’s hands were gentle and careful, and he applied the bandage by peeling back—not off—the paper, pressing the cloth center down first and then efficiently taking the paper off and pressing down the sticky part at the same time. you’d never seen anyone do that before—after a while, you got annoyed if anyone but kita bandaged your battle scars.

as you aged, your wild ways calmed, and kita stayed regular. you followed him to inarizaki, to the volleyball team as a manager from your first year, and you learned to love the routine and the note taking and the meticulous research. in a team of prodigies and monsters, kita was notably normal, overwhelmingly average.

to you, in love with the boy next door from the time you could barely begin to understand it, he was amazing. though he never seemed to display insecurity next to his teammates, you were always there to remind him of his value. kita was a grounding force, a thoughtful friend, a model man. from the time you told him that you’d signed up to be the v-ball manager, a smile like the dawn breaking over his face, to the moment you’d found yourself unable to look him in the eye as you held out a box of chocolates, you knew kita was special in a more subtle way than most could see.

even now, you watch him from your spot on the bed, broad back turned to you as he brushes his teeth, swishing the minty paste before spitting soundly into the sink. he splashes water on his face, pats it dry with a towel, and turns to you, the slightest of smiles gracing his face.

“you’re like mint toothpaste,” you tell him as he pads across the floor, roll over to him as he slips beneath the sheets.

“is that so?”

“classic. regular.” you brush your lips against his and he reciprocates eagerly. “taste clean.”

“mm.” you roll back to your original position, hissing as you bump your knee against his. “what’s wrong?”

“oh, nothing. remember, i tripped getting out of the truck earlier this evening?”

“oh,” he says, and that’s it, but he’s getting out of bed.

“no, shinsuke, you don’t have to...”

he shushes you as he returns, antiseptic and bandages in hand. “what kind of husband would i be if i didn’t?”

and you have no answer to that, your insides melting into cotton-candy pinks and blues, so there’s nothing left to do but to thread a hand through his hair as he kneels before you, pressing a kiss to the wound when he’s done with it. you expect him to get up and go back to bed—he has an early morning tomorrow, always has an early morning—but instead he puts rough palms on your legs and separates them slightly, shuffling forward on his knees to lean his head on your inner thigh, adoring expression on his face as he looks up at you.

leave it to shinsuke—ordinary, average, regular shinsuke—to fall for the dreamer, the one who lagged behind to admire the world passing by. leave it to shinsuke to drop everything he’s doing and wait for you to catch up.