nothing more important than love

“I’m home,” Koutarou announces grandly, swinging the door open.

There’s no response.

He wilts.

There’s a note on the kitchen counter from Keiji. Tetsurou, Koutarou, had an emergency meeting for deadlines this month. I’ll be back late. Go ahead and have dinner. The note is smudged and scrawled with blue ink, rendering some of the characters almost indecipherable. Clearly, Keiji had been in a rush.

This is one of Keiji’s quirks—he likes handwritten notes instead of texts. Koutarou and Tetsurou both love them, something about their partner’s handwriting adding weight to his presence in his messages. But now, staring at the scrap of paper in the cold of their apartment, Koutarou feels that weight like lead in his stomach. At least with a text, he could have prepared for yet another of Keiji’s absences on his way home. Now, he just feels cold and disappointed, a feeling that’s becoming terrifyingly familiar.

In which being young professionals and balancing a relationship is hard, and Koutarou, Keiji, and Tetsurou really, really miss each other.