#was supposed to end on a happier note but it didnt fit the vibe so i took it out

[theloveinc]

(kinda-divorced!kiri tag here!)

(warning: you’re in a dress + angst)

-

It’s not even a date that you’re getting gussied up for, yet almost-divorced!Kirishima finds himself more nervous than ever.

Sat on the corner of the bed you used to share, watching you hop around the room in between attempts at fixing your shirt, your hair, whatever it is that even needs fixing in the first place, he can’t tell. Your son, playing on the little gaming console he got him at the promise of no longer being ignored at the dinner table, across the room on the big blue armchair, looking up every few minutes as if chaperone to the hijinks of his falling apart family. 

You look better than he’s ever seen you, though Kiri knows that’s not really true, just some trick of whatever part of his mind wants to torture him for all the times he took you for granted looking like this before. Sure, he didn’t shy away from laying on the compliments that first hero gala he took you to all those years ago, but he remembers your last anniversary (14 months and 3 days ago, you skipped what was supposed to be your most recent) and how he left dinner at the agency’s request before he could say something about… anything.

Kiri is pretty confident you remember. Still, he tries not to let the memory get him down. He clears his throat.

“You look nice.” 

You barely spare half a glance (half a smile, really) at him from where you stand in front of the big mirror above your dresser.

“Thanks.”

“And you said...” he pauses, as if to wait for an automatic correction, give you the chance to read his mind like you always sort of have… but you don’t say anything, don’t even pause the fluffing of your hair, take the pins out of your mouth to acknowledge his presence. “You said you’re going to a club?”

“A birthday party. At a club.” 

Technically, he knew that already, though his stomach still lurches and flip flops at the thought of you at some dingy bar, alone, with no one to protect you. Even worse, almost, with other women, all of your friends, whispering that it’s okay to let loose, to have a drink, maybe even find someone new to share your slice of birthday cake with rather than taking it home.

“For who?”

You still don’t look at him. 

“A mom friend. You don’t know her.”

That’s right. He stopped making time for all the parent events you used to sign up for a long time ago. They’re probably not even events anymore, just tea while the kids all play screaming in yard. It was never your yard.

He has yet to forgive himself.

“At a club?” 

From out of the corner of his eye, he can’t help but notice the way son rolls his. 

“Yes, Eijirou.”

Somehow, his first name hurts even worse, and he tries not to say anything. Not to let out a gush of all the bottled up tears within him, or even worse, a stream of “how could you-s” and “don’t talk to any guys, okay? Alright? Okay?” 

He knows he doesn’t have the right to say any such things to you anymore. That it’s you who’s hurting, who has the right to do what you want… not that you would do anything crazy (in fact, he knows you wouldn’t, too focused on taking care of yourself, your son, all the things he ruined, by himself, without help), but you deserve to have fun when you can. You deserve to feel beautiful and loved and wanted, by men who actually take the time to tell you that you’re pretty, and friends who actually tell you they want you around. 

He feels his heart collapsing in on itself, the damage already done and yet still causing collateral on the rest of him... and yet, he still can’t bring himself to let go. 

“Do you... need any help?”

Kiri wants to do what he can, prove he’s still there for you the way you always were for him. Even if all that means is tying the sash around your little cocktail dress, helping to wedge your feet into the pointed heels you dug up from the bottom of the closet, smoothing oil into the tips of your hair. 

But his son replies instead, nearly interrupting as he immediately hops off his seat and haphazardly throws his expensive gaming device back in his place. “I can do it, dad.” 

He reaches you before he can even (get his head out of his ass) blink, instead forced to watch as you easily turn, accept, and smile at, the warmth of your son’s hands on the back of your neck as he doesn’t even have to reach for the clasp. Kiri wonders when he got so tall, when his dark hair grew so long, when he stopped looking so much like you and started looking tons more like him.

But he nods. Mindlessly, in acceptance, at least to look a little less pathetic and heartbroken over the fact that your son is taking his place (and you’re letting him).