Chapter Text
Homare loves you.
He loves you so, and he can never find the right words to express it.
A hundred, no, a thousand, no, a million poems would never be enough to convey his emotions. There are not enough words to describe the lovely shade of your eyes, and the warmth of your hands, and the way your laughter leaves him intoxicated.
How can Homare make anyone understand?
He loves the way you listen to him ramble on and on about the most mundane things. He loves the way you pepper kisses against his face each night until he is breathless. He loves the way you slip your hand in his, as if it simply is meant to be there.
After all, he is not an easy person to love. He understands that much. Homare has never quite understood how to read the room, and how to read between the lines, and how to read the intricate dances of social cues and expectations. He is just like his poems; few listen, and fewer understand.
But you. You read his poetry. You love him, and you listen, and you try. You patiently reach out to him. And maybe Homare can bring himself to reach back and meet you somewhere halfway.
With one awkward step at a time, he will try to understand you. And maybe he can make this work. Maybe he won’t have to be afraid anymore.
It will be okay. He will be okay.
How can Homare not, when creativity is ultimately rooted in love, and you fill his heart with poems?