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A pained expression grows across Kuroo’s face, Daichi turning his head from preparing their dinner at the change in atmosphere to catch it. It’s been almost sixty-eight years now that they’ve sat like this, shared a home, this intimacy, and although one couldn’t always call Sawamura Daichi observant, he knew his Tetsurou inside and out, recognized that particular pattern of thought and worry.
Their volleyball days were long behind them now, college a fading memory for even Daichi, whose memory while not impeccable, was still in incredible shape considering his eighty-five years, but Kuroo hadn’t been so lucky in that regard. For the last nine of them, he’s been watching the love of his life suffer the frustration of forgetting things he never wanted to, forgetting things about himself, about the children they’ve raised, the things they’ve done together, and on some mornings, waking in a panic because he doesn’t know where he is.
Or the face of the man ever at his side.
"You know…" Tetsurou starts, reaching desperately across his tattered memories, "you look like someone."
"Oh?" Daichi has long since stopped trying to remind his husband that they know each other; every day is more and more difficult, so he’s let identities roll off of him, becoming whoever Kuroo thinks he is or was. It’s less heartbreaking than seeing the anguish at being told he’s wrong again. Instead, he whisks the eggs deftly, despite the degenerative arthritis in his fingers, broken and jammed too many times in his youth. "Most people look like someone. You look like your mother."
"No, I mean." He continues, pushing a shaky hand through hair that had never learned to control itself. "Like someone I know. But older."
The former wing spiker pauses, brows furrowed as he bites the inside of his lip, taking a deep breath and smoothing his expression as he pours the eggs into the pan, dimming the flame to a lower heat and turning his attention to the old man sitting at their kitchen island, somehow as handsome as ever. “Like who?” He ventures, chest tightening.
"I don’t know." Tetsurou growls, the hand on the counter fisting tightly, everything about his posture tense; frustrated, angry at himself. "Someone important. Someone I… I think I promised something to."
Daichi is silent, shock well concealed behind a placid mask. It’s the first time in months he’s seen his husband so worked up, so desperate to remember things that simply aren’t there for him to remember anymore. Many of his early memories are still intact, but… “Your grandfather, maybe.” He suggests, returning to his cooking and plating the omurice his Tetsu had taught him to make years ago, though he never thought it was the same.
"No. Someone else."
A soft smile tugged at the corner’s of Sawamura’s lips as he turned, taking his rightful place at Kuroo’s side and setting the plate down in front of him, the ring he’d been wearing all this time clinking against the marble countertop. “You’ll remember tomorrow,” he says with optimism he doesn’t feel, “and you can tell me who it is then.”
The food serves to smooth the taller man’s features a little, his hand less shaky as he reaches for a fork, “Haruto made these before,” he muses, trailing off as he takes his first bite and swallows, “but better.”
"I know," Daichi grins, "I’ll get it right tomorrow."
"If you’re here tomorrow, I’ll show you how to do it right." Kuroo grumbles, fingers brushing lightly against Daichi’s in a quiet plea. ‘Please be here.’
"I’ll be here every day," he reassures, "Always."
The final syllable hits Kuroo’s ears, and he stops dead in his tracks, fork half-lifted as he turns his head to face the smaller man at his side, a spark of recognition flaring, and for a moment he’s about to say something. And then it passes, and it seems to Daichi that Tetsurou sinks a little into his chair, and he eats a little more dejectedly than before.
They finish their meal in silence, Kuroo washing the dishes before setting them into the rack, drying his hands as he makes to leave the room. His jaw is tight, an emotion he can’t quite figure out hot in his chest when he says “you’d better be.”