a miracle

that bastard iwashi’s on his turf, hugging his people. not happening. not today

somewhere in the distance, iruka feels the overwhelming urge to strangle someone

throws 3 more

                                         The bath is too hot. But then, he made it that hot,                                          didn’t he? Raw skin aches under the heavy barrage                                          of water and soap, steam billowing in the chill                                          provided by an opened window. The world is                                          dynamic, crackling with life and will and the returning                                          strength of his limbs. It’s always something of a                                          bother, coming home from a mission two months                                          late and with your significant other being assured                                          you are dead. It’s happened one too many times, of                                          late—— he’s slipping. No longer the graceful entity of                                          old, but then, he never was that graceful, anyway. It                                          mattered not how he got the job done; he just did. And                                          rarely did any question it, at the end of the day. They                                          gave him the jobs that meant long months spent away                                          with little to no contact— he’d gotten used to it, really.                                          They all had. He would leave, they would claim he was                                          dead because of some shitty protocol, and he’d pop                                          back up again, the process repeating itself. He’d gone                                          a full year away from home, before. This was nothing.

                                         And even if it was nothing, his bones still ached, rattling                                          about as he coughed, hollow but wet. The steam is the                                          closest thing to cigarette smoke he can rightfully give                                          himself, at this point. He hadn’t really stopped at the store                                          to get any. It’d been straight back home the minute he’d                                          reported in. No unseemly injuries, this time, save the                                          unshakable sensation that something is different, that                                          something has changed. It doesn’t help that the                                           gift is waiting, patient, upon the counter for Raidou. So                                          maybe he hadn’t forgotten—- so what? He could be a                                          good fiancé, when he wanted to be. And he wanted to                                         be, after yet another collection of months spent apart. 

bc bend it like beckett is bae

good friends??