Nobody knew he wrote poetry.
Sweet sonnets, haunting haikus, and the occasional string of stanzas with lyrical words and no music.
Nobody knew and neither did she.
She was organizing the dusty attic, idly brushing away cobwebs, when she'd suddenly spied a small, shadowed shoebox in a corner. There were no distinguishing labels, and so it seemed obvious that she'd have to open it.
He found her curled on their bed, papers upon papers strewn over the rounded swell of her belly and coverlet. She hiccupped, catching sight of him, and he'd stared at her red-rimmed eyes.
"Orihime! What-"
"You…" she sniffed, gesturing at him with a sheet. He'd frozen. "You wrote…?"
It took a moment, and then his expression rapidly shifted to one of embarrassment. The mattress dipped with his weight.
"Please don't cry," he mumbled, wiping at her tears. "You're already so emotional-" He winced. "I mean, what with the baby coming-"
"Ichigo, these are beautiful," she breathed, leaning into his touch. "Would you read one to me?"
His hand twitched uncertainly, and he grudgingly chose the nearest paper with a scowl. He cleared his throat at her expectant look, lowering his voice to a throaty hum.
"I never knew
if the world would simply let us be.
It seemed impossible,
too much, too far—
too far out of reach.
We made hopeful promises,
with helium hearts
stitched with a spool of red string,
and I said that we would be alright
if I had you by me.
So I ask,
no matter what, no matter why,
that you simply be—
with your laughing mouth,
with my helium heart,
with eyes deeper than any sea."
He cleared his throat again, ducking his head. "I know it's-" he started to grumble, but she cut him off with an eager kiss, one that pushed him backwards onto the bed.
And that was really all the reassurance he needed.
I write silly things. this is one of them.