Work Text:
"Alola!"
Professor Kukui would say—every single day, to his friends, to his students, and to his beloved wife.
Always wearing that warm, welcoming, happy smile.
The famous professor of Alola Island.
The night light in the darkness. A steady presence beneath the sheets of uncertainty.
He was always there for everyone. Always making sure they were happy, reminding them to take care of themselves, always trying to bring laughter into their day.
He was Professor Kukui, after all.
He never had a bad day.
But how would you know that?
He had people. So many friends. A wife who loved him.
So why did it feel so empty inside?
His life was good—better than most. And he was grateful for everything he had.
Truly, he was.
But still… why did it feel so lonely?
He should be happy.
He shouldn’t feel this deep sadness sitting heavy in his chest.
It didn’t make sense.
Or maybe he just hadn’t realized it.
Maybe it's because he has to be always be there for everyone else.
he wants to be there for them.
He loves them. They needed him.
He needed to comfort them.
…But where was his comfort?
Always hyper. Always full of life. Always bursting with energy.
That’s the version of him everyone knew—the one that lit up a room just by walking in.
No one was supposed to notice the burnout behind his eyes.
The quiet sighs when he thought no one was listening.
The weight in his smile, stretched a little too tightly.
The way his hands trembled when the room was empty.
He was the spark. The cheer. The unshakable pillar.
And no one was supposed to see the cracks forming beneath the surface.
Oh no.
Not again.
He forgot to eat. Forgot to sleep. Forgot to take care of himself—again.
And the worst part?
He was stupid enough to keep reminding others to do the very things he kept neglecting.
“Don’t skip your meals,” he’d say with a grin.
“Make sure you’re getting rest.”
“Take care of yourselves, yeah?”
What a hypocrite.
What a joke.
He poured himself into everyone else until there was nothing left—but somehow, that didn’t matter.
Because they mattered.
He didn’t.
At least, that’s what it felt like.
He hated feeling like this.
Hated when the sadness crept in. Hated the tightness in his chest.
He wanted to cry—but nothing ever came out.
No tears. Just pressure. Just silence.
Because his friends were more important.
Always more important.
What if they were upset again?
What if they were doing something dangerous—something he had to stop?
What if they needed him?
He couldn’t break.
Not yet.
Not ever.
Oh, how stressful it was…
To wake up every day, put on the same smile, shoulder the same invisible weight, and keep everyone from falling apart.
All he wanted—all he wanted—was for them to get better.
Please, just get better soon.
So maybe… maybe he could finally breathe.
When he wanted to vent…
It felt like no one noticed.
Like his words got swallowed by the air.
Maybe they didn’t actually care.
Maybe they just weren’t listening.
And that’s fine.
He’s used to it.
He’s always been the one people come to, not the one they listen to.
Always the support beam—never the one allowed to lean.
So when the hurt bubbled up in his throat, when he finally thought, Maybe I can talk to someone this time—
Silence.
He was scared to vent to others.
Change of subject.
It’s fine.
He tells himself that again and again.
He’ll keep it to himself.
He always does.
And the next morning...
"Alola!"
That same bright voice. That same radiant smile.
As if nothing was wrong.
As if he hadn’t spent the night staring at the ceiling, begging himself not to fall apart.
Because no one could know.
No one should know.
So he put on the smile again.
Just like always.
“Get better soon.”