宮 — ARCHIVE

    At least, that’s what he tells himself.

    He could have done so much more—he could have set better, he could have positioned a bit further, he could have used a tad more force. All of that seems to be in the past; a past so distant it makes him zone out. Hasn’t he been doing this for a little while now? Probably. He can’t process the passage of time, eyes still boring into the back of the red and white shirts of his rivals—the victors.

    In retrospection, maybe he should have anticipated the outcome. With his ankle bothering him again and a whole set benched, as well as a few missed calls that Japan really took advantage of, this loss was unavoidable.

    It could have been prevented, he keeps berating himself in his head. You should have tried harder.

    His hands curl into fists at his sides as he passively watches Japan’s team celebrate their victory—their advancement on the world stage. Something he could have achieved; he should have achieved, had it not been for the plethora of mistakes that he realizes he’s made. How ironic, the game replaying in his head over and over like a broken record and pointing out every individual flaw in his actions. All while Japan seems to have had a perfect match.

    The buzz intensifies until it makes him flinch. Beside that, there seems to be only him on the court—he’s alone, surrounded by his mistakes and failures, coming to bite at his ankles, crawling on his skin as if trying to grab him and pull him underground. Bury him in the rubble and remains of the empire he built from the ground up—only to be burned to ashes in the blink of an eye.

    A hand on his shoulder reminds him that he isn’t, in fact, alone. The shrill sound of the whistle rings in the air—and in his ears—and he’s dragged from the spot he’s been standing in since he jumped to block the last ball—

    —the last ball.

    It stares mockingly back at him, rolling aimlessly on the floor before a boy picks it up and places it in a cart. Tooru can’t blame the ball. The only person to blame here is himself, for doing too many things and nothing at all at the same time. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by his captain patting his back.

    Tooru shakes Wakatoshi’s hand—not like he has a choice. He bows politely to show his respect, but every movement is stiff and robotic. He doesn’t talk, not a single word; he doesn’t trust his voice. He feels like bursting when he has to shake Tobio’s, but he manages. Hajime throws him a sympathetic look, and he blinks—he never asked for sympathy.

    He never asked for pity.

    Thanking the audience—his fans—for the support feels like a walk of shame. He would have been happy to sign cards and posters, maybe even take a few photos, but now he brushes past everyone in an attempt to get to the locker room as fast as humanly possible. The idea of people seeing him, seeing his mistakes, taking pity on him, it makes bile rise in his throat. Nobody understands what happened to his usual, cheerful demeanor. But nobody understands how much effort he’s put into this—blood, sweat, tears, opportunities taken and ignored, all nighters, years of crafting and refining and perfecting his technique—and for what? It feels like everything has been in vain. A waste of time, of energy, of resources.

    Maybe volleyball wasn’t for him. Maybe it has never been for him in the first place.

    But now he’s here; defeated. His dream is crushed, his ambition trampled, his motivation vanished into thin air.

    Pathetic.

    The shirt feels tight on him, or maybe that’s his chest constricting while he tries not to cry just yet.

    Oikawa Tooru is a coward.

    Or, at least, that’s how he feels when he announces his retirement at only 28 years old, after barely playing professionally. His Olympic course was atrocious and he wants nothing more to do with volleyball. Not after the biggest fuck up of his life, not after wasting so many and so much on it.

    You watch him engross himself in old games—where everything was fine. Where he was the victor, and his time and life hadn’t been wasted and carelessly thrown away. He observes his form, his footwork, his breathing, and compares it with the last match of his career. He mutters, writing in a ragged notebook, ripping off pages and roughly scribbling over things that don’t seem to fit his taste.

    He hasn’t been eating, which was a cause of a lot of concern to you, but when he gets into things like this, he won’t hear you. Sometimes you ask yourself if he even wants to hear you—or if he just ignores you on purpose. After all, you did encourage him to take opportunities and stay late to practice, to expend more energy on an inevitable failure.

    Sometimes you think it might be your fault, but you push the thought away to focus on him. For you, love has always been a choice—a mutual choice. You choose to love him, and he chooses to love you, each day. You know, deep down, that he still loves you. He will never stop loving you, not with the way he clings onto your arm when you help him bathe or how he blinks slowly, trying to understand where he is, the ghost of a smile on his lips at the sight of your face.

    He’s still your Tooru. He just needs to wake up from his slumber.

    Three weeks pass by painfully slowly, but they do. You’ve created a little routine for yourself—and, subsequently, for Tooru. You check on him when you wake up, having gotten used to the cold side of his bed. You know he’s on the couch, either passed out from exhaustion or still watching his games. Then comes breakfast, where you place a light meal on the coffee table, knowing his stomach will demand food, while you go about your day. Neither of you speak a word; not because you don’t want to, but because the silence has become comfortable. The tension you’ve felt before, almost dripping off of his shoulders in the first few days after his defeat (and again after the announcement of his retirement), is just a faint memory in the back of your head.

    He hasn’t snapped at you in a few days either—which is quite the improvement, as opposed to the way he’d almost slap your hand away from him when you wanted to make sure he’s comfortable, right after everything went down. So you’re grateful—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

    Yet, he doesn’t understand why.

    Surely, him being an asshole and snapping at you for wanting to help, pushing you away and everything he has done since that one last game ended, would determine a normal person to leave, right? They’d get fed up with his attitude, pack their bags and leave him—alone and undeserving, as he’s been thinking of himself over the weeks.

    Weak, ungrateful and useless, a burden; one might even call him a brat.

    And you remain.

    Everything clicks in place when he wakes up one morning, surrounded by warmth and softness—he’s in your shared bed, a place he hasn’t touched in four weeks. Four full, horrific weeks that you had to spend all alone in this giant bed. He can’t even begin to fathom your pain. And he’s the cause of it.

    The guilt eats him alive.

    You’re in your usual spot at the kitchen table, reading a book you’ve grabbed from the shelf on your way there. You’re oddly calm, Tooru thinks, but then again—you’re obviously tired. There’s so much energy someone can expend while taking care of another… Emotional, mental and physical.

    He calls your name softly.

    The sound is foreign, after all this time in silence—when only the door hinges and gently clacking mugs filled the house—but it’s warm. Familiar, even. He remembers why he loves your name so much.

    He calls your name again, just as soft as the first time.

    Another reminder as to why he loves your name—and you—is the smile blooming on your lips. That’s… He missed it. It feels like his dark, dull grey world brightened. A splash of color, the delicate touch of a butterfly. River rock skipping. A soft tune hummed in the car, on your way back from Okinawa.

    Tooru sits down as you place the book on the table.

    “I’m sorry.”

    His first words in weeks are an apology. He doesn’t know what exactly he is apologizing for, but he does. There’s so much he has to apologize for, now that he thinks about it.

    “Don’t be. I understand.” Your voice is soft—softer than he remembers. Maybe because you haven’t used it much lately? Or because you’re afraid he’ll jump out of his seat and stomp his way back into the bedroom to lock himself in there if you so much as raise your tone one decibel too high. He cringes.

    This is his fault, too.

    “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “I’ve been an absolute bitch to you for four weeks. And that’s… That’s a lot of time. A whole lot of time. And any other person would have left. You know… Pack their things, grab a cab, throw a few insults on their way out and just… Poof.”

    You giggle. His heart clenches painfully in his chest, thinking about how he stripped the world of your joy, because he was selfish.

    “Yes, well, I’m not just any person. I’m your spouse, Tooru. We promised each other—through sickness and health, through good times and bad, remember?”

    He does. And he’s ashamed he couldn’t keep his side of the promise. “Even so! You had every right to be mad at me. To, I don’t know, lash out? I know it has been hard and—” He takes a deep breath, tears gathering on his waterline and making his eyes sting. “And I’ve only made it worse. It’s been… It’s been four weeks. Where I left you… Alone. You had to care for me like I was handicapped.”

    “And I did it. Because I love you.”

    “I don’t deserve your love. Not after what I’ve put you through.”

    “No, Tooru. You’re wrong.” The conviction in your voice—because you know you’re right about this—takes him by surprise. “You deserve to be loved, now more than ever before. I told you, love is a mutual choice. Every day, I choose you.” You smile again, and for a brief second Tooru thinks this might all be a dream. “And I know, even if you didn’t say or show it, that you chose me too.”

    There’s a beat of silence, where Tooru carefully considers his next words. “I did.”

    “And we made it work. It was certainly difficult at first,” you joke, perpetually serene even in your fatigue. “But I couldn’t abandon you. Not after all we’ve been through. Because I love you too much to do such a cruel thing.”

    That’s something Tooru has always admired in you—your resilience (or stubbornness, he’s not sure). You stuck to your devices, as if knowing better than those around you. He’s sure the gossip about him might have become too much to bear at some point.

    He moves before he can think.

    It’s not much; just the tender touch of his hand on top of yours. But it’s definitely a start.

    A small victory; but a victory nonetheless.

    “I love you too,” he finally whispers, letting the tears finally flow, releasing the burden he’s been unnecessarily carrying over the past weeks. Tooru feels lighter, as if he can finally breathe—and when he looks at you, he’s almost blinded by the sight of your smile—bright, like the sun. His sun. “I’ll be better. For you; for us. I promise.”

    “Mr. Oikawa, can you tell us what made you change your mind about declining any and all interviews after your official retirement announcement?”

    Tooru chuckes, his trademark, boyish grin adorning his freckled face. “My spouse. If there’s one person on this earth that can sway my will, it’s my spouse.”

    “You seem to love them quite a lot.”

    “That would be an understatement, honestly. They’ve been through so much—actually, I put them through so much—that ‘love’ is a weak word to describe my feelings. It’s…” He hesitates for a second, humming, before he snorts. “They bring out the best in me. And I cannot be grateful enough for what they have done so far for me. I just hope I can repay their kindness, dedication and love in full, in this life or the next one.” 

    At least, that’s what he tells himself.

    He could have done so much more—he could have set better, he could have positioned a bit further, he could have used a tad more force. All of that seems to be in the past; a past so distant it makes him zone out. Hasn’t he been doing this for a little while now? Probably. He can’t process the passage of time, eyes still boring into the back of the red and white shirts of his rivals—the victors.

    In retrospection, maybe he should have anticipated the outcome. With his ankle bothering him again and a whole set benched, as well as a few missed calls that Japan really took advantage of, this loss was unavoidable.

    It could have been prevented, he keeps berating himself in his head. You should have tried harder.

    His hands curl into fists at his sides as he passively watches Japan’s team celebrate their victory—their advancement on the world stage. Something he could have achieved; he should have achieved, had it not been for the plethora of mistakes that he realizes he’s made. How ironic, the game replaying in his head over and over like a broken record and pointing out every individual flaw in his actions. All while Japan seems to have had a perfect match.

    The buzz intensifies until it makes him flinch. Beside that, there seems to be only him on the court—he’s alone, surrounded by his mistakes and failures, coming to bite at his ankles, crawling on his skin as if trying to grab him and pull him underground. Bury him in the rubble and remains of the empire he built from the ground up—only to be burned to ashes in the blink of an eye.

    A hand on his shoulder reminds him that he isn’t, in fact, alone. The shrill sound of the whistle rings in the air—and in his ears—and he’s dragged from the spot he’s been standing in since he jumped to block the last ball—

    —the last ball.

    It stares mockingly back at him, rolling aimlessly on the floor before a boy picks it up and places it in a cart. Tooru can’t blame the ball. The only person to blame here is himself, for doing too many things and nothing at all at the same time. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by his captain patting his back.

    Tooru shakes Wakatoshi’s hand—not like he has a choice. He bows politely to show his respect, but every movement is stiff and robotic. He doesn’t talk, not a single word; he doesn’t trust his voice. He feels like bursting when he has to shake Tobio’s, but he manages. Hajime throws him a sympathetic look, and he blinks—he never asked for sympathy.

    He never asked for pity.

    Thanking the audience—his fans—for the support feels like a walk of shame. He would have been happy to sign cards and posters, maybe even take a few photos, but now he brushes past everyone in an attempt to get to the locker room as fast as humanly possible. The idea of people seeing him, seeing his mistakes, taking pity on him, it makes bile rise in his throat. Nobody understands what happened to his usual, cheerful demeanor. But nobody understands how much effort he’s put into this—blood, sweat, tears, opportunities taken and ignored, all nighters, years of crafting and refining and perfecting his technique—and for what? It feels like everything has been in vain. A waste of time, of energy, of resources.

    Maybe volleyball wasn’t for him. Maybe it has never been for him in the first place.

    But now he’s here; defeated. His dream is crushed, his ambition trampled, his motivation vanished into thin air.

    Pathetic.

    The shirt feels tight on him, or maybe that’s his chest constricting while he tries not to cry just yet.

    Oikawa Tooru is a coward.

    Or, at least, that’s how he feels when he announces his retirement at only 28 years old, after barely playing professionally. His Olympic course was atrocious and he wants nothing more to do with volleyball. Not after the biggest fuck up of his life, not after wasting so many and so much on it.

    You watch him engross himself in old games—where everything was fine. Where he was the victor, and his time and life hadn’t been wasted and carelessly thrown away. He observes his form, his footwork, his breathing, and compares it with the last match of his career. He mutters, writing in a ragged notebook, ripping off pages and roughly scribbling over things that don’t seem to fit his taste.

    He hasn’t been eating, which was a cause of a lot of concern to you, but when he gets into things like this, he won’t hear you. Sometimes you ask yourself if he even wants to hear you—or if he just ignores you on purpose. After all, you did encourage him to take opportunities and stay late to practice, to expend more energy on an inevitable failure.

    Sometimes you think it might be your fault, but you push the thought away to focus on him. For you, love has always been a choice—a mutual choice. You choose to love him, and he chooses to love you, each day. You know, deep down, that he still loves you. He will never stop loving you, not with the way he clings onto your arm when you help him bathe or how he blinks slowly, trying to understand where he is, the ghost of a smile on his lips at the sight of your face.

    He’s still your Tooru. He just needs to wake up from his slumber.

    Three weeks pass by painfully slowly, but they do. You’ve created a little routine for yourself—and, subsequently, for Tooru. You check on him when you wake up, having gotten used to the cold side of his bed. You know he’s on the couch, either passed out from exhaustion or still watching his games. Then comes breakfast, where you place a light meal on the coffee table, knowing his stomach will demand food, while you go about your day. Neither of you speak a word; not because you don’t want to, but because the silence has become comfortable. The tension you’ve felt before, almost dripping off of his shoulders in the first few days after his defeat (and again after the announcement of his retirement), is just a faint memory in the back of your head.

    He hasn’t snapped at you in a few days either—which is quite the improvement, as opposed to the way he’d almost slap your hand away from him when you wanted to make sure he’s comfortable, right after everything went down. So you’re grateful—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

    Yet, he doesn’t understand why.

    Surely, him being an asshole and snapping at you for wanting to help, pushing you away and everything he has done since that one last game ended, would determine a normal person to leave, right? They’d get fed up with his attitude, pack their bags and leave him—alone and undeserving, as he’s been thinking of himself over the weeks.

    Weak, ungrateful and useless, a burden; one might even call him a brat.

    And you remain.

    Everything clicks in place when he wakes up one morning, surrounded by warmth and softness—he’s in your shared bed, a place he hasn’t touched in four weeks. Four full, horrific weeks that you had to spend all alone in this giant bed. He can’t even begin to fathom your pain. And he’s the cause of it.

    The guilt eats him alive.

    You’re in your usual spot at the kitchen table, reading a book you’ve grabbed from the shelf on your way there. You’re oddly calm, Tooru thinks, but then again—you’re obviously tired. There’s so much energy someone can expend while taking care of another… Emotional, mental and physical.

    He calls your name softly.

    The sound is foreign, after all this time in silence—when only the door hinges and gently clacking mugs filled the house—but it’s warm. Familiar, even. He remembers why he loves your name so much.

    He calls your name again, just as soft as the first time.

    Another reminder as to why he loves your name—and you—is the smile blooming on your lips. That’s… He missed it. It feels like his dark, dull grey world brightened. A splash of color, the delicate touch of a butterfly. River rock skipping. A soft tune hummed in the car, on your way back from Okinawa.

    Tooru sits down as you place the book on the table.

    “I’m sorry.”

    His first words in weeks are an apology. He doesn’t know what exactly he is apologizing for, but he does. There’s so much he has to apologize for, now that he thinks about it.

    “Don’t be. I understand.” Your voice is soft—softer than he remembers. Maybe because you haven’t used it much lately? Or because you’re afraid he’ll jump out of his seat and stomp his way back into the bedroom to lock himself in there if you so much as raise your tone one decibel too high. He cringes.

    This is his fault, too.

    “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “I’ve been an absolute bitch to you for four weeks. And that’s… That’s a lot of time. A whole lot of time. And any other person would have left. You know… Pack their things, grab a cab, throw a few insults on their way out and just… Poof.”

    You giggle. His heart clenches painfully in his chest, thinking about how he stripped the world of your joy, because he was selfish.

    “Yes, well, I’m not just any person. I’m your spouse, Tooru. We promised each other—through sickness and health, through good times and bad, remember?”

    He does. And he’s ashamed he couldn’t keep his side of the promise. “Even so! You had every right to be mad at me. To, I don’t know, lash out? I know it has been hard and—” He takes a deep breath, tears gathering on his waterline and making his eyes sting. “And I’ve only made it worse. It’s been… It’s been four weeks. Where I left you… Alone. You had to care for me like I was handicapped.”

    “And I did it. Because I love you.”

    “I don’t deserve your love. Not after what I’ve put you through.”

    “No, Tooru. You’re wrong.” The conviction in your voice—because you know you’re right about this—takes him by surprise. “You deserve to be loved, now more than ever before. I told you, love is a mutual choice. Every day, I choose you.” You smile again, and for a brief second Tooru thinks this might all be a dream. “And I know, even if you didn’t say or show it, that you chose me too.”

    There’s a beat of silence, where Tooru carefully considers his next words. “I did.”

    “And we made it work. It was certainly difficult at first,” you joke, perpetually serene even in your fatigue. “But I couldn’t abandon you. Not after all we’ve been through. Because I love you too much to do such a cruel thing.”

    That’s something Tooru has always admired in you—your resilience (or stubbornness, he’s not sure). You stuck to your devices, as if knowing better than those around you. He’s sure the gossip about him might have become too much to bear at some point.

    He moves before he can think.

    It’s not much; just the tender touch of his hand on top of yours. But it’s definitely a start.

    A small victory; but a victory nonetheless.

    “I love you too,” he finally whispers, letting the tears finally flow, releasing the burden he’s been unnecessarily carrying over the past weeks. Tooru feels lighter, as if he can finally breathe—and when he looks at you, he’s almost blinded by the sight of your smile—bright, like the sun. His sun. “I’ll be better. For you; for us. I promise.”

    “Mr. Oikawa, can you tell us what made you change your mind about declining any and all interviews after your official retirement announcement?”

    Tooru chuckes, his trademark, boyish grin adorning his freckled face. “My spouse. If there’s one person on this earth that can sway my will, it’s my spouse.”

    “You seem to love them quite a lot.”

    “That would be an understatement, honestly. They’ve been through so much—actually, I put them through so much—that ‘love’ is a weak word to describe my feelings. It’s…” He hesitates for a second, humming, before he snorts. “They bring out the best in me. And I cannot be grateful enough for what they have done so far for me. I just hope I can repay their kindness, dedication and love in full, in this life or the next one.” 

    At least, that’s what he tells himself.

    He could have done so much more—he could have set better, he could have positioned a bit further, he could have used a tad more force. All of that seems to be in the past; a past so distant it makes him zone out. Hasn’t he been doing this for a little while now? Probably. He can’t process the passage of time, eyes still boring into the back of the red and white shirts of his rivals—the victors.

    In retrospection, maybe he should have anticipated the outcome. With his ankle bothering him again and a whole set benched, as well as a few missed calls that Japan really took advantage of, this loss was unavoidable.

    It could have been prevented, he keeps berating himself in his head. You should have tried harder.

    His hands curl into fists at his sides as he passively watches Japan’s team celebrate their victory—their advancement on the world stage. Something he could have achieved; he should have achieved, had it not been for the plethora of mistakes that he realizes he’s made. How ironic, the game replaying in his head over and over like a broken record and pointing out every individual flaw in his actions. All while Japan seems to have had a perfect match.

    The buzz intensifies until it makes him flinch. Beside that, there seems to be only him on the court—he’s alone, surrounded by his mistakes and failures, coming to bite at his ankles, crawling on his skin as if trying to grab him and pull him underground. Bury him in the rubble and remains of the empire he built from the ground up—only to be burned to ashes in the blink of an eye.

    A hand on his shoulder reminds him that he isn’t, in fact, alone. The shrill sound of the whistle rings in the air—and in his ears—and he’s dragged from the spot he’s been standing in since he jumped to block the last ball—

    —the last ball.

    It stares mockingly back at him, rolling aimlessly on the floor before a boy picks it up and places it in a cart. Tooru can’t blame the ball. The only person to blame here is himself, for doing too many things and nothing at all at the same time. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by his captain patting his back.

    Tooru shakes Wakatoshi’s hand—not like he has a choice. He bows politely to show his respect, but every movement is stiff and robotic. He doesn’t talk, not a single word; he doesn’t trust his voice. He feels like bursting when he has to shake Tobio’s, but he manages. Hajime throws him a sympathetic look, and he blinks—he never asked for sympathy.

    He never asked for pity.

    Thanking the audience—his fans—for the support feels like a walk of shame. He would have been happy to sign cards and posters, maybe even take a few photos, but now he brushes past everyone in an attempt to get to the locker room as fast as humanly possible. The idea of people seeing him, seeing his mistakes, taking pity on him, it makes bile rise in his throat. Nobody understands what happened to his usual, cheerful demeanor. But nobody understands how much effort he’s put into this—blood, sweat, tears, opportunities taken and ignored, all nighters, years of crafting and refining and perfecting his technique—and for what? It feels like everything has been in vain. A waste of time, of energy, of resources.

    Maybe volleyball wasn’t for him. Maybe it has never been for him in the first place.

    But now he’s here; defeated. His dream is crushed, his ambition trampled, his motivation vanished into thin air.

    Pathetic.

    The shirt feels tight on him, or maybe that’s his chest constricting while he tries not to cry just yet.

    Oikawa Tooru is a coward.

    Or, at least, that’s how he feels when he announces his retirement at only 28 years old, after barely playing professionally. His Olympic course was atrocious and he wants nothing more to do with volleyball. Not after the biggest fuck up of his life, not after wasting so many and so much on it.

    You watch him engross himself in old games—where everything was fine. Where he was the victor, and his time and life hadn’t been wasted and carelessly thrown away. He observes his form, his footwork, his breathing, and compares it with the last match of his career. He mutters, writing in a ragged notebook, ripping off pages and roughly scribbling over things that don’t seem to fit his taste.

    He hasn’t been eating, which was a cause of a lot of concern to you, but when he gets into things like this, he won’t hear you. Sometimes you ask yourself if he even wants to hear you—or if he just ignores you on purpose. After all, you did encourage him to take opportunities and stay late to practice, to expend more energy on an inevitable failure.

    Sometimes you think it might be your fault, but you push the thought away to focus on him. For you, love has always been a choice—a mutual choice. You choose to love him, and he chooses to love you, each day. You know, deep down, that he still loves you. He will never stop loving you, not with the way he clings onto your arm when you help him bathe or how he blinks slowly, trying to understand where he is, the ghost of a smile on his lips at the sight of your face.

    He’s still your Tooru. He just needs to wake up from his slumber.

    Three weeks pass by painfully slowly, but they do. You’ve created a little routine for yourself—and, subsequently, for Tooru. You check on him when you wake up, having gotten used to the cold side of his bed. You know he’s on the couch, either passed out from exhaustion or still watching his games. Then comes breakfast, where you place a light meal on the coffee table, knowing his stomach will demand food, while you go about your day. Neither of you speak a word; not because you don’t want to, but because the silence has become comfortable. The tension you’ve felt before, almost dripping off of his shoulders in the first few days after his defeat (and again after the announcement of his retirement), is just a faint memory in the back of your head.

    He hasn’t snapped at you in a few days either—which is quite the improvement, as opposed to the way he’d almost slap your hand away from him when you wanted to make sure he’s comfortable, right after everything went down. So you’re grateful—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

    Yet, he doesn’t understand why.

    Surely, him being an asshole and snapping at you for wanting to help, pushing you away and everything he has done since that one last game ended, would determine a normal person to leave, right? They’d get fed up with his attitude, pack their bags and leave him—alone and undeserving, as he’s been thinking of himself over the weeks.

    Weak, ungrateful and useless, a burden; one might even call him a brat.

    And you remain.

    Everything clicks in place when he wakes up one morning, surrounded by warmth and softness—he’s in your shared bed, a place he hasn’t touched in four weeks. Four full, horrific weeks that you had to spend all alone in this giant bed. He can’t even begin to fathom your pain. And he’s the cause of it.

    The guilt eats him alive.

    You’re in your usual spot at the kitchen table, reading a book you’ve grabbed from the shelf on your way there. You’re oddly calm, Tooru thinks, but then again—you’re obviously tired. There’s so much energy someone can expend while taking care of another… Emotional, mental and physical.

    He calls your name softly.

    The sound is foreign, after all this time in silence—when only the door hinges and gently clacking mugs filled the house—but it’s warm. Familiar, even. He remembers why he loves your name so much.

    He calls your name again, just as soft as the first time.

    Another reminder as to why he loves your name—and you—is the smile blooming on your lips. That’s… He missed it. It feels like his dark, dull grey world brightened. A splash of color, the delicate touch of a butterfly. River rock skipping. A soft tune hummed in the car, on your way back from Okinawa.

    Tooru sits down as you place the book on the table.

    “I’m sorry.”

    His first words in weeks are an apology. He doesn’t know what exactly he is apologizing for, but he does. There’s so much he has to apologize for, now that he thinks about it.

    “Don’t be. I understand.” Your voice is soft—softer than he remembers. Maybe because you haven’t used it much lately? Or because you’re afraid he’ll jump out of his seat and stomp his way back into the bedroom to lock himself in there if you so much as raise your tone one decibel too high. He cringes.

    This is his fault, too.

    “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “I’ve been an absolute bitch to you for four weeks. And that’s… That’s a lot of time. A whole lot of time. And any other person would have left. You know… Pack their things, grab a cab, throw a few insults on their way out and just… Poof.”

    You giggle. His heart clenches painfully in his chest, thinking about how he stripped the world of your joy, because he was selfish.

    “Yes, well, I’m not just any person. I’m your spouse, Tooru. We promised each other—through sickness and health, through good times and bad, remember?”

    He does. And he’s ashamed he couldn’t keep his side of the promise. “Even so! You had every right to be mad at me. To, I don’t know, lash out? I know it has been hard and—” He takes a deep breath, tears gathering on his waterline and making his eyes sting. “And I’ve only made it worse. It’s been… It’s been four weeks. Where I left you… Alone. You had to care for me like I was handicapped.”

    “And I did it. Because I love you.”

    “I don’t deserve your love. Not after what I’ve put you through.”

    “No, Tooru. You’re wrong.” The conviction in your voice—because you know you’re right about this—takes him by surprise. “You deserve to be loved, now more than ever before. I told you, love is a mutual choice. Every day, I choose you.” You smile again, and for a brief second Tooru thinks this might all be a dream. “And I know, even if you didn’t say or show it, that you chose me too.”

    There’s a beat of silence, where Tooru carefully considers his next words. “I did.”

    “And we made it work. It was certainly difficult at first,” you joke, perpetually serene even in your fatigue. “But I couldn’t abandon you. Not after all we’ve been through. Because I love you too much to do such a cruel thing.”

    That’s something Tooru has always admired in you—your resilience (or stubbornness, he’s not sure). You stuck to your devices, as if knowing better than those around you. He’s sure the gossip about him might have become too much to bear at some point.

    He moves before he can think.

    It’s not much; just the tender touch of his hand on top of yours. But it’s definitely a start.

    A small victory; but a victory nonetheless.

    “I love you too,” he finally whispers, letting the tears finally flow, releasing the burden he’s been unnecessarily carrying over the past weeks. Tooru feels lighter, as if he can finally breathe—and when he looks at you, he’s almost blinded by the sight of your smile—bright, like the sun. His sun. “I’ll be better. For you; for us. I promise.”

    “Mr. Oikawa, can you tell us what made you change your mind about declining any and all interviews after your official retirement announcement?”

    Tooru chuckes, his trademark, boyish grin adorning his freckled face. “My spouse. If there’s one person on this earth that can sway my will, it’s my spouse.”

    “You seem to love them quite a lot.”

    “That would be an understatement, honestly. They’ve been through so much—actually, I put them through so much—that ‘love’ is a weak word to describe my feelings. It’s…” He hesitates for a second, humming, before he snorts. “They bring out the best in me. And I cannot be grateful enough for what they have done so far for me. I just hope I can repay their kindness, dedication and love in full, in this life or the next one.”