you stumble to the kitchen, his blanket draped around your shoulders with an apology already forming, "sorry, did i sleep too long," and "sorry, you should have woken me," and he catches it midair, the same way he catches every ball headed towards the goalpost. shh. sit down. i'm making eggs. your lover's in the kitchen and he's singing your favourite song off-key and slightly indecent (shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips). he makes your coffeee exactly the way you like it, meaning he paid attention the first time on your first date, years ago, and has never once asked since.
the hour of being seen in the daylight, 09:00
he insists on going to the market because it's your birthday and he wants to pick flowers with you, not for you. oliver is not interested in handing you a finished thing, a love pre-arranged. he wants you in it, elbow-deep, choosing between peonies and wildflowers with soil beneath your nails. you reach for something pale and ordinary and he says, are you sure, what about the bold ones. they remind me of you. and all you can do is roll your eyes, because how does he keep doing this? how does he keep finding the luminous thing in you that you've spent years trying to convince yourself isn't there.
the hour his sisters call, 11:00
his phone rings, but the call is for you. his sisters, singing happy birthday in overlapping unison, fighting over who gets to tell you about the gift they sent, asking when you're visiting next. oliver's leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you laugh with his family and there it is again--that ache of a sprout bursting through the ground, a chick hatching from its shell. he'd once told himself that if you ever fit into his world this seamlessly, he would know. you hang up and all he can say, with his heart in his eyes, is: they love you more than me.
the hour of the quiet argument, 13:00
because even on a birthday, a life shared is not a life scrubbed clean of friction, and you wouldn't want it to be either. you find the tabloid piece with another careless headline, and your hands shake with a fury so protective it steals his breath away, defending him before he can even open his mouth. (you've always done this. stepped between oliver and the cruelty of strangers as though your body alone could be a wall; he watches you and tries not to cry).
the hour of cooking in conversation, 17:00
your lover makes dinner and you're sat on the counter beside him, passing him things he doesn't need just to be part of it. oliver is loud in the kitchen, you've noticed, narrating and tasting and insisting you try this, no, open your mouth, trust me! you laugh and the sound fills every corner of the apartment. he's thinking about how you love him in a way that makes him feel more free and capable than he has ever been, and how he wants to be that for you, too--no, more than that. a competition he'll never tire of. loving you louder than you love him.
the hour of returning to the body, 22:00
your head is on his chest and orbit has been restored, the satellite has come home. i love you, it comes from you first, whispered against his pulse, and oliver holds his tongue a moment to let the words dissolve into his marrow, let them reach the places inside him that have been told, his whole life, to play for others, to manage alone. your love reaches those rooms of his body. opens the curtains in those rooms.
the last two minutes of your birthday, 23:58
he whispers it now a third time, i love you, into the dark, your hair, up the knobs of your spine and into the space between your shoulder blades where you carry your withers and woes. he believes he was made to say it, to you, stitched and delivered to this exact coordinate on earth for the sole purpose of pressing those three words into your skin until you believe them.
oliver aiku knows well of loneliness, and with the full force of his monstrous, stubborn, impossibly generous heart, makes sure that you won't have to.
— @neiptune hihi my sweet v!!!!!! sry i am a lil late ueueuee but i wanted to wish u a happy v day!!!! <3333333 v day makes me think -> valentine’s -> love and hope and patience and goodness -> core traits of our v!!!!!!!! im so lucky to be able to share the earth with someone as perceptive and caring and fun and talented and intelligent as you my friend!!! you are always such an inspiration in not only your writing and how you share your love with us here, but in how you stand up for your beliefs. i wish to be more like you and there is yet!!! so much for me to learn about and from you!!!!! <3333 and i am happy to be able to spend your next turn around the sun by your side again hehe :3 and then we’ll do it again and again!!! oliver is one lucky duck to be the one loving on you each and every night!!!!!! i hope he showed you just how much yesterday!!! i love you!!!!!!!! same time next year!!! <- though i promise to be on time….. eep!! ><
my sweet coco I will tell you I'm getting ol*ver flowers for valentine's day (he feels so stupidly tender over it) but now you have to tell me what you and your beloveds are doing!!!! I hope you are always smothered in as much love and kindness as you deserve my dear friend 🩷
the obscene truth about oliver aiku is that he has everything; the money, the body, the career carved in gold, the smile that has opened every door it was ever flashed at. he has everything, and he knows it, and he has never once been ungrateful, but he has also never been ruined by a gift before. and yet. she stands there with flowers, for him, as though he were something worth tending—and a book heavy with her handwriting. she has underlined passages, written this reminded me of you in margins too small for the size of what she’s saying. she has, with ink and intention, built him a sort of cathedral out of annotations, and he stands in its doorway; this man who has everything, holding a bouquet he thinks he did not earn and a book he will never lend to anyone, thinking: ah. so this is what it is to be had.
