The hospital was colder this morning, which didn’t make sense considering the bright blue sky outside, the clouds drifting lazily, and the sharp blaze of the sun. His eyes blinked open slowly, heavy, narrow slits adjusting to the sterile white ceiling above him. The faint hum of machines filled the silence, the steady rhythm of the respirator a reminder of where he was—and why he couldn’t move without every muscle protesting.

He tried to reach back in his mind, to pull together the pieces. Fireworks. That was the last thing. Fireworks, a sudden burst of sound and light... then nothing. His memory after that was a void, an endless black. He forced his mind harder, jaw tightening as though sheer will could unlock it, but the harder he tried, the more it slipped away. Just empty. Blank.

It wasn’t until the corner of his vision caught movement that his focus shifted. There, sitting slouched in a hard plastic chair beside him, was his husband. His anchor. He had a lunchbox balanced on one knee, absentmindedly chewing as his eyes flickered between the food and the small TV mounted in the corner of the room. The news droned on about the meteorite that had struck Shibuya weeks ago, voices muffled and distant, but he barely heard any of it. His gaze stayed fixed on his husband—on the lines of his face, the familiar tilt of his shoulders, the quiet way he existed even in silence. For a moment, it felt like it had been years since he’d last seen him, not weeks. Time in the dark had twisted everything, stretching it until it was unrecognizable.

His body ached when he tried to shift, every limb heavy and unresponsive. Frustration prickled in his chest, but instead of pushing through the pain, he exhaled and gave in, sinking back against the thin mattress. All he could do was announce himself, and even that came out weak. A sound, rough and low in his throat, slipped past his lips— "...hm." It was meant to be stronger, but it scraped out hoarse, almost fragile. Still, it was enough.