#amnesia fic

I wake up to the warmth of a thick blanket tucked all the way up to my chin. It's bright, even with my eyes closed; it must be the middle of the day. Or I forgot to turn the light off again, I think to myself. I groggily pull a sleep-stiff hand out from the covers to rub at my eyes before forcing them open. Immediately I shut them with a groan, burying my face into my pillow to protect them from the blinding light coming through the large window I'm facing. Music drifts quietly through the air and I give myself a few more blissful moments of curling up under the blanket before dragging myself out of bed. What song is this? It sounds so familiar, but I can't quite put my finger on it. It's catchy, whatever it is.

Why can't I remember which song this is? I know it, I know I do. I'm drawing a complete blank; I'm sure it'll pop into my head once I'm fully awake.

I sit up, swinging my legs off the side of the bed and automatically grab a pair of flimsy looking glasses from the nightstand. They're resting on my nose before I even realize I had moved to pick them up. Glasses? What? I pause, uncertain.

Coffee. That's what I need; I need coffee. Cheese and rice, how long did I sleep? My head feels so fuzzy.

I stand and turn around to straighten the blankets, only to be faced with a room I've never seen before. My heartbeat thrums loudly in my ears. I don't know this place; whose bedroom is this? Whose bed did I sleep in? Oh my gosh, how did I get here? My initial confusion quickly escalates into full-blown panic; my breathing is fast and sharp, not giving enough time to get a proper breath. The feeling of not being able to breathe just fuels the panic. Taking a step backwards, I press myself against the wall before sliding down to sit on the floor, tucked nicely against the cold wall and nightstand.

Take a breath and think. You have a head, so use it. Surely there's some explanation that'll make everything make sense. But my mind is shrouded in a thick fog; I can barely get myself to breathe properly, forget rational thought. I grab the quilt I was earlier curled up in and pull it off the bed, shifting to wrap it around my body protectively. Ok, see? This is nice, you can work with this.

Ok, so I can't remember whose room this is, or how I got here... So, what do I remember?

I remember I wear glasses, um, I remember... I remember that... Hmm, ok, new approach. What's my name? Pfft, easy. My name is–

My name is–

My name...

I can't remember. Why can't I remember!? I grab the nearest projectile—just a pillow, luckily—and lob it across the room, where it knocks into a small stack of something and causes the items to clatter to the ground. I feel a pressure building behind my eyes as my vision begins to blur. I let myself tip over until I'm lying curled up on the floor, cocooned nicely in the warm quilt. My glasses get half pushed off my face as I move to wipe my eyes harshly against the soft fabric.

Slight sobs wrack my body, the noise muffled in the quilt. With every gasping inhale I'm greeted with a comforting and familiar soap scent, some kind of mix of lemongrass and a clinical sanitizer; I put every ounce of energy I have into focusing entirely on the smell, letting it ground me as my breathing finally evens out.

Oh wow, I actually feel way better. It's amazing how much a quick cry can help. Now that I can breathe again, I can focus on figuring out where the heck I am. I stand, still clutching the blanket around me—it's not leaving my grasp anymore—and turn back to the window that blinded me when I woke up.

There's a beautiful beach shoreline in the distance; waves crashing on the sand, making a soothing white noise that fades to the background. A thick fog spreads across the water as far as the eye can see. Man, I'm a sucker for the fog. Oh! I remembered that! Fog! It's not much, but progress is progress.

The beach leads away from the water and eventually turns into a rocky hillside; the room I'm in is sitting atop the hill, getting a good view of the grounds. This has to be a grounds, right? Of some sort of facility, a psychiatric one, I'd guess. You wouldn't let a guy with total amnesia just live on his own... hopefully.

I don't even know if this is amnesia, it has to be. I can't even remember my own name. What else could it be if not amnesia? Must be retrograde amnesia since I can't remember anything about myself; my head doesn't hurt so probably not a head trauma. Why do I know so much about amnesia? What kind of person just knows this? Maybe I like watching medical shows or something. Well, actually, I guess it would make sense that I know this, this is probably a recurring thing, so naturally I'd learn what I could about it. 'Know thine enemy' or whatever.

I'm feeling much calmer now, honestly I feel a little silly for reacting so dramatically before. The weight of the quilt and white noise of the water work in tandem to keep me grounded, present, clear-headed. (As clear-headed as you can be with amnesia)

I spin to look again at the bedroom I found myself in. This time making an effort to take in my surroundings, looking at the bits and bobs spread about the room to try and get a sense of where I am, of who I am. It's cluttered, items stacked haphazardly on shelves and piled up on the floor. Geez. Is this the type of person I am? Messy? The walls are a plain off-white colour. Yea, that seems very hospital-esque; must be a psych facility.

Where's everyone else then? Where's the staff?

I strain to listen for any noises from outside my room. There's a slow, rhythmic thunk, then something metal being put down. Is someone cooking? I wonder if they'd share; now that I'm thinking about food, I've been made to realize how hungry I am. My stomach grumbles quietly as a savoury, meaty flavour floats down the hall from what I assume is the kitchen.

But before I can investigate that delicious smell; I need to pee. Where is the bathroom? Man, you think they'd put up a sign or something with an arrow to the bathroom for the amnesiacs. I only open one wrong door—a linen closet—before finding the bathroom. I flick the light on and jump when I see a man's face in my peripheral.

It's a mirror. It's my face. That's me.

I bring my hand up to the smooth mirror, touching my reflection, then bring it to my real face, the pads of my fingers gently poking at prodding at the skin. I stand there, unblinking, for a period of time I didn't bother to track, just looking at myself, soaking in every detail I can, making myself remember my face. A small scarred line stretches across the bridge of my nose, another one near my left eyebrow. I drop the blanket to the ground and rush to pull my short sleeve shirt off; I end up nearly pulling my glasses off my face in my haste, my hair sticks in all directions. I need to see myself.

…what… happened to me? I twist my torso around and lift my arms to see as much as I can of the marred skin in the reflection. A three-pronged scar wraps itself partially around my right forearm, still pinkish and raised. But that one is nothing in comparison to the mess of scar tissue that covers nearly my entire left arm, reaching up my neck, towards my chest, and across my back. Delicately, I run my fingertips along the damaged skin, it's leathery and rough under my touch. If I think about it hard enough, I can almost convince myself that I can still feel heat radiating from it. Was this from a fire or chemicals? How did I– I don't– I don't understand. How did this happen? When did this happen?

I pitch forward, having to brace myself against the sink. It's hot, my arm aches, it itches and pulls uncomfortably at the healthy skin around it. I let myself fall into a squat and press my forehead to the cool sink cabinet, breathing harshly and purposefully through my nose. Dude, chill out. You don't even remember it, you're fine. You're fine.

Eventually, the soreness in my knees is stronger than the slight panic; I stand again, quickly throwing on my shirt and averting my eyes.

Crap, right, peeing. I have to do that. Peeing after you wake up is good for your kidneys, and helps prevent UTIs, or something. Why do I know this!?

After finishing in the bathroom, I'm once again wrapped in the quilt, padding quietly towards the source of the noise and smells. I get to the end of the short hallway where it opens into a large room; kitchen and eating space in one half, couches and a fairly large TV surrounded by bookshelves in the other. In the kitchen stands a man with his back to me; I tense up automatically when my eyes land on him.

Oh cheesus, who is that guy? I don't remember him. Is he staff? Is he a patient like me? Wow, he has really nice hair. I think I kind of want to touch it. His hair is dark brown, has hints of curls, and reaches just past his shoulders. I would chastise him for not tying it up while cooking but as I take him in I notice one of his arms stops short at his shoulder, the entire limb missing. My heart makes a weird spasming-fluttering sort of sensation the longer I look at him; my tense posture relaxes of its own accord. I know him, I have to.

Satisfied enough that this man isn't a danger to me, I turn to look in the living space. There's a little misshapen ball that looks like Earth sitting on one of the shelves; I sidestep around an end table with a computer playing the music I heard earlier to go grab it, wacking my hip against the corner as I do. "Ow!" I whisper-shout at the table, "that hurt!"

"Grace." The man in the kitchen says, almost like a greeting, his voice low and smooth. I have no idea if he's talking I me, I don't know what 'Grace' means, but I like his voice, it warms my chest from the inside out. He hasn't moved to look at me, so I assume he wasn't actually trying to get my attention.

I grab the Earth ball, it's a little hacky sac, that's fun. "Rye?" He says. Like the bread? Is he asking what bread I want? Do I usually eat rye? I ponder on it for a moment. Ehhh maybe, I don't think so though. I put the hacky sac back on the shelf, turning to keep looking at things around the room, when my eyes land on a door. Am I allowed to go outside? I guess if they didn't want me to leave then the door will be locked. Only one way to find out.

I cross the room in a few steps and curl my hand around the doorknob. I can't see a lock; the door should open for me, I think. It does, the handle turns and the door pulls open without issue. Cool, fresh air greets me, the sound of waves grows louder. A series of dirt and rock steps lead away from the building to the beach.

The water looks nice; how cold is it? I want to touch it. I tug the quilt tight around myself and take a step out the door; both my hands are occupied holding the blanket that I can't pull the door closed behind me. I make it fully outside before I realize I forgot to put shoes on. Oh well, I'm already wet, might as well go swimming. The path is uneven, stones dig into the bottom of my feet, I half regret not putting shoes on, but don't want to go all the way back up just to come down again, so I truck on.

I inhale deeply as I make my way down to the water, the ocean air filling my lungs, soothing me. My socked-feet sink into the sand and suddenly a hand harshly claps on my shoulder; I give a very undignified yelp in my shock. As I'm spun around, I come face to face with the kitchen-man; I freeze, every muscle in my body tenses. I'm an animal caught in headlights.

"Ryland? The fuck are you doing? You're not answering, are you good?" He looks worried, eyebrows pinched in confusion. Oh, am I Ryland? That's my name? Really? Ok, I guess. I was guessing I'd be something more generic, maybe John or something of the like.

The man—what's his name? Hmm, he looks like a 'Mark'—is still looking at me, grip tight on my shoulder, waiting for a response. "Oh! Yea, right sorry, yea. I'm good, I think." Good job, you sound very convincing. My response didn't seem to bring him any comfort. "I was just, um," I jerk a thumb behind me to point at the water, "taking a walk?" From this close I can see a long, surgically smooth scar crawling the length of his left cheek; more scar tissue is spread along the side of his face and down his neck, probably continuing under his shirt to his—frankly impressive—muscled torso. Focus.

His eyes travel up and down my body, assessing. He raises an eyebrow, "a walk… without shoes?"

I look down at my sock-clad feet, flushing as I wiggle my toes in the sand."Um… yes?" I say.

His brows furrow more and steps even closer, putting his hand on my forehead; I subconsciously lean into his touch. "You feeling ok? Do you have a fever or something?" He's shorter than I am, not by much, just enough that I have to look down just a little to look at him. I could plant a little kiss on his nose and barely have to bend to do it– Hang on, what?

"Sorry, I'm just feeling a little, I don't know, lost? I guess?"

He shifts his touch from my face down to my arm, and then further to grab my hand, tugging it out of the blanket gently. "Why don't we head back inside, huh?" I nod and follow him, his hand warm in my hold.

As we walk back up the slope, I'm able to get a full look at the building. It's smaller than what I'd expect of a psychiatric facility, it looks like it's just some house—a fancy house, very geometric—but a house nonetheless. Maybe it's one of those halfway homes? For patients that don't need as heavily supervised care but still can't be on their own? Maybe, I don't know, I'm fully clutching at straw right now.

We make in back inside, kitchen-man/maybe Mark closes the door firmly behind us. "Take off your socks, don't need to track sand around the whole house." He kicks off his own hastily slipped on shoes as I nod and peel the clothing off my feet. I stand there awkwardly, uncomfortable being barefoot; the ground very quickly makes my feet cold. "Laundry basket's still in the bedroom, haven't gotten to it today yet."

"O-oh, right," I pad back over to the room I woke up in. In one of the corners is a hamper full of what must be dirty clothes. I end up having to open multiple drawers of the dresser before I find a fresh pair. Again, why aren't there labels of where things are? Am I just supposed to remember? Me, the guy with amnesia?

I find kitchen-man—unsurprisingly—in the kitchen when I return. He's doing something at one of the counters, but immediately snaps his attention to me when I entire the room. Awkwardly, I end up a couple paces from the kitchen table, near where the two rooms meet. Maybe Mark cleans his hand off and in a few paces comes over to where I stand.

His eyes cast about my face, searching for something, analyzing. "You sure you're good? You seem more… skittish than usual. You have a nightmare or something?"

"How long have you known me?" I blurt out, completely ignoring his questions.

He looks at me, concern written clearly in his big, beautiful, soulful... uh, I mean, in his eyes. One of which is a nice brown; the other is a vibrant red, the sclera a dark red to go with it. A red eye? Cool. "It's been like two and a half years, you know this."

"Uh-huh, right, of course, sorry. And in that time, have we ever maybe talked about my memory loss?" I ask, sheepish.

His eyebrows shoot to his hairline, and his whole body stills, completely frozen. "Grace, Sunshine, you're kind of freaking me the fuck out right now. What are you trying to say?"

'Sunshine'? Did he call me 'Sunshine'? My heart beats loudly in my chest, a warm blush spreading over my face, hopefully it's not too visible. I swallow around a sudden lump in my throat, "I don't remember." The words begin pouring out of my mouth before I even realize, "I– I woke up and I don't know, everything is just gone? I don't remember going to sleep, or how I got here, or you, or– or me. I–" My words catch in my throat; my vision blurs through tears. "Oh geez, sorry, I didn't mean to start crying. Sorry, just– hang on, let me just pull myself together."

I turn just a fraction away, burying my face into my hands and focusing on my breathing. "Oh boy, sor– sorry." It's not working; my chest feels like a vice and I can barely get a lungful of air. I've already cried about this, I'm fine, I don't need to cry again. Especially not in front of this attractive guy that I apparently know very well, but can't for the life of me remember who he is. My entire body jerks from the force of a sob escaping my mouth and an arm wraps itself around my shoulders hard enough that I get pushed half a step back, my own arms coming up to clutch onto him without thought.

I don't remember being held like this, but I recognize it; I know how to slot myself into his hold better than I know my own face. I can almost remember his warmth, how he tucks his face into my neck. This is familiar, and it's home. How could I have forgotten how this felt?

I'm not sure how long we stay like this, wrapped around each other next to the front door, but eventually my sobs turn into sniffles and he pulls back so gently it causes an ache in my heart. The act is so caring, so loving, it speaks to what I must mean to him; I'm important. His hand comes up to cup the side of my face,  and forces me to look at him. "I'm gonna tell you what you told me when we first met: it's okay; you're safe; you don't know me, but I've got you; I don't know what's happening, but we're gonna get you sorted out; I'm gonna help you." I nod into his hand.

Barely above a whisper I say, "I'm just glad I'm not alone. I thought that maybe you'd know what to do, that this was normal. I'm not sure what I'd do if I had to do this all by myself." I let out a wet, uncomfortable chuckle. A stray tear slips down my face, and a thumb gently swipes it away, the movement practiced and familiar. Geez Louise, how often do I cry that he just wipes them away like it's breathing?

"If I have a say in anything, you never have to be alone again." I scrub at my face as I nod. "I'm gonna call someone, he'll know what to do, ok?" I nod again.

As his hand pulls away I have to fight the urge to follow it. He moves to step around me, walking towards the computer, when my hand suddenly shoots out to grab at his arm. "Wait!" He jolts at the sudden movement, a look crosses his face too fast for me to figure out before he schools his expression. I let go immediately, taking a step back; I hold my hands up placatingly on instinct.

"Shit, sorry, I–" He bows his head, almost shamefully.

I rush to speak, unintentionally cutting him off, "no, no! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to– I just meant– I mean I only wanted to ask; what's your name?" The man looks back at me, his eyes are shining, glistening, almost. Oh no, is he crying? Did I make him cry? "I'm sorry! Sorry, I just– I can't remember. I don't remember you.

"Oh, that sounds rude. I don't mean it in a bad way! I just can't remember anything, it's not a you thing I swear! I'm sure you're very memorable" Holy moly, shut up already, idiot. My hands drop to wring together in front of me. "A man as strapping as you has to be pretty memorable, right?" Strapping? Strapping!? Oh my gosh can you just shut your trap for five seconds!? I swear. You're making this worse! The man lets out a small huff of laughter, more an exhale through his nose than anything.

"Simon."

I feel a smile stretch across my face. Simon, that seems right. The name crawls into my head and makes a home in the back of my skull; it fills me with a sense of content, of rightness. Of course, your name is Simon. It couldn't be anything else. "Simon, right. It's a nice name." Simon's lips quirk into the hint of a smile, and warmth blooms in my chest at the sight. "What about a last name?"

He falters slightly, tiny grin dropping, eyes cast away. "Uh, no." His hand comes up to rub at a smattering of scar tissue on the side of his neck.

My brows furrow a bit, "no last name? Where are you from that you don't have a last name?"

Simon tenses, hardly noticeable if I hadn't have been standing so close. "We don't need to talk about it. We haven't– We don't really talk about it often."

"Oh…" I can't tell if I'm disappointed or not. On one hand, I want to know everything there is to know about Simon, but on the other hand—amnesia or no—I can tell this is still a soft spot for him. "Right, yea, for sure."

He seems to mentally shake himself off, then looks back at me. "You have one though; Grace. Ryland Grace is your full name."

Ryland Grace. I let the name bounce around my skull for a moment, testing its weight on my tongue. Ryland doesn't sit as well as Grace does. "Oh! That's what you meant by 'Rye'. I thought you meant the bread!"

"The what? No. Holy roots. It's a nickname." He huffs a little, and spins me to carefully guide me to the couch. "Listen, why don't you sit while I get a hold of Rocky."

I nod, letting myself be led. "Sure, sure. But can I sit over there?" I point to a comfy looking nook next to a window facing the water, "I like the fog."

Simon let's out a brief chuckle, "yea, I know," and directs me around the couch to the blanket-covered bench. He quickly shoves a couple items scattered on the bench top to the side and keeps his hand on my arm as I sit. I adjust the quilt around myself as I watch Simon make a series of aborted movements, like he's not sure what to do with himself but feels like he needs to help in some way.

I laugh lightly, "Simon, I'm alright. It's just memory issues; I'm not going to spontaneously combust when you turn your back to me."

He pulls away fully, "right, just– just don't move. I'll be back in a second." Quickly, he leans back towards me and plants a brief kiss to the top of my head. A blush explodes across my face and Simon pulls back as soon as he realizes what he's done, eyes wide. "Oh, fucking stars above. You can't remember; I probably shouldn't–"

I grab his hand before he can get too far. "Wait, no, Simon, it's ok. I don't, um, I don't mind. It was nice." He nods at me.

"Right, I'm just gonna," he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the computer across the room.

I rest fully against the window, watching the waves lap against the sand. I bet I spend a lot of time sitting here; if I don't, I should. Where even is "here?" Are we in the states? I'm from the states, right? I sound like I am… maybe I'm Canadian? Most of them sound more or less the same, right?

From the corner of my eye, I see Simon tilt the computer screen towards himself and start clicking around and typing.

Holy cheese and rice, Simon kissed me!? I mean it was just a quick kiss on the head, nothing to write home about, but he still kissed me! Is that something we do? I mean I would guess so; he did it like it was super normal. Wait a second… are we like… together? Like together-together? I don't remember seeing a second bedroom earlier. Hmm, that would explain the butterflies when I look at him too long. Either butterflies or nausea, can't be certain; I haven't eaten yet, so maybe it's hunger nausea.

Hypothesis: Simon and I are romantically involved in some capacity, possibly sexually as well. I will test this hypothesis via physical contact, and gauge both his and my reactions. I could just outright ask, I guess… Hmm, no, I don't think that'd work; I'd start asking and just dissolve into a bumbling mess and make a fool of myself. Again.

My eyes slide from the water to Simon, hunched over the computer, reading something intently then typing. He's an aggressive typist, his fingers fly over the keys. I suppose only being able to type one handed has made him have to learn to use it faster; it's not quite as fast as two handed typing, but impressive nonetheless. Speaking of hands… his is really nice; I watch as he clutches the edge of the table as he reads, knuckles curling harshly around the metal. Ok, I need to stop looking at his hand. I squirm slightly in my seat.

I follow the path from his hand up his arm, his incredibly muscular arm, wowza. Then I trail to where it connects to his chest, where I find more muscle. Geez, is this guy a soldier or something? He's at least got to be physically active; no one can be that beefed up without exercising. I look down at my own body, and am greeted with lean muscle, nothing compared to what's under Simon's shirt. Hmm, what is under there? How far do the scars go? I wonder if I ask he'll show me… for curiosity's sake, of course. Totally not because I want to see him shirtless or anything... haha… Ok maybe we are involved. Or maybe I've just been hardcore crushing on him.

I look up to see him staring back at me. Oh shoot, he noticed? Look away, act casual. I turn my gaze back to the water, wiping my head much too fast to be considered casual. Good job, that definitely didn't look weird at all.

"What?"

"Hmm?" I turn my head back to him, "oh, nothing, nothing."

Simon shifts nervously. "Rocky said he'll be here in 1,440 seconds—however long that is, too much fucking math for my tastes."

"Twenty four minutes." I say, the conversion happening easily in my head. Ok, so I'm a math guy. Why twenty four minutes exactly? That's weirdly specific.

He just nods and brings his hand up again to rub at his neck, a nervous tic. "I can, I don't know, cover up a bit more if the scars were making you uncomfortable."

Oh man, that is actually the opposite of what I want right now. Simon barks out a laugh. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, I said out loud. A heat burns across my face, I can feel it spread to my ears and down to my neck. I hunch my shoulders up to my ears and burying my face in my hands, glasses hanging onto my face for dear life. "Fudge, I didn't mean–"

He walks over to the window nook, sitting in front of where I'm curled into myself, knees tucked to my chest, dying of embarrassment. He grabs a hold of a corner of the quilt, fiddling with it between his deft fingers. "I'm glad to see that you're still the same, even– even without your memory."

Talking into my hands, I say, "what, I frequently say embarrassing things and make a fool out of myself?"

"Often enough, yea." A hand comes up and cards gently through my hair. "Usually you start rambling and make it worse for yourself."

I lean into the touch. "Great; peachy, even." Simon hums in response. "So I'm annoying?"

His hand leaves my hair—much to my chagrin—and carefully plucks the glasses from where they're trying to not fall off my face. "I wouldn't say that," he says quietly, humour lilting his words. He pauses, placing the glasses far enough away they won't accidentally get crushed. "Why were you staring?"

"Um, I was trying to remember you." I lift my face from my hands and rest my chin on my knees; my arms wrap around my legs. "I feel like I should; I almost do, I think. I mean, my nervous system and subconscious seem to; I get, I don't know, calm around you?" This would have been the perfect place to stop, but of course, I can't leave well enough alone and start rambling. My words speeding up and stumbling over themselves. "I'm not sure if calm is the right word because when I'm looking too long my hands get kind of clammy and I get like nervous butterflies or something. Maybe comfortable is a better word.

"I didn't mean to stare, I just got a little, uh, distracted, I guess. But, c'mon, look at you! You're buff! I'm built like I haven't lifted a heavy box in years, and you're sitting here like you should be in an action movie! Are you not worried about just" I make a quiet exploding sound, matching hand movements to it, "tearing through your shirt? It's just that it's very tight on you." Here would also be a good place to stop, finally, maybe. "And truth be told; I may have been looking at the scars a bit. I wasn't judging, I swear! I'm just curious about how much… um…" I wave a hand, gesturing to his chest, "surface area they cover. And now I'm wondering if I've ever actually seen you shirtless or not." Dude, shut up already, please. "Not that I'm, y'know, trying to objectify you or anything. I just–"

"Ryland?"

"Yes?"

"Stop talking."

"Right, yup, sorry. I can do that." He arches a brow at me; I clamp my mouth shut, my teeth clacking together. I fidget with the edge of the blanket, unsure what to do with my hands.

Simon watches for a moment, then he inhales and exhales in a slow, controlled breath. "You have."

I look up, "pardon?"

"Seen me shirtless; you have." Almost bashfully, he looks away. "Many times, actually."

My eyebrows shoot up, "o-oh? Um, cool." Cool!? What are you, fourteen!? "I mean– I'm assuming we're… involved? In some way?" I cringe at myself. Turns out just asking would work; I'm sure there was a better way to say it though.

He huffs out a laugh, "yea, that's one way to phrase it."

"So, we're… dating?"

"Rocky kept calling it 'courting' and using the word 'mates', but yea, I guess." I nod; I can feel the heat of a blush on my face. Come on, you're a grown man, you can handle relationship talk!

But actually, I can't; so I turn my head back to the window. "Where are we, anyway? Somewhere in America? The coast, maybe?"

Simon's fiddling with the fabric stops. "Wow, you– you really don't remember anything, do you?" I shake my head.

"I remember waking up and hearing music, everything before that is, I don't know, gone? Or blocked off, I guess. It feels like I'm grabbing at smoke, trying to remember anything earlier." His hand lifts, reaching towards my face, before stopping short; his eyebrows are pinched, eyes brimming with tears.

He's just as lost as I am. How the heck do you even navigate your partner forgetting you? Forgetting literally everything? Without fully thinking about what I'm going to say—which seems to be every time I speak—I open my mouth and tell him, "I'm sorry."

He startles slightly, "you're sorry? Why? You don't need to apologize for anything."

"I feel like I do. You didn't sign up for this; this can't be easy for you. I'm sorry."

Now he does reach out fully to hold my face, his thumb stroking gently along my cheek, smearing tear tracks as he does. Sweet Christmas, do I really cry this much? This feel a little excessive. "Maybe I didn't sign up for this, but that's not important right now. What is, is the fact that you're dealing with shit and I'm going to do what I can to help. Whether you want it or not."

"Ok, thank you." I press my face further into his hand.

Nearly whispering, he says, "I'm just repaying the favour. You've done plenty for me."

"I don't think that's how basic human kindness works, but ok."

He snorts. "Even without your memory, you're on my ass about personal debts."

I laugh and jokingly say, "I suppose I'm just a very kind individual."

"Hm, I suppose so." He leans towards me, and hesitantly places his lips on my forehead, the touch gentle and grounding. I hold my breath and close my eyes, basking in the contact. One of my hands reaches up to clutch onto his arm as he holds me. Oh, this is nice, I really like this. I think I'd like to just stay here for a while.

ITS HERE! Finally! Well… mostly! I still have a couple chapters left!

I did NOT plan on posting it when the timeline of the fic would be accurate but here we are! I hope yall like it <3

Thank you sooooo much to everyone who showed interest in this as I wrote it! And a SPECIAL thanks to Sei Cacti & Gena for hyping me up plus Chrissy & Kelly for being my amazing and motivational betas! Yall are all awesome! 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

no pressure tags for those who want to play, and some for those who just want to read! @30somethingautisticteacher @sunnywithachanceofbi @nine-one-wanton @judymarch15 @herrmannhalsteadproduction | @thewarmthwhenishiverincold @somethingaboutfirefly @bucksxkinard @siratonin @agentpeggycartering | @quintessenceofdust88 @cappuccinoandglitter @jacki-daytona @yveieec @yeonsieunnie | @beanarie @ladyeyrewrites @unhingedangstaddict @hyperfocusthusly @xtarmanderx | @sad-girl-hours23 @thestrangestthlng @fanficsrecs4me @buckbuckleykinard @sammccallfan | @deansmilo @dana077 @pikaguppy @here-there-be-fics @yveieec @corporatebanana @a-w-mouse

And tags for those who wanted to be tagged about this fic specifically

@onthewaytosomewhere @lavenderleahy @bangpop91 @weewookinard @beanarie @leashybebes @sweaters-and-silly @quintessenceofdust88 @sierrarreads @saibowtie @kinardsevan @portinastorm @ladyeyrewrites @rubydaiquiri @mmso-notlikethat @a-mel0n @rdng1230 @fenrirscarsback @sgprfan@nelotegreitic @de-lphic