#forget again

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.

He deposits me in one of the chairs around a small kitchen table, the one furthers away so that I can watch Simon work about the kitchen as I sit. Moving back to the food waiting on the stovetop, he turns to look at me over his shoulder, "hey, science-man, these are still ok to eat, right? Do you think they've been sitting out too long?"

I sit up straighter, "uh, 'science-man'? I thought I was a teacher? But, um, no, they should be good still; it's been less than two hours, so the bacteria hasn't had time to, y'know, grow or anything in the meat. Fun fact: the term for organic matter, like meat, being broken down by bacteria is 'putrefaction'. 'Autolysis' is when enzymes already in the tissue do the degradation. Both are part of decomposition… just… fun fact, I guess." Hmm, ok, maybe 'science-man' is accurate. Simon just nods and clicks the element back on to resume his cooking.

A silence falls over the room, the only noises being the low sizzle of meat in a pan and clinking of cooking utensils. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now; I twiddle my thumbs, awkwardness and anxiousness fighting for dominance in my body. I can't tell if Simon is as uncomfortable with the silence as I am, he's quite proficient at concealing his emotions when he wants to. My mouth repeatedly opens and closes to speak, but I have no clue what to say, so no sound is ever formed. I look down at my hands as I pick at the skin around my nails. I wish I could remember anything else about Simon; I wish I knew how to act around him.

Thankfully, Simon makes the first move to break the tension. "I can hear you thinking from over here."

My head shoots up, "oh, sorry! I'll, uh, try to… think quieter?"

Simon huffs out a laugh through his nose. "That's not what I meant, Sunshine. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

A flush spreads across my cheeks. Oh my gosh, you know you're dating, why are you still blushing over this stuff? Geez, I'm so glad he's facing away and can't see how ridiculous I must look. "P-pretty head?"

"Mhm."

I trip over my words, tongue refusing to cooperate; eventually I manage to get out, "nothing, I'm just thinking–" I sigh. "What am I like? Normally, I mean, when I can actually remember things."

He hums. "Not too different from now, except you usually talk more."

"More!?" I interrupt.

"Way more, except when you hide away to work on some project or another. It's fine, I don't– I'm not as much of a talker, so." I can hear the smile in his voice.

I shift in my seat a little, still playing with my fingers, "What do I talk about?"

He doesn't even take a moment to think on it, immediately answering, "anything science related, really. Most of the time it's whatever lesson plan you've been working on for your students, or the experiment you're doing. I've heard a lot about potatoes recently."

"And I never, like, bore you?" I don't know if I actually want this answer; I don't think I could handle learning that I bore the one man I supposedly love. That supposedly loves me.

He looks over his shoulder at me again, "never." Averting his gaze, he continues speaking, "uh, to be honest, it's been kinda weird having you be less talkative since waking up. It's– I like when you just fill the silence, it's, I don't know, comforting? Grounding, maybe?" That's rather sweet, I think. "Well, no. Actually, it's been nice having you talking this much again; you've been kinda… distant 'cause of that experiment recently." He sounds almost guilty as he speaks, like he's not allowed to want things, not allowed to want me around.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I don't know if it means much right now because I can't remember, but I am sorry."

He waves a hand, dismissing the notion, "it's fine, you get like that every once and a while, I'm mostly used to it. Just gotta ride it out." I hum in response.

Near mumbling, I say, "still, I probably could be better about it." I pick at my nails some more.

"Probably, but," he shrugs his shoulders, "it really is fine usually, Ry. This time it was just… worse than normal."

I don't know how to respond, so I let a new silence settle over us; this time it wraps around me like a blanket, rather than suffocates. The blanket. I'm realizing I left it on the bed, which explains why I'm so cold. But that's so far, I whine in my head. I twist around to cast my gaze across the living room, trying to see if there's any sort of throw blanket or sweater of some kind that I can easily toss over myself. My eyes land on what seems to be a beige yarn cardigan thrown over the back of the couch.

I stand and cross the room in just a few steps; I hear Simon's movements falter for a moment before resuming. Grabbing the cardigan, I run my fingers over the fabric, it's soft under my touch, slightly tattered, obviously well loved. Lifting it fully to put it on, I can see the twin fox heads going along the length of the torso. Do I like foxes? I think so; I do now, at least. It slides on easily, comfortable and familiar.

Simon's voice interrupts my musings, "Ry? Can you grab two plates for us?"

I'm already walking into the kitchen as I answer, "yea, sure. Um… and plates are where?" He points to a cupboard to his right; I open it and on the second shelf find a neat stack of plates made from an odd metal-looking material. The shelf isn't very high up and I don't even need to stretch to reach them, but as I pull them down with my left hand, my sleeve rides up, exposing more of the scarred skin. In my haste to fix my sleeve, I put the dinnerware down harsher than I mean to, they clatter noisily against each other and the counter.

Simon's eyes flick over to me, ever observant, catching the way I move to cover myself. "Your arm bugging you?" He asks simply.

I jolt at his question, at being read so easily. "No– Not– No."

He arches a brow, suspicious, "uh-huh, if it keeps bugging you, Armando still has that cream you used to put on it."

"Used to? I don't anymore? Long-term scar care is like, super important, right? Gotta keep the skin moisturized or something along those lines." Am I really this negligent of my needs?

"Yea, you're not exactly the best at keeping healthy habits, or taking care of yourself." He pauses, clicking off the element before plating both patties on buns (potato buns, maybe?), garnishing them and handing one to me. He grabs the other and turns, walking to the nearby table; I follow. "I guess I can't be talking though, I'm ass at it too."

I sit in the chair Simon originally placed me in. "Oh?"

He joins me, "mhm, I fought you tooth and nail during my recovery when I first got here. Still fight it half the time."

"Why? We don't seem to be wanting for medical assistance." I say before I bit into the burger. Oh sweet Christmas, this is absolutely delicious. My mouth is still half full when I tell Simon, "wow, you are an fantastic cook; this tastes amazing."

He flushes the smallest amount at the praise. "It's nothing, really. You get pretty good when you can basically only make one thing. I've gotten lots of practice, stars know you never do." I hungrily shove more of the meat into my mouth, groaning quietly at the flavour. Geez, I'm absolutely starving. "Glad you seem to be enjoying it."

I nod emphatically, mouth still stuffed, "mhm." Simon seems more focused on watching me eat than on working on his own meal; his eyes tracing over me, warm and squinting in the ghost of a smile. I stop chewing, a realization spreading over me; I shoot my gaze to Simon, my eyebrows furrowed as I think. "Hang on a second, where exactly are we even getting this meat from? I doubt we have a cattle farm hiding somewhere."

"They're, um, made from you…" He admits.

I look down at the burger in my hand, scrutinizing it. "…me?" I clarify, Simon nods. "Hang on, are we talking cell cloning here? Like full-on lab grown meat? That's amazing! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to culture animal cells? I mean, I assumed the Eridians were scientifically advanced, the dome is proof enough, but to culture and clone animal—no human—cells and reproduce them it some degree of mass scale!? That's absolutely incredible! Like– Just– Wow!"

Simon starts chuckling at me, it quickly develops into a full laugh, his eyes close and his head is thrown back slightly at the force of the laughter reverberating out of his chest. He's beautiful. His laughter is warm and hearty, it makes my chest swell.

We spend the rest of our meal talking, well, I talk, trying to pry answers out of Simon. He was right when he said he wasn't as much of a talker, it's like pulling teeth getting him to fill in my empty memory. I'm still asking questions long after we've pushed our plates away. Simon tells me about the kind of experiments I'm apparently always running, my students, Rocky, Adrian, how we often spend our evenings curled up on the couch reading or watching a movie, beach walks, the way I'm slowly but surely teaching him to swim (despite his bone-deep fear of bodies of water), and the pet name "Stardust" which I had unknowingly called him earlier. He expertly avoids any discussions of his life before coming to Erid, which I can understand, if the missing limb and mangled scars covering most of his left side and littered across his body are any indication of what horrors happened to him.

Eventually, my age catches up to me and my body begins protesting sitting in this hard chair for as long as I have. I groan as I stand, vertebrae in my back popping when I stretch. Looking out the window across the room, I can see how much the sky has darkened. I pad over to get a better look.

The sky is black with a scattering of twinkling lights, stars. I squint at them a little, I recognize the constellations, those are Earth constellations, which should be impossible since we're on Erid. They made us simulated stars, they made the biodome more like home.

Simon collects our plates and simply deposits them on the counter with a comment of, "I can deal with those later." He then walks over to where I'm standing by the glass pane, resting his face on my shoulder.

The revelation about the sky has made me oddly emotional. My voice is unexpectedly tight when I say, "those are our stars, Earth's night sky. I can see Cassiopeia, which means that must be Vulpecula over there… It's visible?" I point to the constellations as I name them, but seeing Vulpecula gives me pause.

I can feel Simon's head shift to look up at me, my own eyes still glued to the artificial sky. "'Little Fox.'" He supplies easily. "Those are your favourites, you point them out to me all the time." I feel his hand slip into mine. "We've spent a lot of nights laying on the sand or the top of the cliff while you point out stars and tell me their stories."

"No wonder I was sent to space." I half-joke.

Simon just hums in response, the sound is tight, stilted. "You told me once you got some of the guys working on the dome lighting to make the stars for the Fox brighter so you could see it properly."

"Ha, yea, usually it's not very visible to the naked eye, it's very faint."

"Rocky had them put up Earth's stars for you, wanted it as accurate as possible, but apparently, you insisted on being able to finally see the Little Fox without a telescope."

"And they did it for me? Just like that?" I finally tear my eyes away to look at Simon, who's already looking back at me.

The side of his mouth quirks in a small smile. "Sunshine, they would do anything for you, would do everything if you were selfish enough to ask for it."

His hold on my hand tightens and he pulls me away from the window, laying back on the couch and tugging me down to lay atop him. I slot easily between his legs, my body pressed against his with my head on his chest, tucked nicely below his chin. I shift, rubbing my face a little on his muscled chest as I get more comfortable.

"You're a wonderful pillow," I say, words mildly garbled with my face half smushed into him. He hums, the sound vibrates from deep in his chest and I can feel it in my entire body. A hand comes up to my head, stroking through the strands lovingly. At a whisper, I say, "I think… when I remember again, I think I would understand if you yelled at me." His hand stills in my hair, I press on. "I would deserve it. I freaked you the flip out with this amnesia thing; if I had just told you, if I had been honest, maybe you would've been prepared, would've known how to help without having to also worry Rocky." I fully bury my face into Simon's chest, using the action to wipe some of the moisture building up in my eyes.

Simon's arm moves from my hair to my back, wrapping around me tightly. "Hey, hey, cut that shit out. You can't get on my ass about me saying it's my fault and then turn around and do the same thing." I chuckle wetly.

"Still. Rocky was right about the whole 'tell mates important stuff' thing; I should've told you, you should've known."

"Yea, you should've." He presses his mouth to the top of my head, kissing it gently. "Don't get me wrong, I'm mad as hell, but if I've learnt anything from you, it's that pushing this shit gets you nowhere. You gave me nothing but patience—most of the time—when I was recovering, I can do the same for you."

I press impossibly closer, soaking up his warmth, trying to merge our bodies. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I want to tell him, I need to tell him, but I don't know if I can, if I'm allowed. I don't remember him beyond today, and I'm not the Ryland he knows and loves, I'm not me. How much of a person is their memory? So, I settle with a "thank you, Simon. For everything, truly."

His fingers tap against my back three times in quick succession, the action triggers something far in the back of my mind, I recognize it. I tap him back. I can feel him smile against my head.

I shift again, relaxing further in his hold. Quietly, I ask, "do you think my memory will be back when I wake up?"

He sinks himself deeper into the couch. "One can hope."

I yawn. "Can we– Do you think we could stay like this?"

"If you really want." He thinks for a moment, "you're gonna be complaining about your back all day tomorrow, though."

I lift my head to look at him, mock offence written across my face. "Are you calling me old?" He just shrugs. "Wow…" I say, really drawing out the word for extra drama. Laying the sarcasm on thick, I say, "so, surely I must be too old for you, right? That's fine, I can go sleep on my own, a bony old man like me can't be comfortable to sleep with. I understand." I move to get up, I don't get very far before Simon is pulling me back down. I crash into his chest with an undignified yelp.

He huffs out a playful sigh, "by the roots, you're always so dramatic."

I giggle quietly. "Yea, but you love me," I say, unthinkingly.

Easily, Simon says, "I do."

I falter, staring wide-eyed at Simon. Mildly awkwardly, I manage to get my arms beneath me enough to lift myself so I can be more in line with his face. Simon's hand trails down my back to grab ahold of my hip, a finger stroking gently where the skin is exposed from my shirt riding up. I'm leaning forward before I even realize what I'm doing, my eyes flicking between his and his lips. "Can I– I don't if I'm allowed–"

Simon interrupts me, "I'd never say no to you, Sunshine." He's staring straight into my eyes, pupils dilated.

"You should, y'know. Consent is really important; I don't want to, like, force you to ever do anything you don't want–"

"Ryland?" Simon interrupts again.

"Yes?"

"Can you just shut up and kiss me?" I nod eagerly and continue leaning forward, one of my hands braces against the couch next to Simon's head. My eyes slip closed as our lips finally connect, they fit together like puzzles pieces; somehow, I still know exactly what to do, exactly how to kiss him. His lips are soft, if not a touch chapped; I can feel the way the surgical scar pulls at his mouth. The kiss is sweet, innocent almost, like we're both nervous to take that next step further, if we're allowed to.

I pull back and watch Simon's eyes flutter open after a moment. Quickly, I go back to steal another chaste kiss. Already, my body is complaining at the awkward position. Just shy of embarrassed, I admit, "ok, maybe you were right about my back and the couch." Simon snorts.

Under his breath, he says, jokingly, "maybe one day you'll actually listen to my suggestions." He moves to stand, lifting me with him and proving his muscles aren't just for show. "C'mon, I'm tired." He guides me back to the bedroom, we stop to flick off lights on the way.

Simon makes quick work of stripping out of his shirt and pants to put on a more comfortable set for sleep. I'm frozen staring at his arm and chest while he changes, my face is hot from what most certainly must be a blush. Real smooth, Ryland. He catches my staring, which kickstarts my brain to start changing too. I swap into a pair of sweats easily enough, but my hands hesitate when I go to pull off the fox cardigan. How weird would it be for me to sleep in this? I subconsciously rub my hand up and down my left arm, the fabric rubbing against the sensitive skin causing an odd, faint, slightly painful tingling to bloom in the wake of my motions. The sensation has me taking in a sharp breath, pulling my hand away immediately.

Of course, Simon—too smart for his own good—pieces things together much more easily than I'd like. He sighs quietly through his nose, stands, and leaves the bedroom. I hear the sound of rummaging from the bathroom for a few moments before Simon's reentering the room. He's holding a tube of some kind, I can't make out any details of the label or it's contents from here.

He gestures to me, "alright, shirt off."

"I– Uh, what–?" I say, very intelligently.

He goes to the bed and sits on the edge, facing me. "Your arm, it's bugging you, I can tell," gesturing to my arm again. "I can help."

I walk over to him even as I say, "no, it's not that, it's fine." Liar.

He quirks a brow, "uh-huh, cut the the bullshit, Ry. You can't lie to me about scars, I'm just as covered as you." I let out a sigh of defeat as I sit to his right, my scarred arm closest to him. "It's itching, right?"

Shrugging, I say, "maybe a little." I play with the sleeve cuffs. "But that's not it, that's barely noticeable half the time." I let the sentence taper off, not knowing what to say. Simon waits for me to continue; I can tell that he's putting in a conscious effort to be patient. I contemplate trying to wait him out when I hear him take a deep breath next to me. 'Grace tell mate important things', come on. I take a deep breath to steel myself, blowing it out through my mouth. Smell the roses, blow out the candles. …yea, I really am a teacher.

I shift, turning to look more directly at Simon; I'm quickly overwhelmed by the eye contact and avert my gaze, focusing my attention back on my sleeve cuffs. "I just don't like– I can't–" I groan at myself, for all the times I've run my mouth and now I can't manage the words?

Simon—as much as he tries—doesn't have unlimited patience; he tries to supply, "are you worried about what I think about them? That I'll be grossed out? Ryland, I would never–"

"No, no! It's not that, I swear!" I interrupt, my head shooting up. "It's that I can't; I don't even– Gosh, it's so stupid; I don't even remember what happened, so it shouldn't matter, right? I should be able to look at them and touch them without– without feeling like I'm about to die, or something." My eyes shift down to my left hand, which I have been—unknowingly—clutching the blanket with. "I can't remember it, so why can I still feel it?"

Simon puts down the tube in his hand to slowly, gently ease my white knuckle grip off the fabric. He adjusts his hold to fit my hand in his, stroking his thumb over my scarred knuckles. "I have gaps in my memory… from before Erid, when this," he gestures to his face and empty shoulder socket, "happened. Something about—shit, I can't remember the term—mental blocks, hiding away fucked memories that our brains can't come to terms with." He pauses, pulling our hands towards his mouth to plant a soft kiss on the back of mine. "I don't remember actually losing my arm, but sometimes, in my dreams usually, I can feel it happening again. There was something you said to me once, ages ago; 'the brain might forget, but the body remembers.'"

I nod, eyes wet, "mine does." My voice cracks as I speak, "it hurts, Simon, I can't look at it without it hurting. If I can just avoid looking at them, then maybe…"

"It won't work. I'm sorry." His eyes are apologetic, eyebrows slanting. He understands this feeling intimately, knows exactly what I'm trying to deal with. I pull my hand out of his grasp and bring both up to rub my eyes with the heels of my palms, my already askew glasses being shoved up to my forehead. "Trust me," he whispers.

Matching his volume, I say, "I do, implicitly."

"Then you need to listen to me." He says, voice still gentle but bordering on stern. I nod. "This has to come off," he tugs slightly at the edge of the cardigan. I grimace; he levels me with a look, a brow raised, challenging me to fight him.

I sigh to myself; I understand why he's doing this, that I need to do this. Unfortunately, logic has very little impact on hindbrain terror. My eyes slip closed and I pull the cardigan off my body; I opt to inspect the three-pronged scar on my right forearm instead of looking at my left. "I can't– I need you to, please." He hums in affirmation and I can hear him fiddle with the tube to get the cap off.

The first contact he makes with my skin makes me jolt slightly. The touch feels strange, I can't quite feel it properly; all sensations are muffled, some areas are almost completely numb. His touch is delicate and loving as he rubs in a scar lotion across my arm. Quietly, I ask, "how did I get this one? The one on my right arm."

Without pausing his ministrations, he responds, "that's from Rocky's claw, actually. Nearly killed himself saving you when things went to shit on Mary; his atmosphere is like a million degrees, so." I nod, rotating my arm back and forth, watching the scar tissue warp with the movement.

"And my left?"

He pauses, collects more of the lotion on his hand, and continues on my shoulder and torso. might blush slightly from his hand rubbing across my chest. "From you returning the favour."

I look over at him, "uh, what?"

"I mean, Rocky probably knows the story better than I do, but after saving you, he passed out, or something. So, you had to carry him to his side of the wall and, like, fucked up your arm from touching his air." He caps the container of lotion and looks up at me. "You want your compression sleeve? You used to wear it when the pain was extra bad."

I make a face, "I don't know… that's a bit much, no?"

Simon's head falls back as he closes his eyes and inhales deeply. "Holy fucking roots, I swear to God," he says under his breath. He looks back at me, "Ryland Grace, you are the biggest hypocrite."

Rearing back, eyes wide, I sputter, "I– what? Pardon?"

He points a finger at me, "you heard me; you are such a hypocrite! You're always going 'oh, Simon, let me help you,' 'oh, Simon, you need to take better care of yourself.' While you, mister," he pokes me in the chest, "try to worm your way out of it literally all the fucking time."

I look at him sheepishly, "well, do as I say, not as I do?"

"Uh-huh, sure. You're wearing the damn sleeve." He stands, puts the tube on the limited shelf space, and digs around a couple drawers until he pulls out a blue garment. It takes a lot of finagling—considering we each only have one free hand to work with—and I'm out of breath by the time we're done, but we finally manage to get the sleeve on. It is an improvement, but I'd never admit it out loud.

Exhausted, I fall back on the bed, eyes closed. "You want this?" Simon asks as he throws my shirt at me, it lands directly on my face. It's takes Herculean effort, but I'm able to pull the shirt on and manoeuver myself to slip under the blanket, back in the spot I woke up in at this start of all this. I slap my hand around on the blanket, trying to find the glasses that had fallen off of my face; Simon hands them to me and I smile sheepishly as I take them to be put on the nightstand.

"Yea, don't worry, Ry. I can get the light, no problem." Simon says sarcastically. I just grin and wiggle myself further into the comfort of the bed. The room is cast into darkness and I feel the mattress dip with Simon's weight and an arm is thrown around me to pull me closer before my eyes have the chance to adjust. A kiss is placed on my forehead, cheek, then finally my lips.

I shift to press myself deeper into Simon's embrace, his body warm under my touch, an arm secure around my body. I whisper a "goodnight," and he replies in turn. "Hopefully, when I wake up I'll have my memory back. If not then, I don't know, I guess I'll listen to Rocky's suggestion of a CT." Even though I really don't want to. "Brains are insane; the fact that I can have perfectly functioning memory one day, and then lose everything the next, only for it to all come back again? I mean, there's a reason there's still so much we don't know about brain function; how are we supposed to get full, deep understanding of its inner workings when it does crazy stuff like that?" Simon only tiredly hums back.

My eyes slip closed and I shove my face into Simon's neck, breathing him in. I can feel sleep tugging at my mind, but there's too much happening in my head for me to succumb to it. "Si?"

"What?"

I hesitate, "just… thank you. For dealing with this– for dealing with me."

His hand starts stroking up and down my back, "yea. Now go to sleep; I'll watch for a bit."

"Right, on it." His ministrations help me relax further. Sleep weighs in heavier until finally I slip under.

-------------------------

I wake to a hand running through my hair and a warm, solid body beneath my head. Groaning, I turn to press my face into the warmth, hiding from the light. I can feel the vibration of a deep chuckle reverberate under my cheek. I'm so much more comfortable now than I've been in a week; the lingering pain and limited mobility in my left arm and hand is almost completely gone. I don't want to wake up, there's so much I have to do today, but I can't bring myself to open my eyes yet. I just wish I could stay here forever, it's like things are back to how they were before I messed everything up with Simon over some stupid potatoes.

Crap, my potato saplings. Ugh, maybe today I'll actually make some progress. Ok, upsy-daisy, Grace.

With an obscene amount of effort, I open my eyes, and am met with a view of Simon's neck. Simon, who I've been inadvertently ignoring and who has been ignoring me back; who I recently had a fight with, which has me sleeping on the couch because of it. I don't understand, I took a nap in the bed instead of on the couch because it was the middle of the day and Simon wouldn't have want to sleep anytime soon. When did he join me in bed? Why did he join me in bed?

…when did I get changed? How long have I been asleep? I try to think back to the previous days events, how I got here; things don't like up.

"You conscious yet?" Simon asks, voice still husky with sleep. I shake my head against his chest, but still finally push myself up and off him.

A flash of dark fabric in my peripherals catches my eye, I look to see my arm fully covered in the compression garment I haven't touched in weeks—months, even. I honestly had mostly forgotten where I had put it; it's not like I ever wear it. How in the heck did I get this on? It's not like it could've been put on in my sleep, I definitely would've woken up to that. I whisper, "fiddlesticks." I know exactly what happened; I had an episode, didn't I? Fudging fudger.

I refuse to make eye contact with Simon. He knows now, he has to know. Crap, crap, crappity, crap. I was hoping we'd never have to talk about it, that it would never become a problem. I thought I was done dealing with that, it's been years since my last episode. I sit up, rubbing my hands over my face, the fabric of the compression wrap feels foreign and familiar simultaneously against my face.

The bed shifts as Simon reaches out to rub his hand on my back. "So…" He starts.

"So… um, you want some breakfast?" I ask. Ever the coward. I throw the blanket off myself and quickly stand, already making my way to the door as Simon scrambles up after me.

I hear his footsteps closing in on me, my heart pounds as memories of wind and wet grass flash through my head. "Ryland Grace, get your ass back here." A hand grabs my arm and pulls me back, spinning me around to face him. "You're not getting out of this that easily. Come. Sit. Talk." He says as he walks me to the couch, shoving my shoulder to sit, standing in front of me with his hand on his hip.

I look down at my hands wringing in my lap, a sense of shame burns in my chest. I don't know what to say, I don't know if there's anything I can say to justify why I kept this from Simon for over two years.

Growing impatient, Simon starts talking again, "you wanna tell me what happened yesterday? Can you tell me anything about yesterday?" I shake my head. "No? Oh, that's right. You had an amnesiac episode, something that—apparently—you knew could happen, that's happened before. Repeatedly." I nod. "I don't get it, Ryland. I mean, you know everything about the shit I went through; the blood ocean, the C.O.I., even Eden; fuck, you were literally involved in my recovery!" He starts pacing the short length of the couch. "You nearly starve to death and you don't think to share that? I just can't believe–!" He stops, takes a deep, controlled breath, and sits himself on the coffee table directly in front of me, hand frustratedly pushing his hair back. He ducks his head to catch my eye, forcing me to look at him. "Why? Please, I just… Why keep this from me?"

I barely manage a whisper as I say, "I don't know. It had been so long since the last time it happened, I thought—I hoped—that if I just ignored it, if I never brought it up, that maybe it would just… go away, I guess."

"That's not how it works and you know it, Ry." He says, voice stern but still soft.

"I know; I'm sorry. I meant to tell you, I swear, but the longer I pushed it off, the more I felt like it was too late, that I had missed my window." I pause, looking back down at my hands. "Are you mad at me? Do you– Do you hate me?" I don't want to know, please, I couldn't take it if you hated me now. I'd rather anything but that, I'd rather die. I've lost too much; my brothers, my kids, my home. I can't lose you too. My eyes feel heavy with the weight of building tears, I blink furiously to clear them.

He sighs, "yea, I'm mad, Ryland, but I could never hate you." I could sob with relief; the relief does nothing to ease the pressure behind my eyes though. "I'm mad you kept such a huge thing from me for the entire time I've known you. I don't like being kept in the dark; all I want, is for you to tell me shit—important shit. And to maybe… y'know, not get completely cast aside when you're working on your projects? I– I miss you, Ry."

Nodding, I let myself fall off the couch. Kneeling in front of Simon, I slot between his parted legs and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his stomach. His hand quickly comes up to rub across my shoulder blades. My voice is muffled and wet with tears as I say, "I'm so sorry, Simon. Please, I promise I'll do better, I'll be better. I'm sorry."

"That's not what I– Ok, you know what, c'mon, Sunshine." He says as he manoeuvers the both of us back to the couch. We end up laying side-by-side with me being pressed between Simon's body and the couch backrest. The compression grounds me and I soon regain control of my breathing. "Better?" He asks, a hand running up the length of my back, tapping three times before carding through my hair. I mimic the tapping without thought.

"Mhm," I mumble into his chest. I let us sit in silence for a short while, enjoying the warmth of the body against mine, the faint sounds of water hitting a shore in the distance. I missed this. The silence stretches on as I let myself pretend the past week hadn't happened, like I hadn't accidentally pushed Simon away, hadn't fought with him about food and sleep, hadn't fudged everything up so badly that it resurfaced a medical condition that had long since gone away.

But eventually I have to face the music. Hesitantly, I ask, "so, what did happened yesterday?" And Simon spends the next half hour or so retelling the events of my fugue; he reminds me of an agreement I made with Adrian about supervised meals—which I grumble about—and Rocky's threats if I don't take care of myself.

I know Simon isn't mad at me, but I can't help the pitch of guilt growing in my stomach. He had to deal with me during an episode (I know for a fact that I can be difficult to manage during it) without knowing anything. Simon had absolutely zero prior knowledge about my condition or how to address it before being thrown in the deep end. I shamefully bury my face further into his body to hide away; my entire body is tense and it's causing an ache in my back.

Simon's fingers switch from playing with the strands of my hair to scratching lightly at my scalp; I melt at his ministrations, my bones turning to jelly. What are you, a cat? "How about some breakfast?" He whispers, voice warm.

I nod, but say, "in a minute, can we just stay like this for a bit? I have like a week's worth of Simon touching to catch up on." He chuckles, I can feel it reverberating from his chest, and presses me further into the couch, tangling his legs with mine.

"I think I know the feeling."

We bask in the moment. I break the silence by asking, "so… Am I still banished to sleep on the couch or can I come back to bed?"

He barks a laugh in response, presses a kiss to my forehead and says, "I think I'd be alright having you in bed again." His voice is lilted, almost sarcastic, and I plant a chaste kiss along the spanse of his neck. "But I swear to the fucking stars above, Ryland Grace, if you start up with that 'crawling into bed at dawn' bullshit again, I will call Rocky and give you a mandatory bedtime."

I lift my arm to salute and say, "Sir, yes, Sir!"

"I'm serious, Ry."

My arm lowers to wrap around Simon's torso again. "I know, I'll try, I promise." And I will; I'm going to take a break from the potato splicing, I'll focus more on making class lecture plans and just being with Simon. Heck, I'll hang out with Rocky more, while I'm at it. I'll try to be more open, address the walls I've always had up in my relationships.

…or at least I'll try. Knowing me and my memory though, I'll probably forget again.

----------------

Wowe, this is the first fic I've written and finished in many many many years 💀 shout out to project Hail Mary, iron lung, kacklepop and magical-awesome-kid for giving me enough inspiration to finally get back into fic writing. Also thank you for reading this, I was not expecting it to go on as long as it did (and tbh I could probably cut out a good chunk of it but where's the fun in that?) so for someone to make it to the end of this random thing I spent probably too much time on is great. I enjoyed writing this so hopefully people will enjoy reading it.

A sudden, loud banging at the door causes both of us to jerk back. I bash myself against the window, letting out a pained groan.

Immediately, Simon is back on me, near frantically looking at my head for injury. "I'm fine, I'm ok, Simon! I just hit my elbow, that's all."

The incessant banging continues, along with discordant musical trilling; Simon swiftly makes his way to the door. He's about to put his hand on the doorknob when he turns back to me, a mildly nervous look on his face. "Don't freak out, ok?"

That immediately has me start to freak out. I stand and sputter, "I– You– What? You can't just say 'don't freak out' and expect me to stay calm! What would freak me out!?"

Simon grimaces, "Rocky is kind of… an alien… like a rock spider." I stare at him slack jawed. "He's also your best friend." And with that, he pulls the door open.

A short, five legged rock creature comes skittering through the door, chastising Simon, "why Simon take so long to open door, question? Said emergency! Need to move faster!" He rushes towards me right away; in a panic, I scramble back and tuck myself up on the nook, pressed as close to the window as I can.

"What the fudge!? Simon, what the crap, what is that!?" Not my finest moment, perhaps. This is my best friend? What?

The alien halts in his steps, his carapace in the center of his body drooping. If I didn't know better, I'd say he looks sad. His front two arms come up, held in front of him in a non-threatening gesture, small claws splayed open.

Simon, now standing near the edge of the living room, says, "I told you, Rock. They're completely gone." Ok, chill out, Ryland. Simon's clearly cool with him, and he's your best friend, you should be cool with him too. No need to freak out. "Didn't even remember his own name."

"Ooh, Rocky understand. Has happened before." Simon's head whips to look at me, confusion an concern written clearly across his face. Rocky continues approaching, much slower this time. "Hello, Grace Friend, I am Rocky. Rocky is Grace best friend; Grace should not be afraid." I give a small nod, relaxing slightly in my seat; the voice is familiar. "Rocky not know if amnesia affect ability to understand Eridian; so Rocky wear personal translator, in case. For Simon also, obviously."

"R-right, yea, of course." I look back to Simon for reassurance, but he's looking down, his singular hand gripping the back of the couch. I can see how clenched his muscles are all the way from my spot on the nook.

"What do you mean this has happened before?" He asks Rocky, voice strained the smallest amount.

Rocky's body shifts; he doesn't have a face, but it looks almost like he's looking back and forth between me and Simon. "Grace not tell Simon, question?" He taps a claw twice in quick succession on the ground. "Bad Grace! Bad, bad, bad! Should tell mate important things!"

I huff in mock offence, "you can hardly blame me for things like that right now. I can't even remember them! It's not my fault that not-amnesia-me never said anything about it!"

"Is slight fault, statement." Rocky says.

"Uh-huh, and how would you know? You some expert in human neurology, or something?" The banter is automatic, intrinsic.

He stands a little taller, "yes! Rocky have to learn much about human brain—bad, bad, bad design—when Grace memory stop working right on way back to Erid!"

I slide from the bench to the floor, scooting closer to Rocky. "Hold up, backpedal for a second. When my memory 'stopped working'? What do you mean? And what's 'Erid'?"

Rocky let's out a low, sad sounding whistle. "Erid is Rocky home planet; you are on Erid now. Thought Grace done forgetting. Rocky thought since Grace not dying from starvation, would not have episodes."

"Starvation!?" Simon exclaims from where he stands; I flinch at the sudden noise. "The fuck you mean, Rock!?"

The front two of Rocky's arms wring together. Slowly, he says, "Grace not have enough food for trip home. Ate Taumoeba when food was gone, was not enough." He settles on the floor, tucking his legs underneath himself. "Grace brain not have energy to function right; start forgetting, start sleeping more, lost mass, could not move much." He shudders slightly, vents at the top of his carapace releasing a puff of air like he's sighing. "Use portable human thinking machine and learn much about human biology. Had to find way to fix. Could not let Grace Friend die."

I reach out and place my hand carefully on one of him arms; he shifts closer. "Many times Grace tell Rocky 'sorry', 'thank you', and 'goodbye'. Refuse, every time. Final year of travel and first year on Erid, Grace have many memory loss episodes. Rocky think is 'fugue state' or 'dissociative' type amnesia, unsure, Adrian better at human biology. Stop being issue when Eridian scientists fix food problem. Rocky never think amnesia would be problem again. Simon make sure Grace eating, question?"

Simon throws his hand in the air, frustration written clearly across his face. "Of course I've been fucking feeding him, but he's a grown man, he is capable of taking care of himself. I'm not on his ass all the time about eating."

"Simon know Grace ignore basic human needs. Have Armando check Grace yet, question?"

"Not yet."

Rocky stands, "why not, question!? Should be first thing done!"

Simon takes a few steps towards the two, his face contorted in anger. He gestures accusingly at Rocky, his voice sharp, "well maybe if either of you had told me earlier this could happen, I would've be ready to deal with whatever's going on, and not have to spend the whole time freaking the fuck out and guessing!"

Quietly, I say, "I'm sorry; you really should've been told. I don't why I didn't."

"You know—or knew—nearly everything about me. I just don't get why–" He huffs, and runs his hand through his hair roughly, tugging on the strands.

"Simon need fresh air, question?" He taps the floor twice.

Simon waves a dismissive hand. "Buzz off, Rocky. I'm fine."

Rocky let's out a chiding whistle, "Simon need fresh air, statement." Simon stares at Rocky and opens his mouth, ready to argue back. He doesn't get the chance to. "Check on greenhouse, question?"

Simon breathes out heavily through his nose, working his jaw. I can see the muscles clenching together. Finally, he relents, sighing and relaxing slightly. "Yea, sure." He turns and walks to the door, stopping short to look back at me, "you gonna be alright, Ry?"

I flick a hand, "oh, yea, I'm good. Rocky's got me."

"Rocky got Grace!" He stands a little taller. "Simon go water plants, Rocky look over Grace, Simon come back for explanation. Good plan, question?"

Simon nods once, then leaves. The door clicks harshly behind him.

Rocky patters over to Grace, "Rocky not like when Simon get mad, mad, mad; is stupid when mad, stops thinking clearly."

My eyes linger on the door. "Does he get mad like that often?"

"Hmm, no," he shakes his carapace side to side, "get a little mad usually, only sometimes have anger outburst. Simon has improved much while on Erid." He pauses, "Grace also."

I give out a clipped, doubtful laugh. "You say that, but here I am with no memories from more than an hour ago."

Rocky stomps one of his arms, "Grace improve, statement. Grace forget last quarter of trip home and first year here; much, much, much improvement." He hums an annoyed tune. "Come, must have Grace checked. Need to know if Grace need Human Medicine Team."

He gestures me to follow; I stand and he leads me back to the bedroom. "Lay on bed. Armando will check Grace's vitals."

I do as told, throwing the quilt onto the foot of the bed before laying down on the side closest to the door. I make a conscious effort to avoid looking at my left arm. "Armando?" As if responding, a robot with multiple arms comes out of a storage space built into a nearby wall; it immediately comes towards me. "Oh? Hello." It moves one of its arms in an approximation of a wave and starts taking vitals. I'm given a pulse oximeter, a blood pressure cuff, and a general body scan. This thing is high tech. I feel like I'm in a sci-fi movie, or Star Trek. Hey! Another thing I remember; I like Star Trek!

"Is medical robot, good for general medical care."

"Oh, cool. So you think it'll help figure out the sudden amnesia thing?"

"Yes. Can do brainwave scans."

"So, do I, like, tell it what to do?" Armando is doing great with getting my vitals, but it's not quite focusing on the right area.

"Grace Rocky made amnesia protocol."

"Ok, um… Armando, activate 'Amnesia Protocol'." Armando whirrs and one of the arms attaches a series of electrodes to my head. An EEG probably. Ok, so I must be pretty smart to know this medical stuff. Armando asks me a series of questions about myself that I struggle to answer. Results pop up on two screens, one a standard computer screen, the other an odd device that shows what's on the first, but displays it as a tactile, 3D image at Rocky's height. Oh, he must use echolocation, that's why he doesn't have eyes… or a face.

While Rocky is reading results (I think he's reading them, it's kind of hard to tell where he's looking because of the whole 'no face' thing), Simon finds us in the bedroom; he looks less tense now. "Hey, Si, feeling better?" I ask.

He quirks a small smile, "uh, yea." Another rock creature—Eridian—follows Simon into the room, they're taller than Rocky and a nice bluish-green. "I ran into Adrian outside." Adrian settles on the ground near the door and waves, I wave back tentatively. Simon shuffles closer. "How 'bout you? How are you?"

"More or less the same." I give a thumbs down—wait, thumbs down? That's not right. I correct myself and Simon laughs. "Sorry, I didn't mean– I meant to give 'thumbs up'."

He waves a dismissive hand, "no, you were right. Picked that up from Rocky; he can only do down, so." Rocky proves Simon's point by giving both of us a thumbs down, his attention not shifting from the display.

I look over to where he's been scrutinizing the screen, "so, what's the verdict, Rock?"

"Grace brain activity right now is similar to previous temporary amnesia events. Grace attempt leaving, question? Suddenly walk away, question?" He asks Simon.

Simon puts his arm over his chest, as if he's crossing his arms. "Pfft, nearly ended up in the water."

"Bad habit Grace has during episode. Rocky learn much about amnesia from portable earth thinking machine, believe events are like 'fugue states'. Grace forget self and other important memory, should return before one Earth day completes."

Simon sits at the foot of the bed, his hand coming up instinctively to rub soothing motions on my lower shin. "Thank the stars." He says in a relieved breath.

"So, um, can I sit up now? Or do I still need to be poked at?"

Rocky comes closer to the bed, "Rocky think Grace should get proper brain scan, MRI, CT, just make sure Grace ok." He taps his fingers together, fidgety.

I sit up, pulling the electrodes off my head, some of them leave behind a slightly sticky residue and make me cringe. "You said it yourself, Rock, this has happened before, and my memory has always come back in the end. I think I'll be ok."

"Maybe Grace get blood work, check for malnourishment." He shifts nervously, his concern for my well-being making him twitchy.

I make a face, "is blood work really necessary?"

Simon snorts, "how the tables have turned." My gaze shifts over to Simon, my confusion must be written clearly on my face because he elaborates, "you were on my ass about regular blood work for ages. Something about 'monitoring my progress' or whatever."

I groan, "but I really don't wanna…" Am I whining? Maybe. But I really don't feel like being a patient anymore.

From their spot on the floor, Adrian pipes in, their computerized voice lower and smoother than Rocky's , "Grace right; not first time Grace experience amnesia, will be alright. Simon can watch Grace, make sure condition not worsen."

"Exactly, thank you, Adrian." I say. Rocky slumps, not liking being outvoted by his friend and his mate.

Simon takes a breath and asks, "so, can you tell me about the whole 'amnesia and starvation' thing now?"

I perk up, clapping my hands together once, "oh, yes! I'd like to know about it too, please. I don't remember it, obviously."

Rocky let's out a low, apprehensive tune, settling again on the floor. "Grace home sun sick like Erid sun, Eridians call it 'star-eater'."

My body suddenly feels cold, a familiar sense of dread pools in my gut. "Astrophage," I say, "I remember it."

"Yes. Earth make fast, fast, fast ship, go to Tau Ceti to fix home star; Tau Ceti not sick. Force Grace on ship, give drug induced amnesia, put in coma. Bad, bad, bad for space blob mushy brain."

"I was given amnesia!?" I'm standing, I didn't notice I got up, but now I'm pacing the short length of the bed, one hand pulling at the roots of my hair, the other wrapped tightly around my chest. "Comas are risky enough, I could've died on the trip there! But to intentionally give me amnesia!? How could they have known I would get my memory back!? My brain could've been permanent mush!" I gasp a breath, my lungs and heart working overtime in my stress.

Simon reaches out as I pass him, his hand grabbing for the arm tugging at my hair. "Take a breath, Ryland." He says gently. I nod and let his hand slip into mine. The mattress shifts under my weight as I sit again, closer to Simon. I take a few intentionally deep breaths as I fiddle with Simon's fingers in my lap.

After a few moments I recollect myself. "Sorry, continue, Rocky," I nod at him.

His vents flutter as he let's out some air. "Grace right, many, many, many risks, other two crew died in coma. Rocky think Grace brain permanently damaged by amnesia and coma."

Now it's Simon's turn to interrupt, "I thought everything came back though? You said the drugs effects wore off, right?"

Rocky bobs up and down, "it did, memory come back."

"But my brain was never quite the same, was it?" I don't even need to ask, I already know the answer.

"Rocky think same."

"So when does the starvation and episode thing come into play?" Simon asks.

"Grace Rocky find Astrophage solution, part to go home, Taumoeba escape breeder-tanks to eat Astrophage fuel. Grace come back for Rocky, both go to Erid on Mary—Grace ship." He pauses. "Take one hundred ten million, three hundr-"

"Days, months, years, Rocky. You know humans can't do math as well as you guys." Simon interrupts.

"Apology. Trip take three point five years, Grace not have enough food. Tried to ration, no real food for final fourteen months, ate Taumoeba. Is not enough. Eridian scientists work fast, fast, fast to make Grace food, take another year." He delicately taps his front claws together, warbling a sad song. "Very glad Grace not remember much from that time, Rocky can't forget. Grace start having episodes while on Mary where Grace forget everything again, sometimes forget self, sometimes forget who Rocky is. Had to hide multiple times because Rocky scare Grace bad, bad, bad."

I kick my leg out and gently nudge Rocky; perhaps 'nudge' isn't the right word, more like I press my food against him. "Oh, bud, I'm so sorry."

He leans into the touch. "Is not Grace fault, statement. Rocky do it all again for Grace." I smile at him. Simon was right, he really is my best friend.

"But what triggered this episode? I mean, you guys fixed the food problem, so why wake up with an empty head?" I ask.

Adrian chitters an answer, "normal triggers include no food, no sleep, high stress, other possible trigger is head trauma, but that one is usually not issue. Grace episode occurrence decrease greatly after food problem solved, down again when biodome finish."

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, "shit, this is my fault. Fucking stars above, I did this to you." He pulls his hand away.

I sputter, "what? I- hold on- what? How on Earth could this be your fault? You didn't even know it could happen; how could you have caused it?"

He rubs at his face, holding it in his hand. "You've been trying to grow different veggies, you're bored of just potatoes and tomatoes. Said something about missing bell peppers." He sighs, "whenever you start a new experiment or project you ignore everything else; your sleep schedule gets so fucked out of wack, you start forgetting to eat or drink anything. Usually, I manage to still get you to take care of yourself a little bit; one meal a day isn't enough, but it's something." He hesitates.

"Usually?" I prompt.

Simon lowers his hand from his face, but refuses to make eye contact. "Things haven't been working right; the plants aren't growing well, no matter how hard we try to care for them. You're on your seventh round of modified seedlings and haven't made any progress." I watch as his eyebrows pinch together, his jaw working harshly under the skin. "And while you're stressing over that, I—of course—had to fucking snap. I just laid into you about how tunnel visioned you get over this stuff.

"Holy fucking roots, I was such an ass. I was so over you trying to quietly crawl into bed at the crack of dawn and wake me every day. It's just-" Adrian shifts from the spot by the door to gently put a claw on Simon's knee, trilling a soft, soothing melody. "I worry, y'know? About you." He finally looks back at me. "I've spent weeks making meals, eating by myself, and putting a plate on your desk only for it to still be there—untouched—hours later. I'm not even sure if you eat them half the time. And my sleep has been shit 'cause I've been sleeping alone for the first time in forever, and I just- I don't know, I miss you Ryland. You were already beating yourself up over those fucking vegetables, and I just go and say that it might be better for you to start sleeping on the couch and make your own food."

I can see his chest moving erratically, rising in shallow, rapid motions; his eyes glisten, the tears not built up enough to fall yet. Suddenly, he slips from the bed to the floor, positioning himself on his knees in front of me. Adrian twitches, surprised at Simon's unexpected shifting, and pulls away, silently moving to sit beside Rocky. Simon presses himself against me as close as he can, my knees stabbing into his chest. A trembling hand grabs the outside of my thigh, then shifts to clutch onto my shirt near my hip. He shoves his face into my lap, and I can see his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back his crying.

I jolt slightly, of all the reactions I expected he could have, this one was low on my list. I may not be able to remember much of what Simon is usually like, but he holds himself in such a way that makes it seem like anger is an old friend, not this despair that's coming off him in waves. My hands automatically fly to tangle in his hair, petting the strands gently. In a broken voice, he whispers, "I'm sorry, Ry, I'm so sorry. I didn't- I never meant- please, I'm sorry. Fuck, Sunshine, this is all my fault, isn't it? I never wanted to hurt you."

His words kickstart my brain; his shaking voice worming it's way into my ribcage and crushing my heart. My eyes burn with tears, and I shush him soothingly. "Simon, what– I don't know how to help, tell me what you need, Stardust." His entire body shakes with a choking sob, he shifts his head from side to side, I can see a wet smear on my pant legs from his tears. As gently as I can, I nudge him forward and slink onto the ground with him, wrapping my arms around him, one around his back and the other still curled in his locks. I pull him close against my chest.

I can barely understand the words through Simon's hitching breaths as he says, "you remember?" And more "I'm sorry"'s.

My voice is a tight whisper when I say, "shh, Si. It's ok, I don't blame you, I swear."

"You should," he answers into the crook of my neck, the words cracking.

"Simon being stupid!" Rocky shouts, jumping to standing. "Both Grace Simon stupid! Perfect mates!"

"Wha– Rocky!" I say.

Simon lifts his head to look at Rocky, "watch it, you big pile of rubble." He says at the same time, his voice still nasally from the tears.

Rocky throws a hand in the air, exasperated. "Is true!" Adrian raised a hand and stroked at one of Rocky's arms, admonishing him quietly, telling him to calm. "Will not, Grace Simon make problem by not talking. If talk, no problem! Do not understand. Humans so confusing." He walks towards where Simon and I sit on the floor, he points a claw at me, "Grace promise Grace tell everything to Simon."

I sputter.

"Grace promise." He says again.

"I– Yea, sure, of course. If I, y'know, remember." I say sheepishly.

Rocky stomps a foot, huffing. "Will make Grace remember! Will give multiple reminders!" He shifts his focus to Simon and shakes a fist at him, "Simon! Always blame self for everything, not everything Simon fault, statement!" Simon curls in on himself at the reprimanding, tucking himself further into my hold. "Rocky mad Simon say mean things to Grace, but Grace deserve, was stupid, neglect human needs. Rocky will ignore Simon poor behaviour."

Adrian stands, putting a placating claw on top of Rocky's carapace. "What Rocky mean to say, not Grace Simon fault, is no fault. Simon not told it could happen, can not have blame for something Simon not know. Grace reckless to ignore basic needs, deny food, deny sleep, put under excessive stress; however, episode always possible risk, cannot help."

Rocky crosses his front two arms across himself in a very human-like gesture. In a whistle that almost sounds mumbly, he says, "can help, take care of self." Adrian makes a noise that isn't picked up by the translator, but feels like a "hush."

"Will have Simon monitor food intake; if Grace still won't eat, will have Rocky or Human Medicine Team come watch Grace eat every meal. Agree, question?" They stomp a foot twice.

I let out a surprised scoff, "ok, surely that's not necessary, you think?"

"If Simon report Grace eat minimum two meals each day cycle, Human Medicine Team not needed. Will check back after one human week." I sigh, dejected. "Simon agree, question? Will track Grace meal, question?"

Simon sits up straighter, wipes his eyes, "yea, of course. Whatever you think is needed; however I can help."

"Good. Will need to remind Grace conditions of agreement once fugue finished, Grace rarely remembers duration of episode afterwards." Simon nods.

I raise my hand slightly, "so I don't get a say on if I need a babysitter?"

All three other voices in the room speak at the same time, all of them say, "No."

I lower my hand, "right, got it."

Rocky says, "Simon have permission—encouragement—to contact Rocky if Grace not eat. Will visit biodome."

"Oh, geez, you're taking this really seriously, huh?"

"Rocky take Grace health more serious than Rocky health." He says, matter-of-factly.

Adrian chimes in, "is true."

I shift away from Simon, he lets me go easily, and I crawl towards Rocky. I wrap my arms around him and press my face to his xenonite suit—oh hey, more stuff I remember—it's warm on my skin, almost uncomfortably so, but I bear it. "Thanks, buddy." He responds by bringing his two front arms up to mimic my hold; his grip is almost crushing. I wheeze and pat his shell, "ok, that's a little too tight, Rock."

He loosens his grip immediately, "apology, apology, apology. Grace so squishy, easy to crush." He pauses for a second, then says, "Rocky experience enough of Grace starving for lifetime, Many lifetimes."

"I'll do better, I promise." I whisper.

"Grace better," he says in a faux chastising voice, raising a claw to shake a fist at me before he starts to lose balance and has to place it back on the floor. A chuckle blooms from my chest as I release him from my hold.

Turning back to Simon, my smile falls from my face when I see him still curled into himself on the floor. He worries the fabric of his pants between his fingers, his breathing still a touch heavier than what I'd like. I move back to him, taking the digits into my own hands to fiddle with them. "C'mon, Si, no blaming yourself. Did you not listen to Adrian's whole spiel about fault?"

Quietly, he says, "yea, I just–"

"I just don't wanna hear it," I say, drawing out the words, emphasizing the syllables. He huffs, a small smile tugging at his lips. I switch tactics, "do you blame me?"

He startles, eyes wide, "what?! No, fuck, of course not!"

"Mhm, then why do you think I would blame you? I don't remember whatever fight you said we had, but even if I did, I don't think I would put any of the fault on you. And I'm sorry that you feel like you deserve to be punished for this. You don't." My fingers gently card through his long hair as I speak.

"You know, you're kind of starting to use your teacher voice on me," he says with a slight grin.

I raise an eyebrow, "my 'teacher voice'? I was–?" I get quick, hazy flashes of memories, of my students. "I was a teacher."

"Grace still teacher." Rocky corrects. "Rocky think Grace should cancel class tomorrow, memory might not return in time."

"Sure, makes sense." I shift where I kneel on the floor, "Can we move somewhere a little more comfortable? My old man knees are getting a little mad at me." Simon snorts and stands, holding out his hand to me to help me up. He tugs me up with more force than I'm expecting and lose my balance, stumbling into his chest. My hand automatically comes up to steady myself, landing directly on a pec, the muscles are solid beneath my touch. I freeze, looking down at my hand on his chest. I am so jealous of non-amnesia me, I wish I could remember any of those times I've gotten to see him shirtless.

"Sunshine? You still with me?" He ducks his head to catch my eye, his eyebrows subtly pinched in concern.

"Yea… Yea, I'm– I'm with you. I was just, um…"

"Grace being gay, statement." Rocky chirps.

I whip my head around to look at him, "Rocky!"

"Grace heart rate increase when touch Simon." He points out.

I sputter, "ok, maybe! But that doesn't mean you have to say it!"

"Alright, alright," Simon laughs out, "enough bickering. I still have to make lunch; I want to cook those burgers that've been sitting on the stove before I have to toss them." I hum in response, still holding onto Simon. He looks over to Adrian and Rocky, "you guys are free to stay, but, uh, y'know…"

Adrian cringes slightly, "thank. Do not need to observe human feeding, still think it disgust."

"Rocky not think Grace eat disgust anymore, spend long time watch Grace eat on Mary and during recovery." He shifts from side to side, "maybe little disgust." I chuckle at him. "Will let Grace Simon eat privately." He says as he and Adrian begin walking out the bedroom door; Simon and I trail behind them.

We all make our way to the front door, Simon goes and pulls the door open for the two Eridians. Adrian steps out with a "thank you, Simon," Rocky falls behind, reaching a claw up to grab at the fabric of my pant leg.

"Grace promise Grace will get proper scan if condition worsen, question?"

I kneel down to Rocky's height and put a hand atop his shell. "I promise, buddy. And don't worry, Simon'll look out for me; I still have someone to watch me sleep."

He starts at that, "Grace remember Erid sleep culture, question? Memories return, question?"

My knees creak as I stand again, "I've gotten some back, most has been things I subconsciously know. Like if I just try to say what feels natural, it comes back a little bit. I've been doing quite a lot of trusting my gut."

"Rocky still think gut is worst organ to trust, brain much better."

"It's just a human saying, Rock."

"Humans strange."

I laugh, "don't I know it." I nudge him gently with a foot, "I'll be more careful, I swear. See you later, bud." He gives me a quick wave and scrambles after his mate, already halfway down the steps leading to the beach. Simon and I stand at the door to watch their bodies shrink into the distance. I wrap my arms around myself to fight off the cold from the ocean air; I had stupidly left the blanket in the bedroom. My fingers graze the scarred skin of my left arm and I tense, immediately shifting my touch to land on the t-shirt sleeve instead.

I feel a hand caress its way up my back before resting at the base of my neck, a thumb stroking softly along the skin. I lean into the touch, welcoming the warmth. Simon pulls me in closer and says, "let's have lunch, yea?" I let him pull me to the kitchen.