It has been seventeen and a half days, and Fuuma doesn't know why he is keeping count. He wants to punch Kamui, in the mouth, break his teeth, knock him down, and it is the first time Fuuma can ever remember wanting to do violence to another person, and Kamui doesn't come anyway.

Arisugawa comes instead, and is frantic when he does. Flinching at nothing, hyper focused, talking to the nurses, the doctors, prodding everyone he sees for facts and information and rattling it off to him, touching his forehead, checking for a fever, and sometimes just touching to touch, grabbing, keeping himself from it, hands at Fuuma's neck. Checking for your pulse, he mutters, but there is a heart monitor, and he won't meet Fuuma's eyes.

Fuuma assumes that Arisugawa intends to murder him, and waits calmly for him to get up his nerve. Arisugawa sits at his bedside instead, or more often on the bed, looking everywhere pointedly, hyperactive with tension. Retrograde amnesia, he says, and makes it into an accusation. You've only forgotten because you don't want to remember.

One day Arisugawa checks his forehead and runs his hand up through Fuuma's fringe, and it would be comforting if it wasn't so uncomfortable, if Arisugawa's gaze wasn't so hard, if his gaze wasn't fixed on the wall behind Fuuma, and he thinks for one absurd minute he was going to be caressed, or kissed, or killed. "Arashi," he remembers; Arisugawa moves away as if struck, almost falls over a chair, almost funny, but his eyes were—and why—

so—

Retrograde amnesia. "Who was she?"

All smiles, that was how Arisugawa had been eight months ago, obnoxious and intruding and still intruding now, yes, but sharper, still clinging, but clinging desperately, because—because Fuuma had used the past tense. Because he wasn't as kind as he wanted to be. Because Arisugawa wanted to kill him, and wouldn't. Because he didn't want to remember. Eight months. Arisugawa does smile thin now, and drops his face into his palms, and Fuuma doesn't say a word.

Oh, he wants to hit Kamui.