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She's in a bed. She wasn't in a bed last time she remembered.
She was in the escape pod, right? Or the Academy? Every time she tries to consult her memories, they crash over her like a giant wave, draining out until they swirl in contradictions around her legs. The emotions rush back into her, happy, sad, angry, terrified, pensive, exhausted, dead.
But above all, she is in a room she doesn't recognise.
It's white. A fragment swims to her of Eito's room, but it's not that. The floors are grey, there's a plant in the corner, and her bedsheets are a pristine white. There's an IV drip on her arm.
She blinks, and there's spectres in her room. Their blurry forms vanish before she can truly recognise them. The clock's hands click into a new place, hours ahead.
And Takumi is there.
She tilts her head to the side, the sensation feeling like an echo in her own body, distant. And Takumi is there.
"Hiruko! You're awake!" He says with a palpable excitement, yet one that’s slightly restrained. He hovers over the side of the bed, the warm smile outshining the room’s hissing light. If she pressed her fingers to it, she’d feel lukewarm plastic. If she pressed her fingers to his cheek, she’d feel warm, blood-flushed skin. And suddenly the sludge of her memories are pulled into a choir, as her heart soars at his face.
And yet there's a drought within her body. She is so thirsty.
She doesn't remember what she's supposed to say.
"Don't push yourself too much, okay?" Takumi says, concern flickering across his face. "The doctors say the adrenaline rush you got probably made the leap damage symptoms subside, but after they wore off, you collapsed. We're still in limbo, y’know, with the… uh… humans, but..." He places a hand on the back of his neck. "They agreed to help treat you. That's... That's something at least."
There's a piece of this she's missing, something just out of reach. Or buried incomprehensibly in her scattered mind. But she knows he's not hiding it from her, so she just nods, as she watches the rise and fall of his chest.
(Body like a desert. Mouth dry, despite the saliva in it.)
"Can you hold me?" A voice says. She blinks, and realises it's hers. She doesn't know where it came from, which part of her spoke it.
"Yeah. Yeah, sure." Takumi's eyes widen a little in surprise, but only for a second. She feels the thrum of his lips against hers, his head in her chest, ghosts pressed into her skin. His heartbeat. His heartbeat.
He's determined, and yet hesitant. Heart held back by a rational mind, she supposes, as he tries to figure out the best way to approach holding her. She tries to sit up, but her body rattles with numbness, and she lets out an exhale that sounds like a groan.
"I'm coming, Hiruko." He says to try reassure her. Settle her, maybe.
Bending over awkwardly as his legs remain beside the bed, whilst his body twists to be parallel with her chest, he loops his hands under her armpits, palms pressed into her back as he tries to raise her slightly. He does it slow, eyes flicking constantly back to her expression. Whilst she focuses on the warmth against her back.
Warmth, all around her as he leans in to press himself against her. He's still wearing the hoodie, the jacket, she notices. He still smells the same, the same as he does when they reach the end of those 100 days, the faint scent of body spray firmed into sweat and earth. His hair brushes her face, soft as ever. And she can't hold back any longer.
It's just above the collarbone.
The blood, the cryptoglobin rushes out, and it's so warm against her mouth. Warmth, taken by her, pooling in her throat. She laps at it, gulping it down as it washes her mouth anew, her body being revitalised with each drop. She whispers apologies against the wound, I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I'm doing this again.
Blood spilled for her selfish wants.
His memories are on her tongue, and only now she remembers that that's a part of this process, too. The name Karua fits perfectly in her mouth, places she's never been now intimate to her. She is painted with so many kinds of joy and grief, so many of them already familiar. As she listens to a girl explain how she doomed a timeline, and feels anger, hatred, sadness, and above all, a heart-wrenching affection.
And the blood is so rich, so filling, it's like lapping up a soul. Nothing she's ever eaten or drank can ever compare, because how could it? The deeper significance behind something is often known rather than felt, the long-standing tradition behind a wine, the months of work formed into a single piece of art. And yet, as stray drops stumble down her neck, she feels her spirit press against his, and start to entwine.
He stands there, steady, still. She feels the hastening of his breathing. She can feel it in her own lungs.
(And yet, part of her knows it won't be for long. He passes out when he recovers even a few timelines.)
In a few moments, he is gone. Spectres flitter through her room, familiar faces fragmented along them. Fingers crawl over her, like needle-pricks in how fast they vanish.
When she next touches her fingers to her mouth, she finds it dry.