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For a while, Tokitoh didn't remember anything at all. His memory was like a screen with nothing on it, just blank and maybe with that faint, irritating ring in the background--it was familiar like those first moments waking up in a new place, scared out of his mind. There was something horrible about not remembering why he was there and awake and sore and trembling, but it was like being born again. It was real, too, like waking up from a nightmare and knowing that this, this is real. The thing about not remembering was that it meant everything was new, like bedsheets and a reek of tobacco and the feeling like he'd been dragged through a dishwasher, minus the details. The disorientation rattled him halfway into panic-mode, until he remembered he was wrong, until he remembered there was something to remember.
He remembered staggering in the door, limping and leaning heavily on Kubota's arm in the dark, and hearing a soft, "Welcome home," from somewhere over his head. The apartment smelled warm and there, traces of scents like soap and curry and cigarettes and sweat clinging to the walls, and he remembered, too, croaking, "Yeah. I'm home," and Kubota laughed a little, and then he remembered waking up to sunlight and bruises, to a feeling like invisible dirt was caked on his skin.
He did not get out of bed, preferring to stay curled in a ball of aching muscles and watch the sunlight move across the wall. Kubota came in once with an unreadable look on his face, peering at Tokitoh as he pretended to doze, and then he left and let Tokitoh stay in bed for hours, covered in blankets and burying his head under the pillows. After he stopped pretending, he slept numbly for a while, waking exhausted and sleeping again. When it was afternoon and he still hadn't pulled himself from bed, Kubota came into the bedroom with a cup of soup. Tokitoh watched him from an odd sideways angle, curled up with a pillow half-clamped over his head, and finally, Kubota gave a mild sigh and asked if he wanted breakfast.
"S'at breakfast?" Tokitoh mumbled into the blanket. Kubota cocked his head to the side and nodded, and after a long, contemplative moment, Tokitoh dragged the pillow from his head and roused himself. He reached for the cup with a shaky left hand, leaving his right buried under blankets, and when his fingers met the curve of the ceramic, Kubota pushed it against his palm. Kubota's long fingers slid over his, and normally he would have snapped or hissed something like I'm not an invalid or I can do it myself, but Tokitoh could not lie and he flushed and with Kubota's help he gulped down the soup so fast he almost choked.
When Kubota was holding an empty cup and Tokitoh had flopped back onto the pillows with a stifled groan, he did not leave. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Tokitoh with a vague look, until Tokitoh couldn't take it anymore and half-heartedly slung a pillow at him. "What?" he demanded.
Kubota smiled and easily deflected the pillow, turning it into a smooth, one-handed movement that ended with his fingers wrapped around Tokitoh's wrist in a gentle grip. "Nothing," he murmured. "I was just..." he slid his fingers up Tokitoh's forearm, pushing back the sleeve of the oversized shirt he'd slept in, "looking." As his fingers traveled up Tokitoh's arm, marks appeared in their wake, shaped like handcuffs and fingerprints.
Tokitoh stiffened, jerking back his arm, but Kubota did not release him, and so the movement only brought him a little closer. Tokitoh stared at the map of bruises on his skin and said weakly, "Oh." Patterns of violet and sickly yellow and grey bloomed across his arm, and in a few places shallow cuts had scabbed over black. "Gross." He shifted his weight and felt again that soreness stretching down his spine, his legs; his chest ached when he took a deep, shaky breath in, and he remembered a little more. He remembered being pulled from the sea, spitting vile salt water onto filthy pavement while red and blue flashed against concrete and wet skin. Deep in the folds of the cover, he tensed the fingers of his terrible hand into a fist, feeling claws bite into skin, and he remembered being cold, being wrapped in a sterile-smelling blanket and a solid, equally sopping presence beside him. He swallowed and darted his eyes up. Kubota was still holding his wrist, that maddening, mild look still on his face, and when Tokitoh met his eyes, he blinked and very slowly laid Tokitoh's hand down to rest on top of the blanket.
"Just looking," Kubota said again, softly, and he raised his hand to brush his fingers against Tokitoh's face. There was a tightness there, and Tokitoh could see another tightness, a different tightness, at the corners of Kubota's mouth--something like the edges of a smile that would never reach his eyes. Kubota's fingernails caught at something on Tokitoh's face, and he scratched at the edge of Tokitoh's cheekbone until something flaked and fell. Tokitoh could smell rust and copper, suddenly, and he put his own fingers to the crust of dried blood down his cheek as Kubota pulled away and said, "You need a bath."
Tokitoh muttered a few colorful curses at the mirror when he finally limped his way into the bathroom. It showed him a ghastly reflection, one of bruises across his cheekbones and black flakes of blood trailing from his hairline. He scowled at himself and dragged his fingers through tangled bangs, wrinkling his nose as crusted salt and dirt fell to the counter.
After he showered--he had to sit down and scrub furiously at his hair, and then he stayed sitting for a long time, until his skin ached from the hot water and his fingers and toes pruned--he emerged to a quiet apartment. He had clothes he'd dug out of a pile by the bedroom door before creeping to the bathroom, and his glove from where it had been tossed on the nightstand, crusted with something suspicious and dark. His shirt and jeans chafed oddly, as though he wasn't used to wearing them, and he kept clenching his right fist to hear the creak of soft leather in the creases of his palm. Kubota was stretched out on the couch with the newspaper, and he craned his neck around to look at Tokitoh upside-down. "Tea?" he said, and from his tone, it was as if nothing had ever been wrong.
Tokitoh stood there for a moment, a towel over his head, opening and closing his mouth, and then he gave an irritated shake of his head and started rubbing at his wet hair. "Uh. No. Thanks." Kubota watched him go to the sink and get a glass of water, and Tokitoh did not look at him.
He was heading back in the direction of the bedroom when Kubota called, "You can't."
"Eh?" Tokitoh glared over his shoulder. "What do you--"
"I stripped the bed," Kubota said, pulling himself up to look at him over the back of the couch. He crossed his elbows and cocked his head to the side. "The sheets were dirty."
"Wha--oh. Oh." Tokitoh flushed and swallowed. He shuffled his feet for a moment, and then he flicked his damp hair out of his eyes and picked his way carefully over to the balcony door.
"Your hair's--"
"I don't care," he snapped, and slid the door open. The evening was cool, with an edge of lingering winter, and he dropped his towel by the door and went to lean against the low concrete wall. The sky was stained rose and violet, silhouetting the city in black against it. He spread his fingers over concrete, one hand pale and mottled with scratches and bruising, the other black and caged in leather. He took a deep breath and held it, feeling his ribs ache with the movement, and he did not think about running and leaping and swimming away from the yakuza's guns. He solidly set himself against the memories, refusing to acknowledge that they were there, and calmly labeled them amnesia. Amnesia was a big blank spot that took up a lot of space, and it meant no one would talk to him about it. It meant everything was new, and things from before were nightmares.
He let out his held breath in a startled cough when something fell over his head, and then Kubota was saying reproachfully, "Don't go outside with wet hair. You'll catch a cold." He gently scrubbed at Tokitoh's hair with the damp towel, and Tokitoh relaxed, making wordless noise. He crossed his arms and dropped his chin onto his wrists. He closed his eyes as the setting sun warmed his face, and Kubota dried his hair without saying a word.
Tokitoh didn't really remember anything like falling asleep or being carried inside, even though he was bad at lying and especially to himself and he really could remember most things after waking up in the apartment that very first time. He couldn't remember it very clearly, anyway, and so when he woke in the dark with his heart pounding and lines of cold sweat down his spine, he was scared. He was trembling and clutching at blankets, his muscles coiled and ready to run, but before he could move, arms wrapped around him and pulled him close to a warm body.
He thrashed, his mind panicked, and then Kubota murmured, "Shh," against his ear, and he froze. Long fingers smoothed his hair, and Kubota shushed him again, hugging him tight. Tokitoh took a deep, shaky breath and unclenched his fingers from the (clean) sheets, sagging back against the pillows. His eyes adjusted, and he was very aware of Kubota's body against his in the bed, the arms around him and Kubota's breath against his hair. As his pulse slowed, Kubota shifted and said softly, "Bad dream?"
Tokitoh closed his eyes against the memory of roiling seawater, of filthy smells like gunmetal and the taste of blood. "Yeah," he breathed, and could say no more. He shuddered again, once, and Kubota pressed lips to his temple and did not let go.