Amnesia: Troyler AU

II: Ring

analgesia [anlˈjēzēə,-ZHə]

noun: the inability to feel pain.

-

TS

This can't be happening.

The sentence echoes in Troye's mind like a mantra; like a verse in need of repetition, drilled permanently into his thoughts, and is chanted along with the broken sound of Tyler's name and a flood of no, no, nonono. His hands move up and his fingers entangle with the curls of his hair, which screams for a haircut overdue and a proper wash to cleanse away the remaining filth from the days he'd refused to leave Tyler's bedside, even for human necessity, and Troye stares at the floor with scalding guilt snaking its way up his throat and sinking down the depths of his stomach.

There was nothing, no one else to place the blame on. My fault, he thinks, and his heart stills in his chest, numb yet painful all at once. Tyler is alive and breathing and mobile, and that's all that really should matter, yes, but..

Green blue eyes would look at Troye (void of familiarity and security and comfort) and Troye would look back at him with yearning soaring through his body, but he can't touch. He sits by the corner of the room and gazes out of the window because he knows that strangers (strangers) staring at Tyler makes Tyler uncomfortable, and he stays behind the newly built boundaries, never moving and never speaking unless Tyler initiates, yet staying nevertheless.

And as he watches Tyler act around him with pure hesitation and unfamiliarity, Troye can't help but hurt. They don't talk about anything but trivial things, how was your day, does it hurt to walk, do you want the telly on, the room's a bit cold, isn't it? They don't talk about Troye being a stranger. They don't talk about Tyler's memory.

Outside, it rains. Inside, it stays warm. The same doesn't apply for Troye Sivan as cold remains seeping through his bloodstream, never warmed since he's watched his first love fade into the darkness of the car wreck that night.

-

"Name, please?" Asks Dr. Hart, stiff on the stool and hands lax on the clipboard in her arms like she's been holding it for the most part of her life. She is the first person who Troye had ran into in desperate search for a medical staff the night before, head throbbing and Tyler's voice speaking the words "who are you?" echoing through his mind.

"Tyler Oakley," Tyler says, and Dr. Hart nods.

Troye is focused on the raindrops hitting the window one by one, on the clouds ominously looming over their city, blocking the blue skies out. It's fitting, the weather. He finds solemnity within it, quietly agreeing with the anger and the sadness the skies cast down upon them. But even as his attention is on the rain and on the little figures of people frantically running down the streets in search for a cover, his attention is well on the conversation.

The doctor continues, "What day do you think it is today, Mr. Oakley?"

Tyler is silent for a moment. The room is immediately filled with the sounds of the heart monitor, and Troye dwells in the clipped evidence of Tyler's life, breathing in and breathing out. "The calendar says it's September 2014."

"Do you think it is so?" Her tone is cautious and Troye purses his lips, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Instead, he focuses on the moving umbrellas, steady and moving under the heavy drops of water from the sky. He notices that people tend to avoid bringing black umbrellas to the hospital. Wonders why.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Tyler shaking his head slowly. There's a short pause, and even before everything, he knows what's about to happen. Troye lets his eyes squeeze shut, just for a little while, and Tyler says, "It's November of 2009."