"Being human means asking the questions of one's own being and living under the impact of the answers given to this question. And, conversely, being human means receiving answers to the questions of one's own being and asking questions under the impact of the answers."

– Paul Tillich, Systematic Theology

The world Tadashi wakes up to is not the one he remembers.

That much is clear the moment he opens his eyes to find everything in his line of sight distorted, from the books stacked precariously atop each other on his bedroom floor to the night stand jutting out its hip to the right of his elbow, elongating and curving ever so slightly outward each time he shifts his gaze.

And it's sickening.

His head aches, his eyes sting, his stomach churns. Without a second thought, Tadashi squeezes his eyes shut and curls up on his side, sputtering out harsh, shallow breaths and clawing at his arms, trying to hold himself together, trying to make sure he doesn't lose it, because, damn it, he doesn't have the strength to deal with any–

"Tadashi?"

Annnnd, someone's calling him.

Tadashi burrows himself further under the covers, trying to make himself as small as possible, and prays to God they'll go away.

"Tadashi!"

No such luck.

Slowly (so he doesn't heave last night's dinner all over his chest), Tadashi opens one bleary eye and parts his lips, ready to snarl out a scathing "What?" when the word suddenly dies in his throat.

That face.

The thick lashes that frame those large brown eyes, the soft curves of his cheeks that narrow to a point at his chin–those are definitely his. Tadashi's traced that face with his eyes and fingers too many times to not realize it's–

"Hi...ro?"

Tadashi carefully pushes himself up onto his elbows, mindful of the way his vision dances and flickers when he moves too quickly, then leans back against the headboard; it's a struggle to keep his head up, so he lets it fall limp on his shoulder.

"Thank God," Hiro breathes. His body practically sinks into the sigh. "You're awake."

But the relief doesn't last.

Within seconds, the lines on his face shift, with mountains becoming plains and plains becoming mountains. He's morphed into an irate cat, shoulders tense and claws burying into the fabric of his jeans. Tadashi can practically see the pressed back ears and the stark black tail lashing out at him.

"You idiot," Hiro hisses. There's no time to respond before he pounces into a series of questions that spin his head in circles: "What did you think you were doing? Why'd you step in like that? I had everything under control, but you just–"

"What..." He winces. The word comes out hoarse and raspy and too high pitched to be his. "...are you talking about?"

Hiro's cheeks glow like an ember. "What am I talking about? What do you mean, 'what am I–'" He falters and slowly, silently mouths the rest of the question. His reaction is instantaneous. "You don't know, do you?"

Tadashi hesitates then averts his gaze without a word, but that's all the confirmation he needs.

"Tadashi." Hiro speaks his name slowly, deliberately, demanding attention. It's a tone he recognizes immediately, having often heard parents deliver stern reprimands to their children in the same voice, but has never had it directed towards himself, and the sheer surprise of it makes him look up.

But the moment he does, he's completely trapped. It's not the hands gripping his upper arms that keep him grounded there, immobile.

No. It's the nature of Hiro's gaze, heavy and suffocating and far more intense and calculating than it should be. His breath stills.

"Listen." Fingers bite into his skin, forcing him to focus. "This is important. What is the last thing you remember?"

Those words are the trigger for a point deep in his skull, just a fingernail's distance away from his right brow, to pound so violently that images explode behind his eyes:

Hiro.

Microbots.

Fire.

He gasps, and his eyes snap open–when did they even close?–and dart around the room, scanning for signs of cooked flesh, blackened faces, blood-curdling screams–

He shudders. Quiet and disturbed, he rasps, "The SFIT expo."

Silence. Then:

"Oh, no."

Tadashi blinks rapidly as his vision focuses Hiro. He's slumped back into his seat, his hand covering his mouth and his face a sickly, ashen color.

Panic rises in his chest. "Hiro, what...?"

What's going on? What happened? Why are you acting like this? He tries to force the words out, but it's like prying open a rusty door. All that comes out is a pitiful croaking noise in the back of his throat.

Thankfully, Hiro seems to have gotten the message because he rolls his head to the side and gives him a tired, sidelong look. There are dark half moons outlining his eyes, like bruises, and a downward tilt to his lips that was never there before.

"You want to know what happened?" There's no bite to his words. Just exhaustion.

Tadashi hesitates. The chill hasn't left him yet, and there's this sense of dread expanding in his stomach, filling up his lungs, and squeezing his chest–a warning. Still, he nods, a curt jerk of his head.

As if he had expected it, Hiro pulls his face into a slight frown and then gnaws at his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. He's stringing Tadashi's nerves together, plucking them to his tune without even realizing it. The pauses make his heart beat faster, the darting eyes make him breathless, and the wringing hands make sweat bead across his temple.

He swallows. His adam's apple bobs up and down his throat.

"Your memories..." The way he says it, the way he hunches into himself, brows furrowed and eyes boring holes into his folding, unfolding hands, makes Tadashi feel like he's toeing some line that he's not yet ready to cross. Like he's testing the waters. Like he's readying himself for an explosion. "...They're gone, Dashi. Three years worth if I'm right."

Oh. Oh. Tadashi inhales sharply. Three years?

Oh, God.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this story, and please leave a review! I'm curious to know what you think of the descriptions, the flow of the chapter, etc. Thanks!