A/N: Hi all, this is the response to the Tale in Fragments challenge where you have to tell a story in fragments of up to 800 words, using the prompts given. At the moment, I have twenty. The prompt used was 07. February.

Warnings: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, memory loss, regression, scarring, and allusion to self-harm.

There will be warnings at the beginning of every chapter, as they will vary depending on the chapter. This is a rather painful story to get through and for the sake of safety will be rated M. Thank you and please let me know what you think!

1. Winter Months

The hospital was always cold when he came to visit there. Chilly with dying people, perhaps they kept the temperature low to kill them faster. Ryouma couldn't say, didn't dare to try. He just took the flowers with him, peony as always, and went to the room. He always could manage a smile at the worker at the front desk, but that was as far as he could go. Sometimes, they didn't even see him. He was so white and clear some days, he knew he blended into the wall.

He had been coming here since the end of December. Today was Valentine's Day. The snow still fell in gentle brushes, coating his hair like a nearly invisible net, and the outdoor chill turned his skin red where it wasn't covered by the scarf.

If it weren't for the inevitable quiet that came with the chill, he'd have thought he might hate it. But since winter never ended here, it just grew to be a necessary evil.

He reached the familiar door and knocked softly. "Can I come in?" There was a rustle on the other side, and he took a deep breath in preparation. Would it be on the floor today? Beneath the blanket? In the chair? His fingers shook on the crinkled plastic that held the flowers and the bag in his right hand. Ryouma could never know. One day, there was progress and another, a simple slide back down.

He waited still, waiting until there was a very quiet, "Please." to open the door. Then, he turned the knob slowly and eased the door open, wincing himself at the wailing of the hinges.

The patient sat on the bed, and mentally a great weight fell from his shoulders. Their knees were drawn up to their chest, and the arms hung limply around them, clasped like a promise. The eyes that greeted him were not hollow, not today, but looked more like fresh snow than the mush of run over frozen water that they usually do. In the pastel of the room, the childlike drawings mixed with the occasional jagged lines of red, which sometimes seemed to glow.

Not today.

"How have you been?" he asked the other, sitting down slowly in the chair that sometimes felt like wax. He took his time replacing the flowers, eagerly noting the way the other's eyes were fully attentive, grey and curious and observant to each repetitive movement of cutting and replacing the water. Ryouma did not see it as a step forward anymore, but a relief.

"Warmer, today," was the reply. The voice was small, tasting the air. "The kind woman said my legs were looking better."

"And your back?" No one spoke of the arms, the bandaged twigs.

There was a hum, and Ryouma paused in his wrapping of the dead flowers to wait for the answer. Beneath the bed came an excitable murmur and then the silence returned, thick with emotion.

"It feels better to sit up today," he finally heard and Ryouma smiled now. "How have you been?"

This question came out slower than the answers and Ryouma held back his wince because it was the second step back. But today was better because that meant he was going to get an actual question today, if he played it right. Well, more than the normal ones. It meant he wanted to know.

"it's still chilly out," he answered finally, gathering the spare petals. "The homework keeps me inside and I don't like it. I wish it were spring."

"Spring..." The sound of the word was akin to curling your tongue around a pretzel and it was followed up by a new question. "Colder than summer... but warmer than now? And there are petals in the air."

His heart leaped and he forced it down, only to keep a peaceful grin on his face. "Quite right, none of this snow, much more color. Like this."

Ryouma threw the dead petals like confetti and the fresh-snow gaze darted from one to another as if to catch them. But he couldn't catch them, and the disappointment was reflected there, if briefly. Only when the last reached the floor, caught by the murmuring beneath the bed, did the question-and-answer game begin again until the sky was more purple-blue than gray and he had to stand, the gift still in hand.

"Will you come back?"

Ryouma nodded gently, tracing around the covers where the other sat, not touching, never daring. "Don't I always?"

"I think you won't." The hitch of breath dissipated into the pastel walls. "If I love you, you won't come back."

The urge that welled up in his chest this time was smoldering coals. "I will, Taiki-san. I will."