It 'll be disgustingly boring, Satoru thinks foggily, being confined to a bed once he 's more lucid.

There 's not much to do with Suguru knocked out beside him when he wakes up some time later with his mind thickened by what he can only recognize as a substance, be it a day or hours, he doesn 't know. It leaves an unpleasant itch crawling down his spine at the passage of time he can 't track, the drug in his system he didn 't put there, all of it tugging at old memories in his head and others that are stunningly new- ones which he refuses to look at too closely yet.

His whole memory is hazy, faded like a film reel and blurry for it. He can remember splotches of color, things he 'd recognized but hadn 't been able to put words to, something bright like agony but different from it, blackness in one eye and the wetness of blood seeping from his ear. Air blowing on the inside of his brains is a new sensation he 'll never quite forget.