“You say that now,” he remarks lightly, sliding his arm around Bruce’s shoulders. Talking may have trumped kissing, but he doesn’t intend to stop touching him now that he’s started. A year, even without the accompanying memories, is still a long time. “Wait until you see me without facial hair.” He keeps threatening and one day he’ll do it; just shave it all off and wait for Bruce’s reaction. He suspects it won’t be pretty.

“But yeah, no, I’m fine. I’m great. It was an adjustment at first, trying to make sense of where I was and what I was remembering. But I think the disorientation’s gone now, so I’m back to normal. Really, I’m fin—I’m not fine.” With his arrival back here, it’s true. He is fine. With everything else, he’s lying and he knows it. What prevents him from continuing the lie is that he knows that eventually, he’ll have another breakdown and it will be obvious that he’s not fine at all.

“I have—It’s—Like the nightmares, only worse. It happens when I’m awake sometimes. These, I don’t know, anxiety attacks. It's been happening all year. I can’t control them, I know they’re stupid, but they happen sometimes and I—it’s like I fall apart. Which has nothing to do with being here or you or anything like that. I really am fine with being here. But it, I thought you should know in case—If you find me on the floor some afternoon, freaking out, that’s why.”