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Sometimes, at night—particularly on nights when all the stars are out—Asra thinks maybe you really do remember.
Somehow.
Because sometimes, at the end of the day, he watches you close up the shop, swaying gently to a softly hummed melody as you put out the lamps for the night.
(You’d danced to that song once upon a Masquerade, don’t you remember?)
One by one you put out the lights, but it does nothing to dim your smile.
(No, of course you don’t.)
He takes a chance and takes your hand, pulling you into an exaggerated waltz too grand for your small, simple home. You laugh, steps unerringly in time with his, and he hopes:
Maybe this time you'll remember for good.
But there’s only amusement in your eyes; no flash of recognition, no hint of nostalgia—but no sign of a headache, either.
Maybe this counts as a win, too—however small it may be.
And so Asra just dances with you in the flickering lamplight, and takes what victories he can.
And sometimes, when he pads into the kitchen after a nightmare, you’re already there, sitting on the counter swinging your legs, with a cup of tea in one hand and Faust curled around the other.
Asra pauses just before he comes into view, peering around the corner, and lets your voice in the here and now drown out the echoes of his nightmare. He leans against the wall, staying hidden as he tries to imprint this image onto the backs of his eyelids; hoping—perhaps foolishly—that the sight of you, warm and alive in the golden lamplight, can permanently banish the memory of your cold, empty eyes that haunts his dreams.
“Will you be leaving again soon, do you think?” he hears you ask Faust.
She only hisses softly, nuzzling against your palm.
You sigh. “Troublesome as always, the both of you.”
(The affection coloring your tone is so familiar it hurts.)
There’s another mug—his mug—set out on the counter, as if you knew; as if were waiting for him.
“Hopefully not troublesome enough to be denied a cup of tea?” he asks, revealing himself at last, watching with delight as you flush at being caught. You cover it up with a smile.
“Not quite so yet,” you tease, “but you’re really pushing it.”
He remembers the way you used to smile at him like this.
(Maybe someday you will, too.)
And sometimes—when the evening shadows make you both bolder than usual, and neither of you are afraid to admit you missed the other—you fall asleep next to him after he comes home from a long journey, the two of you buried in the mess of pillows littering your home. You burrow into his side as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, seeking the familiarity of having a warm body laying next to you as you sleep.
(He thinks: maybe your body remembers this, though your mind does not.)
He remembers, too, and muscle memory makes his fingers tangle themselves into your hair, his lips curling to mirror yours as you smile in your sleep.
“Asra,” you mumble, and something in him breaks.
(His name fits in your mouth in a way ‘Master’ never has.)
If he closes his eyes, it’s easy enough to pretend nothing has changed—that he’s falling asleep next to you just the way he used to when he still shared your bed.
And sometimes, just before sleep drags him under, he almost believes it.
(Oh, how easily swayed the mind can be—how willingly tricked by gentle lies.)
When day breaks, the two of you settle into your accustomed distance, and Asra thinks, despairingly: maybe you’ll never remember how you loved him, once.
How he loves you, still.
(The mind, after all, is a fickle, forgetful thing—)
And yet, and yet: sometimes—only sometimes—even in the harsh daylight there’s something in your smile, in the way a touch might linger, that makes Asra think: maybe you could learn to love him again anyway.
(—but the heart is a different matter entirely.)