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~*~
Galga's mind doesn't remember Atwert, no matter how much he wants it to. And oh, he wants, so desperately. Because, despite Master Atwert being very good at keeping a straight face when they're together, he catches him in tired moments, gazing at him, and looking so deeply, terribly sad. It's a pain he holds close to his chest, and that he won't ever speak of, but Galga sees it, and wishes some part of him could remember why.
Despite the loss of his memories, it soon becomes clear that even if his mind does not remember anything, his body does.
It starts small: little automatic motions that happen without thought.
Over lunch, they sit at the table in the tiny atelier that they now both call home. Atwert sets two plates on the table and sits in his seat, tucking a napkin into the collar of his shirt. Galga reaches for the salt and nudges it across the table without having been asked; Atwert, looking down at his own plate, reaches for the salt shaker automatically. They freeze, Atwert's hand touching Galga's own - so warm, so gentle - and they're left blinking at each other in surprise.
Atwert likes his food saltier, but makes it a little more balanced to start, lest he oversalt it by accident - but how had Galga known?
Perhaps just a fluke.
But then, some days later, intent on allowing his master to rest after a particularly intense week of study sessions, Galga offers to make a pot of tea. He opens a cabinet and finds the teapot on the first try - still, maybe, just luck. People have spots that their teapots go, and over the kitchen counter seems like the correct place, after all.
But he pours two cups, and while he leaves his own cup as-is, to Atwert's, he adds a splash of milk and two sugar cubes. It strikes him as just a little bit too sweet for his own tastes.
And yet, Atwert takes the first sip and makes a delighted little sound, immediately going for another.
"Thank you, Galga," he sighs, "This is the perfect cup of tea, as usu—"
As usual?
"You…didn't ask me what to put in it, did you?"
"No," he says, carefully. "It just felt…right." His hands had done it on their own. He hadn't even considered asking.
But even that could be explained away, he supposes. It isn't the first time they'd had tea together, he must have just noticed and remembered. There really is no other explanation.
Because if he tries to think about it, about a time that he'd learned that Atwert liked milk and sugar ( and didn't like to oversteep his tea, because it made it too bitter), there's no memory there. It feels like flipping through a book that was supposed to have words, and finding only blank pages.
But it happens, again, and again. Running errands, he unintentionally comes home with Atwert's favorite scented soap (milk and honey, organic and sweet). He helps out with folding laundry one afternoon and goes to put it away, only to find all of Atwert's shirts folded the same way he's folded the pile still carried in his arms.
And then, something else starts to happen.
Little, intrusive thoughts - that he should reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind Atwert's ear when he's been wearing it down. The urge to offer his hand when he's made it down the stairs before his master.
He's spent most of the afternoon in his own little workshop, practicing his spells over and over again (the motions are easy, but remembering the signs, the sigils, that's another story). The smell of dinner cooking lures him from the quiet of his room, and as he enters the kitchen, he's suddenly compelled to do the strangest thing.
Atwert is standing at the stove, his back turned to him, humming a tune that sounds…familiar somehow. And every nerve in his body tells him to slide his arms around his master's waist, and to press a kiss to his shoulder.
Cheeks burning, Galga retreats to his room as quickly and as quietly as he can manage, his heart pounding in his ears.
What is wrong with him?
This man had done nothing but be a positive and guiding force in his life over the course of the last months. He'd been patient, and inspiring, and terribly kind. He'd saved him from a life of exile. And how was he repaying it? By developing a weird crush on someone who had given him everything just to allow him a chance to live again?
A knock startles him from his thoughts. And then, a soft, almost hesitant: "…Galga? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he lies, feeling awful for it before the words are even fully spoken. "I'll be out in a moment."
"Alright. Well, dinner is on the table, come eat whenever you're ready."
The retreating footsteps give him at least a small measure of reprieve, a moment to gather his thoughts.
Once he manages to find the strength to calm his racing heart and return to the atelier's dining area, it's hard to look across the dinner table. He'd thought from the start that Atwert was a pretty sort of man, soft, lovely. But now, it's there in the forefront of his mind, something he can't seem to ignore. The part he's caught up on is that it feels familiar, which would be especially strange if it wasn't for all of the other things between them that have felt familiar, lately.
It leaves Galga feeling deeply confused and conflicted, and with absolutely no appetite to speak of, though he pushes the food around his plate and tries to find the motivation to take a few bites at least.
"If you're not feeling well, you don't have to pretend otherwise, you know."
Atwert's voice is so gentle that it compels Galga to lift his head. He's met with worry written all over his master's face. "I'm alright," he insists, feeling guilty now that he's made this wonderful man fret over him for no reason.
"If you say so. Just…don't force yourself if you don't want to eat, okay? I won't be offended."
Galga nods, and takes another bite of his food anyway. There's a question pressing at the back of his throat, trying to force its way out, and it eventually becomes so unbearable that he can't hold it back.
"What were we to each other?"
The words hang in the air, heavy, and he hears Atwert suck in a sharp breath from across the table. A long silence follows, and then: "Is that what you've been fretting about all evening?"
Another nod, another bite of his food. Another silence that feels poignant in how heavy it is between them.
"I haven't told you because I didn't want you to feel pushed in any direction during your recovery." Atwert sounds like he's forcing the words out of his own mouth. "Whether your memories return or not, I want you to feel comfortable to make all of your own decisions, without me leading you, accidentally or otherwise." There's the sound of a fork clinking against a plate. "I…"
"We were lovers, weren't we?"
The truth of it is on Galga's tongue like his own name, like he's spoken it a thousand times before. The perfect cup of tea, the milk and honey soap, the want to hold Atwert each time his lips are drawn into a thin line and he has to swallow back a wave of emotion. Dancing in the kitchen. Guiding him down the stairs with their fingers entwined.
It isn't a memory so much as a feeling, one he's not certain he's ever felt more keenly in his life.
"…yes, we were." Atwert's voice is tight with that same feeling. "You were my everything."
"I still am." There is so much certainty in it. "It's just…a little different now."
There's a wet laugh from the other side of the table. Galga pushes to his feet, his meal forgotten, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He crouches down next to Atwert, and takes his glasses off with the utmost care, setting them on the table. And before his master - his lover - can protest, he reaches up to cradle his chin in one hand, to wipe his tears away with the other.
This only sets another deluge of tears in motion, but he is diligent, and he his patient, the same as Atwert has been for him all of these long months. And when the hiccuping stops, when Atwert takes a deep enough breath that doesn't come out stuttering and pained, he sits back on his haunches, another question pushing from his mouth.
"We used to dance, didn't we?"
"Do you remember?" Atwert asks, hopeful.
He doesn't remember, really. Not the sort of tangible memory where he can say that it was on a particular day, to a specific song. But something hazy, in the back of his mind, tells him that Atwert would laugh when he spun him about, that he was clumsy in his own steps but it didn't matter because it was something purely for them, in the quiet of this atelier.
He holds his hand out, without a word, and Atwert takes it.
"You were humming a song earlier," he says then, his other hand easily finding Atwert's waist, as his master's own rests on his shoulder. "I recognized it."
"Earlier…oh! Is that…" Atwert naturally moves in closer, as Galga takes the first step, his heart racing all over again. "Is that what started…all of this?"
Galga nods, warm in the face as they sway back and forth together, little steps that lead them nowhere in particular, to a song that is nowhere but in their minds.
"I can't remember it, exactly, or why it made me feel everything so suddenly," he explains, easing his arm around Atwert's waist, hand brushing open-palmed across his lower back to rest on the opposite hip. He moves carefully, slow, in case his partner should decide to pull away. But he doesn't. His hand slides into the short hair at the nape of Galga's neck instead. "I wanted to hold you. I wanted…" He swallows back a sudden wave of nerves. "I wanted to kiss you."
Had he felt this way the first time they'd kissed? Had he truly been this nervous?
"…do you still want to kiss me?" Atwert's voice is small, equally anxious.
Galga presses their foreheads together. His heart hammers in his chest. "Yes," he breathes, "If that's alright with you."
Atwert laughs, breathless. "You silly man," he says, exasperated. "I've waited months to hear you say that."
His lips are soft under Galga's own. Kissing him is as natural as remembering to pass the salt at dinner, as easy as making the perfect cup of tea.
Even if the mind forgets? The heart remembers.