#shhh let's pretend i didn't speedrun the shit out of this

[cogaytes]

day three of @tiertice-week-2023 :D

Title: always (be by my side)

Prompt: “memory”

Wordcount: 1418

Summary:

The next few months reveal exactly how much has slipped through the cracks, so to speak. How deep they go. He starts spending entire conversations focused entirely on controlling his expression, on not betraying all that he's forgotten. Whether the detailing on Cyrah's wedding dress was lace or embroidery. The sound of her laugh. The bedtime stories he would read to Wylie every night before tucking him in. Hundreds of memories with his best friend—their Foxfire days, joining the Black Swan together, late nights on the roof talking about anything and everything. Hiding the self-loathing from his face when he realizes he doesn't know the name of Tiergan's favorite Beatles song is one of his lowest points of the whole ordeal.

One day it all finally becomes too much.

---

or, prentice struggles with the effects of the mind break. written for day three of tiertice week 2023, inspired by the prompt "memory"!

Warnings: memory loss

read on ao3 or under the cut!

It's the little things that are the hardest for Prentice.

His mind is whole, again, yes. His body is healthy. He's been reunited with his loved ones. Minus Cyrah. He has a family again.

But there are still pieces missing.

Tiergan had told him what to expect, of course. As the Black Swan's resident telepathy expert, he'd been the one assigned to conduct research on broken minds and potential methods of healing. He'd urged Prentice from the very first day to consider that pieces of his mind might be too shattered to be fully healed by the time the Moonlark was ready. And Prentice had ignored him. He'd thought he was better, stronger than this; he'd been convinced that there was no way the cost would be as great as Tiergan anticipated. Worrying was Tiergan's strong suit; it was only natural that his friend would overemphasize the risks in a last ditch effort to get Prentice to find another Keeper. And he was a Keeper, wasn't he? His entire purpose was to hold memories. How could he lose them when he’d already been healed?

But, like always, Tiergan had been right.

The first moment Prentice realizes how much he's missing is one of his first nights back with Wylie. They're sitting at Tiergan's kitchen table at Solreef, sneaking leftover mallowmelt from the cupboards. On pure instinct, Prentice swipes a bit of whipped cream from the top of Wylie's and boops him on the nose with it. And Wylie's face freezes. They sit there for a moment, neither daring to say a word. 

Finally Prentice breaks the silence. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." Wylie's voice is tentative, hesitant and hopeful in a way he hasn't heard it sound before. He hasn't heard his son's voice in a very long time, though, has he? "It's just—you used to do that when I was little, too."

Though he fights it, confusion manages to bleed into his expression for just a moment, and he can see Wylie's face fall. 

"You don't remember it, do you?" His son doesn't sound accusatory, only matter-of-fact, and somehow that makes it worse. But there's real despair in his voice—a hint of pleading. As if he's begging Prentice to find the scene familiar. "Do you remember any of our mallowmelt nights? We used to sneak into the pantry every Friday night when Mom was asleep. It was our little secret, you said. We'd eat outside on a blanket and watch the stars on nice evenings. I used to fall asleep snuggled up next to you; you'd carry me inside and tuck me in."

Prentice wracks his brain, searches desperately for any faint trace of recognition, but comes up empty-handed. He can picture the scene so clearly—a tiny Wylie, giggling, maybe on the plaid blanket Cyrah loved, with whipped cream on his nose and framed by a background of stars. But for some reason, he can't call to mind anything that resembles a memory. "I don't— I can't— I'm sorry, Wy," he says at last, trying to keep his voice steady. Pulling Wylie into a hug, he lets his son's head rest on his shoulder, and begs the sharp pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach to go away.

The next few months reveal exactly how much has slipped through the cracks, so to speak. How deep they go. He starts spending entire conversations focused entirely on controlling his expression, on not betraying all that he's forgotten. Whether the detailing on Cyrah's wedding dress was lace or embroidery. The sound of her laugh. The bedtime stories he would read to Wylie every night before tucking him in. Hundreds of memories with his best friend—their Foxfire days, joining the Black Swan together, late nights on the roof talking about anything and everything. Hiding the self-loathing from his face when he realizes he doesn't know the name of Tiergan's favorite Beatles song is one of his lowest points of the whole ordeal.

One day it all finally becomes too much.

There's something he should be remembering, he just knows it. He scours his brain, wincing at the jagged edges of his own mind, but he can't for the life of him identify it. This feeling—this longing—there has to be context. Why can't he fucking find it in the maze of his own thoughts?

He comes to the sudden realization that he can't breathe. Something hot and wet is flowing down his face—oh. He's crying. And over something so small and so stupid, too. It's pathetic, really.

His heart sinks through his stomach, past his knees, and lands somewhere around his toes when he hears his name from the doorway: "Prentice?"

And of course, it's Tiergan. Tiergan, crossing the room in three quick steps, wearing that tunic he has no right to look so nice in. Tiergan, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tugging him close, allowing him to bury his face in the tunic. And Prentice wails for everything he doesn't know how to explain. He wants to stay here, in this safety forever. But eventually his sobs slow to a halt, and Tiergan gives him that look again. The one he's been receiving ever since he woke up; the one he doesn't know how to interpret. It's soft and sad, with eyes that linger on his face and a probing stare that makes him feel the urge to turn away or blush…and there's that confusing feeling again.

"Want to talk about it?" Tiergan says softly.

"I— I don't know how to—"

"Hey, it's okay." He feels his friend begin to rub slow, gentle circles on his back. "You don't have to say anything."

And, ironically enough, it's that which gives Prentice the strength to finally his voice. "Tiergan…what were we to each other? Before…"

The circles stop. "We were best friends." And that's Tiergan's carefully neutral voice, the one he uses on his spying missions when he's extracting information from a target. The one he uses when he's hiding something. "Why do you ask?"

A wave of frustration floods through Prentice's body, paired with a foreign sense of embarrassment. Why can't Tiergan just say it?  He stumbles over his words, mumbling, "I keep— I've forgotten so much and—" 

The weight of hands on his shoulders. Deep blue eyes staring into his own. "Breathe, Prentice," comes the soothing voice, and Prentice clings to it to ground himself.

Finally, it all comes spilling out. The thing that sent him into tears in the first place. "I keep wanting to hold your hand, and I don't know why!"

For once, Tiergan is speechless. "...Oh."

"Tiergan, what were we?" Prentice demands, harsher than he meant to. He reaches an apologetic hand to thumb the back of Tiergan's instinctively, before thinking better of it.

"I— I don't know."

"How can you—" Prentice tries to keep his voice from rising, but the words still come out as a bit of a shout.

"We were still working things out." A pause. "I had confessed…feelings…for you a few weeks before it all happened. You told me that you reciprocated them, but that you wanted to take things slow. We never got the chance to define things before…"

"Tiergan…why didn't you tell me?"

"I guess…I didn't want to pressure you into anything if you'd forgotten. It would have felt like manipulating you into something I wanted but you had no way of knowing if you felt too. And…something inside told me that if you'd forgotten it, then it must not have meant that much to you originally."

"Tiergan. You know it doesn't work like that."

"I know. I'm sorry. I-"

And then Prentice kisses him.

He hadn't been planning on it. He doesn't even know where the instinct came from. But Tiergan's eyes were filling with tears, and his lips looked so soft, and suddenly Prentice was leaning forward. 

Tiergan tastes like cinnamon and apple cider, and Prentice's hands find his face to cup his cheek like second nature, and he can feel Tiergan twine his own fingers through Prentice's hair, and it all just feels so right. When they break apart, blushing, he asks, “Have we done that before?"

Tiergan stares at his lips in wonder, as if he can't believe they were just on his own. "No. No, we have not."

"Oh. Well, maybe we should do it again sometime."

Something that looks suspiciously like hope lights up Tiergan's eyes. "Really?"

Prentice smiles and reaches for his hand, finally. The feeling he gets at linking their fingers together—it's better even than what he'd imagined. "Yeah."

"I'd like that," Tiergan says softly.

And maybe Prentice had forgotten what he had with the wonderful man in front of him, but it'll be okay. Tiergan will always be happy to remind him.