It'll Come Back
Draco's gaze flitted between the sign, "Janus Thickey Memory Ward, Persimmon Suite", and his nameless husband asleep on the small couch across the room. The man's robes were thrown over him in a makeshift red blanket, and his glasses straddled the armrest as if keeping watch on the ceiling.
Draco really ought to ask the man his name. It had been nearly a week. A week of being patiently taught how to operate a shower. How to hold his wand. How to lace the flies of his trousers. Relearning his own name, and listening to the man recite the members of Draco's family.
But the man had never introduced himself. And none of the nurses or healers had greeted the man with anything but "Oh! You're here?" To which the man always replied, "I'm his partner."
If he asked his own husband's name a week into recovery, the healers would assume he was forgetting things he'd relearned. They'd keep him in this shabby bed in this too-bright room for another week.
He sighed and watched his husband sleep. He had a good name, of that Draco was sure. He knew that the man's first name flowed, no hard consonants to stop it as it left his lips. He knew the man's first name started in the back of his open throat, like a moan. He knew the middle of the name pushed forward, round against his tongue like the ring on the man's finger. And he knew the man's name ended in lips pulled tight in a surrender or a smile.
The name didn't sit on the tip of his tongue, but rather filled his entire mouth, even if his mind couldn't quite tease it out.
His husband's last name was the opposite in every way. Draco knew that his last name was a weapon that they both used, but to different ends. He knew, instinctively, that he could spit that name from his lips, snap it off like an icicle, and stab the man with it. He knew that he'd done it often.
The name started on his lips, hard and tight, and his tongue flicked forward in the middle of the name, and the end of it rolled into the back of his mouth like cigar smoke.
The man yawned, rolled onto his back, threw his calves up onto one armrest and plucked his glasses from the other. He stretched, fingers laced behind his head and back arching in a shuddering display that made Draco wet his lips and gather the blanket over his lap.
"Did you sleep?" The man yawned again and sat up, tossing his robe over an armrest.
Draco wanted to address his husband by name, gave up, nodded, and settled for "Yeah. Some."
"Good." The man picked up a stack of papers from the floor next to the couch. "You get to go home today. The healers signed off on everything overnight."
"Oh," Draco said, watching the man resettle himself in the hard chair next to Draco's bed.
Home sounded lovely. A kitchen. Good, strong tea. A real bath. A bed big enough for the two of them. Weak knees. Sweat.
The man tapped his ring idly against the plastic arm of the chair, and Draco frowned and rubbed his own unadorned finger. They seemed the sort of couple to have put inscriptions on the inside of each other's wedding bands. Perhaps each other's initials, which would prove immensely helpful.
The man turned a page slowly and muttered, "This says we need to schedule a follow-up next week with-"
"Where's my ring?"
The page curled over itself as the man sat frozen. Green eyes rolled up to examine Draco over the rim of the man's glasses. Blinked once. Twice. And Draco gulped air and examined his hands in his lap.
"... with the memory loss team. Or sooner, if need be." He let out a long breath and leaned back in the chair, eyes scanning over seemingly endless paperwork. "I think we're good to leave, then."
Expectation fluttered nervous feathers inside Draco's chest. "Good," he managed to whisper.
Draco's lips curled in a quiet smile. Maybe he'd remember his husband's name in bed; shouted to the ceiling or muffled against the mattress. Maybe he'd whisper it in the dark in front of a roaring fireplace. Maybe he'd hum it in gratitude around a mouthful of toast and marmalade. Maybe he'd shout it from the front door in the morning with a wave and a kiss.
Draco slid to the side of the bed, and the man helped him to his feet. They let hands and arms linger on each other's waists.
Draco's thumb rubbed a soft circle on the man's lower back. "Do you have my wedding ring?"
"Uhm." There was a new glint in the corners of his eyes, and he avoided Draco's gaze. The man frowned and let his hand slip down Draco's hip, then fall to his own side. "I'm afraid you were never the marrying sort."
