#now*

common loon

A long weekend, an approximately two-week old breakup that cuts deep enough that it feels as though you were arguing just yesterday, and the pushiest group of friends on earth lead you to a slightly overcrowded, sandy beach on a sunny afternoon in June.

You can’t say you’re particularly upset - the loud chatter of a multitude of strangers, air salty enough that you can taste it on your tongue, and hot rays of sunshine are good enough distractions for your mind that races a little too often lately.

Today, the static in your head has cleared for a bit, and after waving your friends off to go wade in the water, you focus on soaking up the most sunlight you can, a book in hand as you lay on your belly.

Less books should focus on romance, you think briefly, the expectations are too high and-

“Watch out!”

Your thoughts are interrupted by a man’s voice, somewhat harsh and urgent, and you look up; the ball that is growing rapidly in size as it hurtles in the direction of your face is hard to recognize and for whatever reason you freeze - 

But it doesn’t hit you. Rather, a body makes its way between you and the ball to catch it, almost seeming to materialize in front of you, and no less than five foul curses leave his mouth as he yells at someone off in the distance to your right. Your eyes squint as you follow his insults.

“Watch what you’re fucking doing!” he yells. 

The man now creating a dark shadow with his broad shoulders is tall with sandy blonde hair, and you can see clearly from the angry way he presses his palms against the volleyball that (theoretically) would have ended your life is quite well-built. Your eyes try not to linger on the muscles of his back and biceps - after all you’re sick of men for the time being - but mutter a quick thank you, hoping that he’ll walk off without turning. 

He does turn on his sandaled heels to you to grumble an apology, and your eyes are suddenly drawn not to his face, but to the roughened patch of skin on his left shoulder.

You breathe in sharply, as though your diaphragm forcibly and harshly contracts, and suddenly it is pitch black - the sun is gone, rather it is the dead of night.

And the scar is no longer a scar, but a deep, bleeding wound and mangled flesh, peeking through shredded, gnarled steel armor.

This man is no longer a stranger, but someone you love.

Despite the fact that he looks as though he has been dragged across the world and back again, he leans onto a door frame of wood, and he smiles, the smile of a man who is trying to quell his lover’s worry.

“I told you I’d make it home, didn’t I?”

Instead of crashing waves and playing children, there’s silence and the clang of metal as he disrobes in the new confines of a wooden cabin, rather than the open air of the beach, shielded by a large umbrella.

He undresses to plain clothing, and there is that same scar on his shoulder, and there are more wounds - one on his lower belly, perhaps more that you cannot see.

And you scold him.

“You’re on death’s door, and still you come here,” you insist. His voice is muffled as he attempts to retort despite the wadded up cloth you’ve forced him to bite onto as you apply antiseptic to the largest wound, his head in your lap.

He winces, and you press harder, your concern bleeding into anger and overwhelming you. 

He spits out the cloth.

“Would you have preferred to hear of my death by pigeon?”

You could slap him, but instead you kiss his forehead.

“Sorry for worrying you,” he whispers. Your lips linger on the thankfully, still warm skin. “Sorry for ruining your pretty clothes,” he adds.

Your garments have been bloodied before by him, and this is the least of your concerns. What you care about is the fact that his calloused hand is gentle as it reaches upward and caresses your cheek.

The present you is awestruck, and you look at him again, and take this stranger in differently. He is suddenly familiar, as though you have known him your whole life.

Your mouth opens and closes, and then it opens again. 

You whisper his name, your voice soft, and it is not a name he recognizes, from the furrow of his eyebrows. It’s not Katsuki, but something else, something possibly centuries old, a name he shouldn’t but does recognize.

And his eyes widen.

He remembers warm meals and soft kisses, your forehead pressed against his. The smell of his lover first thing in the morning and last thing before his eyes close. The feel of your lips and the way you say his name.

That name, that name.

It’s not Katsuki. It was something else, then. 

You, the person he has just met, say it again, and tears well up in your eyes.

He needs to teach you his new name, and he needs to learn yours.