feels like we only go back /pietro+curt soulmates au

I don't remember the leaving part of coming home. Don't remember my arrival either.

One morning I wake up and I'm just in my bedroom, the alarm making bird sounds at six in the morning to tell me that it's time for my first training block. Nostalgia battles with this deeply ingrained knowledge that it's the same sound I hear every day.

And I feel unbalanced, like I've been on the ocean too long and I haven't gotten my land legs back yet.

There's a knock at my door and then my sister's face appears, "Ki-tae, breakfast," she says. She looks at me a little bit too long, as if she hasn't looked at me every single day for the past seventeen years.

"Yeah," I say. Then I throw a pillow at the door. She slams it shut before it can hit her.

In the afternoon I get free time for a couple of hours. My father gave us this so that we could pursue a hobby or simply rest. I decided a long time ago that I liked to go for walks. Today as I leave I grab an apple from the kitchen bowl and the cook, Ben, gives me a sweet smile. "An apple a day!"

The sun kisses the top of my head and I shut my eyes as I walk, listening carefully to tell me where to go. After I walk into a mailbox I decide to keep them open. The apple is crisp, the skin splits and breaks beneath my teeth and there's a brightness to the world I don't remember there being until now. A sense of relief is tied to it, the same kind that you feel after finally putting down the heavy thing you've been holding for far too long.

Then a tickle begins at the base of my throat, a strange one, like someone's placed a very fine net over my lungs. I breathe in and the air is displaced in the woven diamonds, it tickles, there's something in my throat. A bit of apple maybe? The fence beside me holds my weight as I cough into the arm of my sweater.

My knees hit the pavement, there's a hand on the middle of my back, hitting over and over again, trying to help I guess. The apple finally comes free and then I'm gasping, fingers plucking weakly at the fibres in my sweater but there is no red skin or yellowed apple flesh.

When I close my fingers over my palm, there's just a collection of small, oval shaped blue petals, sort of like forget-me-nots.

Weird.

I turn then to face my saviour and smile brightly at them, "Thanks, gotta remember to chew my food next time."