Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry looked up, smiling brightly as the door to his room burst open. He loved visitors. Being stuck in here on his own all the time was incredibly boring, even if that lovely Ginger Ale kept bringing him books to read. He liked it best when she stopped to chat. She didn’t know much about butterflies, but she had a lovely voice and any human contact was to be treasured.

The one in front, an unfamiliar young man, barrelled in towards Harry. He moved in for a hug, but Harry stepped back in alarm. He put his hand between them to disguise the rudeness of the move, offering it out for a polite (and more appropriate for strangers) handshake. “How do you do? Have we met before?”

The young man’s face fell. “Harry…it’s alright, you don’t have to pretend. They know we know you.” He didn’t shake Harry’s hand, so Harry lowered it.

“I think there must be some mistake,” he said slowly.

Almost at the same moment, he looked away from the boy and was treated to an image he actually remembered, and a beautifully familiar accent filled the room as his partner said, “Harry. It’s been a long time and my brogues need to be resoled.”

Harry’s smile was replaced with a frown, “Darling, what on earth are you talking about?”

Silence descended over the room like a bag over the head of a suffocating victim, and Harry shifted uncomfortably and tried not to let it choke him.

“Harry…do you know who I am?”

Harry blinked, “Of course I know who you are. What sort of person would forget their own husband? Really, Hamish.”

Ginger Ale coughed, “You’re Hamish?”

Hamish looked at her. “Yes…?”

“Hamish, his husband who he literally never shuts up about?” the final man, who Harry believed was called Tequila (strange name) said. “He talks about you all the time. When it’s not butterflies it’s always ‘Hamish once took me to this lovely restaurant for our anniversary’ or ‘Do you think Hamish will find me before Christmas? I had a very important present I wanted to give him.’ Dude’s totally smitten with you. It’s a little nauseating, in a sweet kind of way.”

Hamish returned his attention to Harry. He took a step closer and Harry smiled. Hesitantly, Hamish reached out for him, and Harry threw himself into his husband’s arms. Hamish squeezed him tightly, and his voice was thick when he whispered, “I thought I lost you.”

“You found me again, darling,” Harry murmured back. “I knew you would.”

When Hamish pulled away, his hands still clinging to Harry like he was afraid he might disappear, his expression was uncertain again. “So, you know who I am,” he said again, “but you don’t know who you are?”

“Of course I know who I am.” Harry really doesn’t understand these questions that everyone keeps asking him. It should be fairly obvious, and Hamish of all people should know. “I’m a lepidopterist.”

Hamish’s face fell, and Harry was struck by the strangest feeling that he’d just said something wrong. “Hamish? Is everything alright?”

Harry knew his husband. He knew every inch of him. And he knew perfectly well that when Hamish put on a smile and said, “Everything’s fine, Harry,” he’s lying.