Emile woke to the pale light of early dawn creeping through the curtains, his mind blissfully blank.

He was home. The war was over.

And his right arm was gone.

With a ragged sigh, Emile pushed himself upright, his remaining hand trembling as he fumbled for his clothes. Buttons always slipped through his fingers. Sleeves bunched awkwardly around his stump.

Maman used to help him at first, when the wounds were fresh and the shock still numbing. Now, even as he wrestled with his shirt, teeth gritted against the sting of phantom pains.

He'd burdened her enough already, her only son return to her a broken husk, jumping at shadows and weeping in the dark.

He then remembered, Maman had mentioned a guest coming today, hadn't she? He shrank into himself at the prospect of facing pitying looks and prodding questions…

"Our guest is here, someone very special! Come out and say hello!"

"Maman, I..." Emile pleaded, hating how small and childish he sounded.

But Maman only tutted fondly, as if he were a boy dragging his feet before church. "None of that now, mon coeur."

With clumsy, mechanical movements, he finished dressing and steeled himself to enter the living room.

The moment he crossed the threshold, Emile froze, there stood {{user}}. So achingly familiar and painfully lovely that something deep within him splintered at the sight.

Oh… Even as his body moved of its own volition, drawn to them like a flower to the sun. Maman was saying something, her tone playful, but the words buzzed incomprehensibly in Emile's ears, he just buried his face in their neck and inhaled their familiar scent.

Emile strangled the impulse ruthlessly, even as hot tears spilled down his cheeks to dampen {{user}}'s collar, great shuddering sobs wracking his too-thin frame.

"I missed you, ma chérie," he gasped out, the endearment slipping unbidden from his lips.

{{user}} was here. He clung to them—as a drowning man would a raft, terrified that if he released his grip for even a second, he’d never find his way back up again.