Swiftcurrent Creek Like a moth to the flame we become helpless

All he has to do is release that breath into a call, learn about this place and see if the Alphas will accept—

Routine snaps. His heart seizes. All at once memories flood in from a different time; when getting up in the morning was easy, when teasing words of girlfriends lingered on the tip of his tongue. Rough housing and messing around and having fun were the only list of objects to worry about. He freezes where he is; sitting there with red eyes widened, staring down a figure so familiar and yet so strange. There are little features about her that are different, but he recognizes the others just as quickly.

Lungs fester, burning until he is forced to remember how to breathe. His name is shouted, she halts just out of reach. Jean-Pierre could, in theory, shorten the gap but if the man has forgotten how to function with air, then his legs he's so fond of are out of the question. Alessia? Ah, yes, vocal cords. Those work... sorta. I... 'Could ask you the same thing,' dies unspoken. 'I looked for you, for months.' Jean-Pierre wants to laugh. How ridiculous it is that the past comes back just when he's given up on finding it. The gap of their absence must have been too long, for before him, his sister who he's seen cry only so few times breaks down. (He won't question her current state, not yet.)

Borders be damned, legs find their feeling once more and Jean strides over to her with quick steps. His nose gently attempts to nuzzle her left cheek—his chin presses to his own chest—and he tries to brush his forehead to hers. I found you, he whispers, red eyes squeezing shut. I missed you.