tw emotophobia, flashback
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They had met once before they “met”.
Anti and Jameson were co-conscious, drunk as a dog on cheap beer in a random pub in Berlin. Snot and bile pool up in their nose as they throw up over a disgusting toilet that seems to not have been cleaned since it opened; “Selbstgebrautem für dich! Seit 1974!” toted a sign by the door. Jameson’s eyes weep from the sting as vomit ejects from his mouth and nose, and he gives a hiccupping sob.
Damn you, Anti, why did we have to drink tonight?
Because I’m bored as fuck! Your fault your body got sick, the soul sharing his brain moans.
Jameson heaves as another wave of nausea hits him. Anti has slunk as far back into their shared consciousness as he can to avoid the disgusting smells and sights.
The bathroom door opens.
Anti is no longer so far back.
There’s a pause as Jameson pants and gags. “Geht’s dir gut?” calls a deep, pleasantly grating voice, good natured and just as drunk as their shared body is. Jameson is unable to call out, and his raw lips hurt too much to whistle, so he clucks softly, three times.
“Wirst du darauf antworten? Haha!” The man walks closer to the bathroom stall they are locked in. Anti takes control as fully as he can, stands on shaking legs, and bangs roughly on the door. The man lets out a gasp and stumbles back a few steps.
“Ich bin Arzt. Geht’s dir gut?” The stranger’s voice is suddenly serious, professional, as though completely sobered by a potential patient.
“Ffff-f… fuck off,” Anti manages through their body’s nearly nonfunctional vocal cords.
“Englisch? Kiene Deutsch? Ok, sir, are you alright? You were throwing up very hard,” the man’s voice is heavily accented, warm despite it’s seriousness. Lovely, musical, Jameson thinks dizzily. Usually his analysis of stranger’s voices is much more intricate, but cheap beer hits fast and strong, and he is drunker than their body has ever been thanks to Anti. Jameson clucks their tongue again, letting out a wheezing laugh as he leans heavily against the stall door.
“Sir, are you injured? Can you speak?”
Anti puffs up their chest, and unlocks the door in fury, prepared to maim whatever freakshow ‘Arzt’ is daring to interact with his body, his baby, his toy-
But the face on the other side shocks all three of them. They look exactly the same. Same scar over their eye, same green dyed hair, same baby blue eyes, same crooked teeth in a mouth held agape in shock.
“Was. Zum. Teufel.” The double is slowly backing away but it hardly matters as Anti takes over fully and crashes past him, nearly knocking over tables and patrons as he bursts through the pub and out the door, down the sidewalk, fast, fast as he can, get far far away from the Creator’s boys, get as far away as you can-
Their feet catch and they trip to the concrete of an alleyway as Jameson tries to stop them.
What was that? Who was that? Jameson interrogates.
Nobody. Creep, freak, piece of shit, nobody that matters to you, understood? You shut up, you shut up and sit there like a good boy, Carver. There is fear in Anti’s mind, terror in his thoughts. Jameson knows it and feels just as much fear. Why did they look the same? What could that man have done to Anti to make him so afraid? Shut your mouth and let me take us home, Anti’s consciousness responds. There is no hiding his thoughts from his companion.
In their bed an hour later, having drunk nearly all the instant coffee in the house and taken a cold shower, Anti is ruminating. Safe, safe, safe, I’m safe, got my own body, got my own pet, safe, safe, in control, safe, I own this body, mine, safe…
Jameson cups their hands in front of their chest, throat stinging from bile and acidic coffee. Anti cannot hide his thoughts from Jameson either. And Anti is in more fear than he has ever allowed Jameson to see, more fear than even the first day he stole him, than those long months on the run from the Creator.
Jameson hugs their quivering body, providing any comfort to his partner that he can. I’ll never let them get you, he promises.
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Years have passed now though, and Jameson hugs someone else in a softer, warmer bed as he recalls the faint memories. Henrik snores beside him, a bit older a bit more scarred up, hair not having been green in years. Jameson blinks up at his peaceful face with wettened eyes. He buries his face into Henrik’s chest as tears spill over.
“I’ll never let him get you,” he signs into Henrik’s jammies, swearing, promising, to himself and his sleeping lover alike.
