TW for unpersoning, fear of being forgotten, loneliness, ceasing to exist
Monsoc set out the cake to cool; chocolate with raspberries. He wanted to surprise his husband with a romantic gesture. It was the day before Valentine's Day, so Ingsoc wouldn't expect it. Or maybe he would, being psychic. Either way, it was a good romantic gesture.
Monsoc walked into the living room to tell him.
Ingsoc wasn't there.
"Ingsoc?" Monsoc looked around, confused. Normally he would have heard him walk anywhere; his platforms were quite loud and he rarely took them off, even in his own house.
Monsoc shrugged. Maybe he just hadn't heard him. He was probably in the bedroom, lights off. Ingsoc got headaches sometimes. Sometimes the headaches came with emotions. Being an ideology, Ingsoc's physical form was affected when he was ideologically stressed, causing him to fade in and out of existence. This happened more often to him than other ideologies, with how closely related Ingsoc was to the mind. It was scary.
Monsoc quickened his pace. He knew everything was fine, but he was scared anyway. Ingsoc would make it okay, they would talk when one of them was stressed or scared and work through the problems. He just needed to find him.
Not in the bedroom. Their king-sized bed was empty as ever, Ingsoc's propaganda posters on the walls seeming to stare into him. He turned away.
Where did he get those posters anyway?
Monsoc shook his head. They were his husband's, of course. Why couldn't he think straight?
He tried calling Ingsoc's name again, but the syllables didn't form properly in his mouth. He tried picturing Ingsoc's face. He couldn't. What? Why couldn't he recall his husband's face?
That wasn't right! They'd been married for — how long? Ten years, one year? He couldn't remember, why couldn't he remember?
Monsoc felt tears brimming. Ingsoc had told him about this, or near enough, that one day he would disappear and be entirely forgotten, the last of his doublethink ability used to erase any living memory of him.
A memory returned with terminal clarity. "Promise me," Ingsoc gripped Monsoc's shoulders — he couldn't remember his voice but he could remember the way it shook with fear; he couldn't recall how his hands felt on his shoulders but he knew that they held tight, like a vise, like a drowning man grasping onto the edge of a ship — "Promise me you won't forget me. Please." Ingsoc was scared. Monsoc was scared too. He didn't want to lose the years they'd had, he wanted to at least be able to mourn. Maybe if he wrote it down — he'd get paper in the living room, he wouldn't let him be forgotten.
Monsoc burst into the living room.
He couldn't remember what he'd come to get. He sat down on the couch, feeling disoriented. Where was he?
He was at home. It was February 13, day before Valentine's Day. He felt lonely. Of course he did, he was about to spend Valentine's Day alone again. He'd been alone for how long, 6 years? Monsoc sighed, picking up his phone and opening a random app.
Monsoc thought he smelled chocolate fom somewhere, but just as quickly it was gone.
He couldn't help but feel like he'd forgotten something.
