A Name That Haunts

Micah woke with a start, his breath hitching in his chest like he'd been pulled out of deep water. His heart hammered against his ribs, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. His face was pressed against the sketchbook on his desk, and the dim light of his computer screen cast a cold glow over the room. 

For a moment, his muscles remained frozen, his mind blank.

Then images from the dream—no, he had to stop telling himself that lie. It was a memory. A memory. A piece of Ashur's life, a shard of his past that he could see so vividly. Feel so deeply. The smoke curling from his father's fumewort. The fear in his chest like venom trapped between his lungs. The dull thud of the axe against the wood. The blistering cold that seeped into his skin and his bones. The splinters. The blood. 

Micah pushed his chair back abruptly, the sound of its legs scraping the floor cutting through the silence of the room. He stumbled to his feet, his stomach twisting violently. He barely registered his own movements as he staggered out of his room, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. 

Dropping to his knees in front of the toilet, he heaved. Nothing came up at first, just a painful retching that left his throat raw. Then bile burned its way up, hot and acrid. He gagged again, his whole body shaking as he clung to the edge of the toilet like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. 

When he was finally empty, when the dry heaves had passed and his stomach stopped twisting itself into knots, Micah flushed and dragged himself to the sink. 

The fluorescent light above the mirror buzzed faintly as he turned on the tap, the sound of rushing water filling the small space. He rinsed his mouth first and spat out the bitter taste that lingered on his tongue. Then he splashed water onto his face and let the coldness shock his overheated skin. 

He kept his head down, listening to the quiet drips of water falling from his hair and into the sink. His knuckles whitened against the porcelain edges, but even the cold water couldn't erase the feeling of the blisters on his palms. He could feel the way they had popped and bled, the rough wood of the axe handle scraping against his raw skin. 

Micah's breath quickened. He lifted his hands, staring at his palms. They were clear. Smooth. No blisters. No blood. 

'It's not real,' he told himself. 

But it was. He would never be able to escape that, he couldn't fully understand it. Damian and Callum had to be playing a prank on him. The things he saw… he was in the middle of an explosion, he'd been in a coma. Of course he'd woken up with strong emotions. 

"I'm not him," Micah whispered aloud, his voice trembling. 

A voice in his head screamed back: You are.

The room felt smaller, the air heavier. An invisible weight pressed down on him and his lungs caught fire. His chest tightened, and his gaze darted to the mirror. He couldn't look at it. He wouldn't. 

His legs gave out, and he slid to the bathroom floor, curling into himself. His head dropped into his hands, his fingers tangling in his damp curls. He closed his eyes, but the darkness behind his lids was worse. 

His father's bored, brown eyes glinted in the candlelight. The glow of the fumewort. The plume of smoke. 

Micah's eyes snapped open, his breaths coming fast and shallow. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, as if he could block out the memories clawing their way into his consciousness. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket, breaking through the storm in his mind. He fumbled for it, his fingers clumsy and shaking. The screen lit up with the words 'My Love' accompanied by two hearts. 

Micah swallowed hard, his throat still raw, and answered. "Damian…" 

"I know, I know," Damian said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "You said we'd talk after the game jam, but I couldn't wait anymore. I needed to hear your voice. I need to know if you're okay." 

Micah sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. "I've seen better days." 

"Wanna talk about it?" 

Micah hummed, running his fingers through his damp hair. He hesitated, unsure if Damian would even understand. Afterall, they'd always lived in two separate worlds; Micah, born into poverty and unaccustomed with privilege and Damian, born with a silver spoon shoved into every orifice. In the earlier days of their relationship, it was one of the biggest points of contention. Damian's gifts were too expensive, his love too overwhelming and Micah was unaccustomed to wealth and suspicious of love. It was funny how, in both his lives, he'd been born the poor, abused kid. Always the pauper, never the prince. Damian was a prince and he was the prince who… 

The words stuck in his throat. But then they spilled out anyway, unbidden. 

"How do you deal with this?" he asked. 

"Deal with what?" Damian's tone shifted, his usual confident tone tinged with concern. 

Micah closed his eyes, willing the trembling in his hands to stop. "How do you deal with… knowing you're not really you?" 

Damian chuckled softly. "Micah, I am really me." 

"No, I mean… you're also him. And I'm…" Micah trailed off, his voice faltering. 

"Micah, love, you sound like you're on the edge," Damian said carefully. "I know that tone—you used to call me like this when you had those nightmares about your dad. Are you having those again?" 

Micah grimaced. Caught. That was the consequence of dating someone for over two years, they could read you like a book. 

"Not about my dad here," Micah admitted quietly. "The other one. From… before."

"Oh, my love," Damian's voice softened. "Micah, you're you. Still you. Always you."

Damian's voice was steady, warm, like it always was when he tried to pull Micah out of his own head. It reminded him of the first time Damian had shown up at his doorstep with a limited edition art tablet that probably cost more than Micah's rent. 'You deserve this,' he'd said, and Micah had hated how small he'd felt in that moment.

He sniffed. "Did you steal that from Undertale?"

Damian chuckled but his voice turned serious again. "Babe, I'm being serious. Reincarnation isn't the death of who you were or the consumption of the old by the new. You're not two separate entities. Reincarnation is a—" 

"Continuation?" Micah finished for him, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"Actually, it's a repea—" 

Before Damian could finish, the screen of Micah's phone lit up with another incoming call. He glanced at the caller ID, and his heart stopped. 

Father.

The phone trembled in his hand, the ID glaring up at him like a brand. The pressure that had briefly eased while talking to Damian slammed back into him, heavier than before, and the room seemed to tilt. Not him. Not now. What does he want?

Micah stared at the screen, the vibrations of the phone echoing in his chest. 

"Micah?" Damian's voice called faintly from the receiver, but Micah barely heard it.