#antixjj

Sitting back down on the stool, bare feet propped up on the lower rungs, Jameson dips the brush in freshly cleaned water to continue his piece. The canvas is nearly too big for his easel, shaking when he presses against it, but he’s nearly finished. He’s excited to show it, never having completed something so quick before, but perhaps it is because he knows his subject like his very self.

He’s detailing the jacket with hints of red when a series of loud clangs comes from the kitchen, and he jumps in his seat bad enough to jerk the brush straight through center of the portrait. His jaw drops as he stares at the bright red streak marring the neck of the man, his work effectively ruined. Jameson straightens up, setting his brush and palette down beside him, and clenches his jaw instead. His disappointment can return later, after he investigates.

When he turns on the kitchen light he stops in his tracks, shoulders slumping as he takes in the scene before him.

They’d used a few pots and pans for their dinner earlier, and Jameson had left them to dry beside the sink. Now, however, each one is on the floor, the saucepan having slid all the way to where he stands in the entryway. In their place atop the counter now sits a large white eagle, a smattering of feathers littering his kitchen. One of the fuzzier ones is stuck on an antler of the stag curled up beneath the sink, who snorts at his entrance. Jameson connects to his ethos, sending out a silent question while the eagle cleans under their wing.

Is this the doctor’s?

A wave of affirmation comes through the bond, and he runs a hand over his beard.

Okay, he signs after a moment. What did he have to say?

Not that he’s particularly worried, but this is certainly out of the ordinary for Henrik, who he knows prefers to keep more to himself. He hasn’t even been in contact with the man in over a year now, has not seen him in even longer, so to be visited by his ethos at this time of night, it must be something important.

Jameson’s stag stands up as he moves to sit at the small table in the corner of the room, the cervus nosing at his hands as they pass on the message.

An ethos does not speak, not by way of making use of human vernacular. Their language instead takes the form of communicating through emotions, gut feelings, and reactionary responses. Sometimes an image, if what they wish to articulate is too complex to be contained to the abstract. For this, Jameson sees a man he does not know, scratched up and tearful, with a sense of familiarity tied in with the doctor’s inquiry. He nods to himself, running his hand up to the stag’s antlers and picking off that feather. He blows it off his finger.

Thank you, he signs with his other hand. Henrik’s bird is just staring at him from across the kitchen, waiting for a response to return home with.

He thinks about it, tapping his feet on the tile floor. He’s no physician, he isn’t trained in the ways to help another person, he’s just some man who happens to have relevant experience on the matter. Though, his lost contact was never so much of an issue rather than a mere frustration, a short hindrance that went away as soon as he began to learn how to speak with his hands. He does understand the despair that comes with a broken bond, the weeks after the accident made him fear he would never feel his ethos again.

It wasn’t a one-way thought, either. Jameson can remember, even after nearly a decade, the panicked bleatings coming from his ethos’ manifested form. That, and the long periods of silence once they dissipated into his chest again. But he could never feel them, not until he could actually communicate again.

That had always intrigued and stumped Henrik, once Jameson had told his story. In the physician’s eyes, it did not make any sense that an ethos, a being who spoke through nonverbal channels and only required their human’s thoughts in return, could ever fail to communicate with them. Jameson had posed a thought that an ethos’ ability could directly rely on the human’s own, meaning that when he went mute, so technically did his stag. Henrik had called him a genius, the only compliment he’s ever received from the man.

Perhaps, and though he hates to feel hopeful at the expense of a stranger’s misfortune, but perhaps this will be the chance to test that theory. He grabs the stag’s attention.

Please tell the eagle to return with this message, he says through the link, and large brown eyes look up at him patiently. You remember what we thought before, just let your patient know of my story. I give you permission to tell it. Maybe…let him know none of this is for sure, to save my own skin if it does not work. He nods to show he is finished.

Jameson doesn’t know when or how his ethos connects to the doctor’s as the stag does not even turn to face the other, but once the eagle spreads his wings he’s sure they have his reply. Before they dissipate into sparks, the eagle lets out their nasally call, too loud in the silence of the small hours, and he cups his hands over his ears, grimacing.

Then they’re gone, and Jameson is left with his ears ringing.

“Did I just hear a bird?”

The voice startles him, not having heard the man walk up. He’s looking down at all the pots on the floor. Jameson snaps his fingers to get his attention.

Anti, he signs, the letter A passing over his mouth. You should be asleep.

Anti’s leaning against the doorframe, one bare foot over the other and his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are tired, half-lidded, with a resting frown beneath them. He’s taken his shirt off since Jameson had sent him to the room earlier that night, showing off the thick layers of gauze wrapped around his stomach and torso. He can see a bit of red-brown beginning to touch the topmost strips of the bandages. I agree, Anti replies, motions always a bit slower, more hesitant, wanting to make sure he gets them correct. But someone woke me up. He raises an eyebrow.

Don’t try to blame me, Jameson huffs. That bird you heard was a very important message.

Am I to believe they threw all these on the floor, too?

Actually, yes. Anti laughs at that, bending down to pick up the saucepan by his feet, then groans at the movements as he straightens up, pressing a hand to his stomach. Jameson quickly stands, striding over to lay his hand on the man’s shoulder, gently taking the pan from him and blindly setting it on the table behind him.

Okay? he questions, face pinched in concern. He knows Anti should be laying down, taking it easy after getting shot like that, but they’d fought enough about it tonight. Jameson is letting him do what he wants, letting him deal with the potential consequences of his own actions. If he reopens the wound, Jameson will roll his eyes and tell him to drive himself to the hospital. He still cares, though, of course he does.

“I’m fine,” Anti murmurs. His laughter is gone, but he doesn’t look angry, more reserved than anything else. Good.

Jameson puts all the pots back in the sink as Anti sits down at the table, noting that his stag is gone. He hadn’t even noticed them spark away, though he feels a rush of reassurance from his sternum when he reaches out for them.

Anti clears his throat, and Jameson turns to look at him, leaning back against the counter with his hands folded limply at his chest.

What was the message? he asks. I don’t know anyone with an avian.

Jameson smiles small. It was nothing you need to worry about. Just helping out an old friend.

An old friend, he mocks, eyes narrowing sharply and head tilting to the side. Should I be concerned? That you’re having— a pause “—midnight correspondences with some tramp?”

Caught off guard and finding his language amusing, Jameson laughs. It’s an awkward, gravelly choking sound, but Anti has never cared. He’s teasing him, albeit terribly, but he thinks that was an attempt at lightening the mood. Nonetheless, Jameson goes to stand in front of him, the corner of his mouth twitching when Anti pinches the bottom edge of his vest, holding him there.

Go to sleep. I’ll be heading there shortly myself. I’ll change your bandages in the morning, they will last until then.

With only one hand free, Anti refuses aloud. “What were you still doing awake in the first place?”

Painting, he answers shortly, biting the inside of his cheek at the reminder. He had been looking forward to showing Anti how well he had captured his likeness, yet the gift for tomorrow’s—or rather, today’s—Solstice will more than likely find a home in a landfill rather than on their wall.

“What’s wrong?”

I kind of…ruined it.

Anti hums. “Can I still see it?”

Instead of answering outright, Jameson pulls him by his hand around the corner and into the study. His easel sits in the middle, the paint on his palette already half-dried, and he watches Anti’s back as the man steps up to his own portrait. He hovers his index finger over that red streak, that one frustrating imperfection, and doesn’t speak for a moment. With his back turned, Jameson can’t even say anything to him to break this embarrassing silence.

“I like it.”

He perks up at that, surprised, and he meets Anti’s eyes as the man looks over his shoulder at him. You do?

“Yeah, it’s very good. Thank you,” he says.

But it’s got a huge line through it, right through your neck! It was completely accidental, that other ethos surprised me, I didn’t—

Anti grabs Jameson’s hands with his own, and Jameson glares at him. He’s told him before how incredibly rude it is to do just that, that if Anti wants to speak there are other ways of getting his attention without forcing his silence. Still, he relaxes, raising one eyebrow to ask, What?

“I don’t really give a shit,” he whispers, and Jameson gives him a look, unimpressed. Anti laughs. “It’s a great gift, dear,” he rectifies. “I can tell it took you a while.”

Jameson doesn’t care enough to correct him.

“What are we doing tomorrow?”

He tugs his hands out of Anti’s grip with another annoyed look at the man’s otherwise sweet smile. I have a show tomorrow, late at night, he reminds him for the tenth time. And you are staying here, healing. You’re not going to your easy, they’ll kill you. Or I will.

Anti curls two fingers against his own mouth mockingly. Cute. You should stay here, too, in that case, he signs with a grin. “Skip the show.”

Marvin would fire me. It’s sold out for the Solstice, I can’t miss it.

He can tell Anti is getting tired once more, leaning against him. The man has lost all patience with signing himself. “What outfit?”

Jameson leans back, taking in a breath. I guess you’ll see tomorrow.

Anti is a respected man, a dangerous man, one who thrives in the illegal underground markets and has no issue making others do his bidding with nothing more than a look and a quick flash of his ethos’ form. Jameson has seen it first hand, at this point he himself holds the same reputation. But when witnessing the man toss his arms around his shoulders and tiredly whine into his neck, Jameson thinks of him more as a pretty nuisance.

He would never say that, however.

He snaps his fingers, and Anti pulls away. Let’s go change those bandages.

“I thought we were doing that tomorrow.”

Changed my mind. We’re up now anyways, might as well get this over with, he signs. Are you going to sit still when I clean it this time, or should I get my ties?

With a wink, Anti says, “You should grab the ties.”

Jameson rolls his eyes, turning to head to the back room while sending Anti to the tub. He joins him in the bathroom with two he doesn’t normally wear, gifts from people no longer alive, and sees that Anti has already set out their makeshift first aid kit.