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Clyde wasn't scared of anything.
He wasn't scared when they'd ended up in the ER and had to have a needle stuck in his heart. Not of the yelling. Nor the cigarettes that found their way onto his skin instead of an ashtray. And he sure as hell wasn't scared of Willis' dad.
Clyde was stronger than Willis.
Where Willis tried to lie low and avoid the knife-sharp attention of his father, Clyde was angry. Red, hot, and volitile. Couldn't stand cowering in hopes that it wouldn't hurt so bad this time—No, Clyde made sure his father knew an ounce of the hurt he'd caused him. He couldn't stand being bossed around and beat on.
When he'd first came to, watching over his shoulder as his 'dad' lost his temper once again, Clyde felt in his bones that he was strong- if not stronger than Willis' father. Even if the body he was in was barely eight years old, Clyde knew he was an adult. An adult with violence churning beneath his skin.
He wasn't aware of Willis for the longest time. Thought everyone who didn't recognize him as Clyde was just stupid. Sure, his reflection didn't look quite right—his body far too young. But it all simmered out when the body finally aged and the stubble coating his jaw just felt right.
Then, he'd heard a voice in his head. And Willis, in turn, began to hear him. It was weird, at first.
They knew the other was there, but still couldn't remember all of what happened. They still 'lost time'; forgot when they left the house, what they had to do.
Willis didn't like him though.
And that was fine. Clyde didn't like him much either.
Willis just couldn't seem to understand Clyde. He just had to grit his teeth and bear it.
Most of everything is Willis'. They go to Willis' job, go to hang out with Willis' friends.
Willis just wanted to own his life, wanted to keep himself safe and avoid feeling as powerless as he did when he was a kid. It was far easier for him if he pretended that Clyde didn't exist. Sometimes he almost felt it was true.
Sometimes, Clyde wouldn't show for months. And Willis felt like he could finally breathe. That he wasn't crazy, that he didn't have any—really real— imaginary friends.
It wasn't until he was in his early twenties that Willis learned about Clyde. Clyde had learned about Andre shortly after. Willis wasn't aware of Andre and Andre wasn't aware of the other two. This one-way awareness didn't really do much when Clyde wasn't privy to Willis' or Andre's thoughts and memories.
———
But, Willis' ignorance couldn't last forever. His friends soon learned about Clyde.
It wasn't a surprise to Clyde when they'd noticed how calm, sweet Willis turned short-tempered and bossy. How couldn't they? Clyde was nothing like Willis.
Still, Willis couldn't help but feel defeated.
He remembered some of his childhood. What felt like watching over his own shoulder as he fought tooth and nail against his dad and couldn't do anything about it besides tending to his wounds in their small bathroom behind a locked door hoping he didn't make too much noise.
He'd always hated when he was pushed to the back of his own mind. Fighting only ever made it worse and he wished he could've convinced the angry part of his mind of that. Everytime, just as quick as he was pushed away, the fighting him was gone. And Willis was left picking up the pieces.
When he'd left that house, he thought everything would be fine. Sure, he still couldn't account for the lost time, but he would've thought that being away from his dad would've fixed it all.
It wasn't until those outings with his friends that Willis really learned about Clyde and that he hadn't left. That he still kept fronting, kept protecting them even in situations where they would've been fine otherwise. That was one of the reasons Willis didn't like him. Just like when he was little, Clyde always made things worse.
———
Andre was sat on the carpet of his bedroom. Thick glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose as he quietly raced Hot Wheels behind the closed door. There were a handful of cars scattered on the floor around him. He'd swiped them off the top of the dresser where he always kept them lined up. Nobody touched them there. Plus, having them in plain sight always brought a little smile to his face, crooked teeth peeking from behind his lips.
Really, when more Hot Wheels seemed to appear lined up on the dresser, the two should've noticed. Clyde didn't take to buying kids toys, and Willis hadn't remembered the last time he touched them. Not since his dad screamed at him for stepping on one he'd accidentally left on the floor.
Andre happily raced his cars. Sometimes, with his eyes closed, he quizzed himself on what model the car was. Running his hands over the ridges and bumps and huffing when he got it wrong. Then, he took to lining them up like real racecars in a competition, making quiet 'vrooms' as they glided across the carpet.
He wished he had someone to play with. It was so lonely playing cars by himself.
He got a glimpse of how fun it could be to play with another kid that day in the ER but his mean mom had cut it short. He didn't remember much after that besides talking with the nice doctor after all the medicine stuff was done.
Boredom eventually hit Andre. So, he got up, Hot Wheel car in hand, and started wandering around the room.
It wasn't at all how he would decorate it. It was too bland, too simple, too adult. The only fun thing was his cars, but his dad wouldn’t like it if he knew he still had them. According to his dad, he was too old to play with toys.
But, here in his bedroom, in an apartment that he knew his dad couldn't get in to, it was okay. He rarely mustered up the courage to leave the bedroom, though. He was always safer behind the door, but he made sure to keep his voice down lest he make his dad upset.
He didn't really know how he ended up here but he knew that apparently it belonged to him.
For how much he doesn't like looking at himself, without fail, he finds himself standing in front of the mirror on the dresser.
He always avoided looking at his face in whole. It didn't look right. It wasn't his and it felt so weird to see a thirty-year- old when he knew he was eight. The cropped curly hair and stubble didn't belong to him. But his eyes? That was him, without a doubt; soft and open.
Today, he was dressed in some grey shorts and a black band tee with the sleeves cut off that he wouldn't wear if he was given the chance to dress himself. Andre put up with it. Always finding himself dressed in clothes that weren't fun in the slightest.
Andre's eyes skirted over his reflection, landing down on his right shoulder.
The one with several raised, red circular marks, scattered around with no rhyme or reason.
He ran his large hands—trying to ignore the wrongness of seeing them— gently over the scars. There were so many. And those were just the ones he could see, knowing more hid beneath the soft tee.
Andre can still feel the hissing burn, angry and white-hot. The cigarettes leaving ash stuck to his skin. If Andre concentrated enough, it was almost like he could smell it again.
His fascination of the scars was almost disturbing. Where most would avoid it at all costs, Andre couldn't find it in him to cower away from it. In a way it was almost...comforting. Rubbing his fingers along the scarred flesh.
In a blink, Willis was standing in front of the mirror.
It took him a second to orientate himself. Snatching his hand away when he realized where his fingers lie.
The scars unsettled him. He couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but he got chills and his head hurt when he tried to think about it too hard. The memory of it hazy. Too far away for him to grasp.
He stayed put, taking his appearance in. He didn't make it a habit to look at himself. Sometimes it felt like he could see Clyde in his eyes and in his sharp teeth. It was unnerving.
His body looked right. The man with curly hair and stubble coating his jaw looked like him. The healing cuts on his lip and cheek reminded him of Clyde.
He didn't let himself linger on that, moving to change his clothes into something that felt more like him.
Willis paused at the sight of the scattered cars on the ground. He didn't remember leaving those there. He also doesn't remember what he's been doing for the past couple of hours but thats neither here nor there.
He settles on a long-sleeve blue button up with dark blue dots and changed the shorts for jeans.
Willis finds himself placing the Hot Wheels back onto the dresser, lining them up in no particular order. He doesnt know why he feels the need to put them back in their spot, but he still ends up with a neat row of cars almost spanning the length of the dresser, all facing the wall across from the mirror.
He couldn't pinpoint when the five cars he'd had suddenly turned into almost thirty, but part of him softened at seeing them.
Eventually, Willis drifted away from the cars, moving to brush his teeth before venturing out of his bedroom for what seems to be the first time today.
The door quietly clicked shut behind him.