If You Seek Amee | Zarry

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Harry stared blankly at the notes on his desk, tracing the lines of his handwritten text as though trying to decipher a foreign language. His academic life, carefully curated and methodically structured, was the only thing that made sense to him anymore. He excelled in his courses—mathematics, science, anything that relied on clear-cut answers. It was an ironic contrast to the chaotic enigma his own life had become. He had no job, no steady source of income, and yet his bank account was always full, more than enough to cover rent and expenses.

Ames, his elusive roommate, must have been the answer. They had shared the flat for three years now, but Harry could count on one hand the number of times they had physically crossed paths.

He often wondered what Ames did for work, how he spent his nights. They communicated rarely, and only through what felt like fleeting moments of thought—telepathic whispers, messages that seemed to buzz through his mind with an eerie familiarity. The strange part wasn't the communication itself, but the way it felt entirely natural, like an afterthought, a conversation he couldn't fully remember but knew he'd had.

Harry's life during the day was quiet, predictable. He attended his lectures, kept his room tidy, and stuck to his study routine. Books and papers were strewn across his desk, a few coffee mugs sitting beside them, evidence of late-night study sessions. His bed was always neatly made, the sheets tucked in perfectly.

He never questioned the disparity between his life and Ames's; it felt easier not to. The few times he had ventured into Ames's side of the flat, he had recoiled in shock. It was like stepping into a different world. Red lighting, the walls adorned with mirrors and provocative photographs. The bed, draped in pink satin sheets, looked out of place, almost too luxurious for the clutter of clothes—costumes, really—that hung from every available space. Leather, lace, feathers, and sequins. Items Harry couldn't imagine wearing in his wildest dreams. He never lingered in there. It felt intrusive, wrong, like he was peering into someone else's psyche, someone entirely unlike himself.

Yet despite this drastic difference in lifestyle, Harry had never confronted Ames. He simply accepted the bizarre arrangement, convinced it was just another quirk of life. He had enough to worry about with his studies. The growing emptiness that gnawed at him, though—now that was harder to ignore. It was as if his life, so carefully maintained, lacked something essential. Something he couldn't name, but felt was just beyond his reach.

And when that void became too large to ignore, when the whispers of something darker stirred in the back of his mind, he simply chalked it up to stress and exhaustion. Harry was on the straight and narrow, wasn't he? There was no reason for his life to feel so... fragmented.

Night was different. Night was when Ames came to life.

Ames, a name that had once been whispered in the dark recesses of Harry's mind, had now become its own living entity. When the sun set, Ames claimed the body they shared like a well-worn coat, slipping into it with a practiced ease. He was everything Harry wasn't—charismatic, alluring, fearless. Ames craved attention, thrived on it. And he knew exactly where to get it.

The club was dark and alive with throbbing bass as it synced with the pounding of Ames's heartbeat. Every movement was precise, deliberate—designed to captivate the audience. As Ames glided across the stage, his body a living canvas of seduction, the crowd erupted.

"Amee! Amee!" they screamed, voices hoarse with desperation, eager for his attention. Hands waved bills in the air, pleading for him to look their way, to grace them with just a flicker of acknowledgment. He soaked it all in, the praise, the adoration, the lust. In this world, he wasn't just a performer; he was divine.

"Over here, Amee!" a voice shouted from the front, nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Ames smiled, slow and wicked, teasing them as he moved closer to the edge of the stage, his hips swaying as slowly lowered his pants to show the slight peak of his v-lines. The audience surged forward, eyes wide with hunger, drawn to the magnetic pull of his presence. His voice, low and velvety, slithered through the air, wrapping around them like smoke, igniting their desires. "Miss me?" he purred, casting a glance over the sea of enraptured faces, each one yearning to be the center of his universe.

They didn't just want to see him. They wanted to feel him, to be touched by his power, to be consumed by him. And Ames? He thrived on it.

He teased them with his voice, deep and sultry, a seductive purr that could make anyone's knees go weak. He danced like his body was made of liquid heat, and when his clothes came off, he did it slowly, tantalizingly, each piece discarded with a smirk.

His stage persona was magnetic, but off-stage, Ames was even more infamous. In the dark corners of the club, away from the prying eyes of the audience, Ames became something else entirely. He was a sex worker, his nights spent tangled in sheets, his body a tool for the pleasures of others. And he didn't care. Ames thrived on the rush of it all—the money, the drugs, the alcohol. It was a high that Harry, in his innocence, could never understand.

What Harry didn't know—couldn't know—was that every moment Ames spent on stage, every drug he took, every body he pleasured, was all part of a deeper need. A need to fill the same void that haunted Harry. Ames was chasing something too, though he would never admit it. That gnawing emptiness inside him, the feeling that something essential was missing, was a constant companion, no matter how much he drowned it in excess.

But when morning came, Ames disappeared. Like a shadow retreating from the light, he faded away, leaving Harry in control once more. And Harry, oblivious to the double life he was living, would wake up in his neat, tidy room, his bank account flush with cash.

-

It started small.

Harry had always been tired, but now the exhaustion was bone-deep. His professors commented on the dark circles under his eyes, and his friends—what few he had—remarked on how distant he seemed. He brushed it off as stress, the workload of his final year of college weighing heavily on him. But there were moments when time seemed to slip away from him, entire hours vanishing into the ether with no explanation.

The first real crack came when he woke up one morning with glitter stuck to his skin.

He stared at it, bewildered, as though trying to understand how it could have possibly ended up there. He hadn't been to a party, hadn't been out drinking. In fact, he'd gone to bed early, hoping to catch up on sleep. But as he stood there, looking at the shimmering specks on his arms, something in the back of his mind stirred, something dark and unfamiliar.

Harry tried to shake it off. He scrubbed the glitter away and went about his day, ignoring the nagging feeling that something was wrong. But it didn't stop there. The strange occurrences began when Harry found himself waking up in Ames's room without any memory of how he got there.

Ames was growing stronger, more present. Harry could feel him in the back of his mind, a shadow lurking just out of reach. And with each passing day, the line between them blurred further.

The truth hit Harry like a tidal wave, drowning him in its merciless depth.

He wasn't living with Ames. He was Ames.