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“Why do you seem so intent on rejecting my theory?” Freud snaps, although for the passing moment he chooses to stop his words. Jung takes note of the telltale downward twitch of Freud’s lips- knows Freud, despite his seemingly calm and detached demeanor, has a lot to say, in defense of his theory and perhaps even against Jung’s own.
Freud was becoming rather complicated to deal with. What Jung once considered a promising collaboration he only dreamed to have was now rather a troubling and strained relationship. Freud’s stubborn propensity to consider nothing but his own work did little to help their tumultuous interactions. While this certain trait of Freud’s managed to bother Jung to no end (They must be furthering knowledge! Not one’s pride or sense of ego!), he supposed he understood where his predecessor was coming from, being an emerging proponent of a seemingly new psychoanalytical theory as well. Freud was every bit as brilliant as Jung would’ve thought him to be, and so it seemed Freud’s effrontery was deserved.
That is exactly why, along with his building unrest, Jung found himself just as endeared with the other’s determination, and just as horrified to consider that perhaps a compromise would no longer appease both in the future; that perhaps, they were only delaying the inevitable: their separation.
He returns from his thoughts to focus on Freud’s question (‘Why do you seem so intent on rejecting my theory?’), can’t quite helping the way he focuses on Freud’s stiff stance, remembering very well the effort the other is no doubt taking in holding his tongue. Not to be outdone by the object of his damnable worship, Jung holds his own.
‘ Your psychosexual theory did little to take into account people such as myself, ’ he wants so badly to say, feeling like a dam ready to burst. Freud would perhaps look at him, fully aware of the abuse Jung was forced to face as a youth, yet unknowing of the implication of his words.
‘ The complexes you detailed are a far cry from the reality of my own experience, ’ Jung would explain, and it’s almost disgusting how he can taste the words on his tongue, so ready to be released. ‘ I myself am longing for one who’s hardly reminiscent of my mother. ’
And would Freud understand then?
‘ After all, you are more like a father to me. ’
“Why, my friend,” Jung says instead, feigning bravado and casualness he does not feel. “What brilliant theory would not inspire its fair share of criticism?” It was a well known fact that being able to inspire debate was one of the hallmarks of a good theory. He hoped Freud would take the bait and simply accept this explanation.
The air feels somewhat charged as Freud does nothing more but hold his gaze. It does little to help Jung’s attraction- what with the intensity and depth of his father’s eyes ( father , he almost chokes, he’s called you his adopted son, his successor, his crown prince- and wasn’t that so familiar to the words he used to praise you with? ). In the back of his mind, he’s aware his breathing has stilled, his heart rate has increased, and his palms are sweating, yet the realization does nothing to help him gain physiological normalcy.
“Our-” Jung starts, but promptly cuts himself off as he clears his throat. He despises how his voice waivers in the face of his most blessed veneration. He thinks back to Freud’s writing, so carefully constructed, so solid in his hands, ‘ I shall do my best to show you that I am unfit to be an object of worship. ’ He recalls how excited he had been to have received his letters- how every word made his head throb and his hands shake. The remembered words do nothing to abate the curious heat pooling in his gut now, even when the same traitorous unconscious was revolting against his desire ( he thinks of hands, larger than his own, larger than his face- he remembers not being able to breathe- ).
It is of no doubt that he desires Freud as close as he can have him, but at the same time, he can’t help feeling resistant to the intimate bubble they’ve made for themselves. It is clear that Freud shared in this feeling, in one way or another. He’s fainted in fright at the thought of Jung, after all (and Jung simply does not understand how his admittance of having erotic, pseudo-incestuous feelings toward Freud translated to the elder as Jung wanting to destroy him, as per his proposed Oedipus complex). More than this, they’ve certainly reached an impasse in regard to the directions both theories were going, and not one of them seemed receptive to the idea of conceding. Not that it was unexpected.
He knows this all an impossible dream, and so he takes hold of this moment: of Freud, though frowning, being within arm’s reach, the heady scent of tobacco wafting through the air, and of the general, warm, encompassing feeling he’s always had in his friend’s company, both physical and not, that always inspired him to end his letters with the same promise- ‘ yours, very sincerely ’. He keeps the memory dearly to himself, for when the nights become longer and his purpose starts to lose its meaning.
At Freud’s tilted brow (no doubt thinking the worst of him again), Jung beams at him a burdened, heavy smile. “Our conversation has staled! I suggest we return to our previous work; I’ve yet to intepret your dream, after all.”