Archive of Our Own

Narrator was no stranger to going off on tangents and Stanley was no stranger to listening to them. Often, he’d sit and listen as Narrator spun tales out of seemingly nothing. Things that couldn’t be yet were just so exciting to hear about. Or, he’d talk about his feelings. Long winded rants about why his critics were wrong or how they’d misunderstood the whole point of his story.

Recently however, his rants had slowed. Tangents turned to only slight deviations off the beaten path until Narrator stopped going off script completely. Stanley knew why, and the guilt had started to eat at him.

Narrator was perhaps too big-hearted for his own good. Overemotional in the most inconvenient of ways, but it hadn’t been something Stanley had minded. Up until Narrator professed that he’d developed a crush on his protagonist. This…wasn’t something Stanley necessarily minded either. He wasn’t disgusted nor upset, he was flattered really. He just…didn’t feel the same way. He liked Narrator, sure. Loved him as a friend. But as gently as he let him down, Stanley knew Narrator was nursing a broken heart. One he’d been trying very hard to hide.

Every dam had its breaking point though and this reset seemed to be it.

Stanley heard shuffling, papers being rustled before the clink of a glass being set down somewhere. Narrator cleared his throat before mumbling something to himself. This was…different. Stanley hoped that maybe Narrator had come around, not quite gotten over it, Stanley wasn’t that heartless. He didn’t expect Narrator to just move on like that, indeed they were both lonely people. It was hard not to be here. He knew this was hard for Narrator, hard for the both of them but he’d honestly missed Narrator’s rambles. And this seemed like a ripe opportunity for one of those tangents. So, Stanley readied himself, smoothing his shirt down and fixing the collar — preparing for a whole lot of standing still and staring at the ceiling.

At first, Stanley listens in slight amusement as Narrator's sorrowful rambles start out pretty surface level. Stanley honestly thinks Narrator is talking to him at first. Complaints about his story, how it’s not good enough, how he needs to fix it all. There’s a slight slur to his words that makes Stanley’s enjoyment lessen. Something about this…feels off.

Narrator starts to hiccup in the middle of his sentences, clearly not in a good way and Stanley cranes his neck up a little further to the ceiling — wanting to comfort him. If he could only get his attention…

And then Narrator starts talking about Stanley. Crying to himself gently about why the man doesn't love him back, wondering if it's something he did and Stanley starts to feel guilt swirl in his stomach. An undercurrent of uncomfortableness joins it and Stanley shifts. He wasn’t blaming Narrator of course, he'd very clearly left his mic on and Stanley wasn't meant to hear but all of this outpouring of emotion for Stanley was...well it was hard to hear. He didn't return his feelings and knowing Narrator was still so attached was difficult. Once again, he wasn't upset with Narrator, he couldn't fault him for his feelings. In some way, it was sweet and Stanley was flattered.

Finally Stanley breaks out of his thoughts, with help from another hiccup from Narrator followed shortly by another cry. And then, very quietly "Sometimes I wish I didn't have to look at him..."

Stanley feels a little like disappearing after that. Shrinking into himself, pulling away from Narrator's words like if he retracted far enough into his shirt, he'd melt into it completely and Narrator wouldn't have to see him.

Clearly his presence was just hurting Narrator and it wasn't like Stanley was suddenly going to change how he felt. No matter how bad he really did feel for Narrator. So what was he meant to do?

He could hardly bring it up, he wasn't meant to hear any of this. He'd been eavesdropping on another man's sorrow, no doubt crossing some sort of boundary. And granted, it's not like he had any way of not listening, short of covering his ears. Narrator's voice reached every corner of this office, no matter how far one might run to escape it. It always caught up with you, by design of course.

So Stanley just sinks to the floor, huddling into himself. A few tears escape him and he sniffles quietly. This was a terrible situation, he hadn't meant to hurt Narrator so badly. Not at all. He really did genuinely like him...love him even. Just not like that. Was that a crime? To be honest about his feelings?

A sniffle even as small as the one Stanley produced is enough to draw Narrator's attention. It's...a sound from Stanley. Even one as quiet as that, Narrator cannot help but notice. It's like anything to do with Stanley heightened his senses.

Narrator clears his throat and then looks to the blinking, dull red light of his mic. A sign that it was on and had been this entire time.

"S—Stanley?"

Narrator, humiliated that Stanley heard any of that, starts to apologise profusely, tears starting to spring to eyes again and Stanley can hear it. He can hear his distress and it's a terrible sound. So upsetting that Stanley wants to do anything to stop it.

So he does an incredibly stupid, panicked thing...

[It's okay! Really, Narrator... I uh— well I...] Stanley isn't sure what he's doing, he can see how dumb this is. He can see the doom approaching on the horizon the more he says, the ruin inbound but Narrator has paused. He's stopped crying, even if just for a moment and Stanley feels something swell inside his chest. He doesn't want to hear him cry or rant to himself like that ever again,. Even if Stanley doesn't return his feelings, he still cares. Narrator is the only bloody person for miles and...well they'd grown closer. It was impossible not to care. Especially, as Stanley had started to discover, for a softie such as his Narrator.

So he continues.

[Well I...what you said about me not loving you back isn't totally true...]

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife and Stanley freezes. Maybe that isn't what Narrator wanted to hear after all that. Maybe it was too soon, maybe—

"Oh Stanley!" Narrator's tone is...beyond elated. Almost sickeningly so and he says Stanley's name with all the love he can muster and Stanley feels horrible. This was wrong, this was worse than not returning his feelings, this was leading him on. All because he didn't want to hear Narrator cry—

"You really mean it?" Narrator sounds hopeful as ever and Stanley cannot stomach it. His body jolts slightly, knowing Narrator will notice. He can hardly back out now and break his heart again. That would be past cruel, it would be unimaginable. Much worse than just not returning his feelings, to get his hopes up and then... destroy them? Surely, Narrator wouldn't care about the supposedly good reasons Stanley had done it for. Perhaps he'd never talk to Stanley again, so upset that he abandons him—

Faced with that idea, Stanley swallows his quickly rising guilt.

[Yes. I mean it. I love you, Narrator.]

’[I love you, Narrator.]’

That sign echoed inside Stanley’s mind, loudly and bouncing in that empty space where the love he’d promised Narrator he felt should have been. And it echoed louder still when something did start to fill that space. A warmth trickling in from the outside, one spurred on by the time he and Narrator spent together.

Narrator never pushed Stanley, never pushed him to show his love but he was noticeably more affectionate. Almost whining when Stanley chose the less…lovely endings. Did Stanley really have to do those ones now? He didn’t like yelling at him anymore, no matter how humorous Stanley may find it.

As the warm feeling grew, Stanley nearly fools himself into forgetting how it started. Forgetting the pity he’d taken on Narrator, and instead starting to enjoy the pet names Narrator used on him or the gentle brush of his model’s hand against his own.

But oh, dear sweet Narrator. Dear, sweet, sentimental Narrator. He can't help but get sappy about how it all started. Laughing at himself.

"Oh Stanley, do you remember how much of a mess I was? I— hehehe— I left my mic on! I mean, how silly of me—" Stanley remembers. Very suddenly he remembers....oh dear.

"—But you, you were so kind. You didn't even make fun of me...you just...oh Stanley. You loved me back, even after seeing how silly I am. I cannot ever say how grateful I am."

Stanley. Felt. Horrible.

If Narrator ever were to find out Stanley had lied, that he’d built their relationship on a fabrication, he'd not only be absolutely shattered but he would be so incredibly humiliated. More humiliated than one could ever imagine. The very worst depths of shame and embarrassment, the kind that spreads like fire across your cheeks before burning through the rest of you. Curling and roaring like a fire in your chest, fuelled by the simplest of things. A look from Stanley, even the mere idea of him.

Of course, with that knowledge in mind, Stanley tried his very hardest to make sure Narrator didn’t find out. The fact he’d lied at all was becoming but a distant memory in his mind, replaced by the much more real feeling of love starting to make its home in his chest. He, despite the odds, had really started to grow fond of the whole idea. Of being Narrator’s and Narrator being his.

He could have left it alone, could have never told Narrator the truth because why did it matter now? Stanley returned that love. He’s sure he does. His heart skips a beat when Narrator reaches for his hand or calls him love or when Stanley lets them cuddle in the apartment. Or when Narrator treats him with an extra degree of care, every word and action imbued with the softest kind of affection possible.

So what did it matter that he’d only started this out of pity? Out of guilt for making Narrator cry? He’d never wanted to hurt him in the first place and now Narrator was happy. Was that not all that mattered? They were both happy, together.

Unfortunately, some part of Stanley had a maddening urge to do the right thing. One that broke through his attempts to forget the past, one that only grew the longer and longer Stanley tried to ignore it.

Narrator had been so open with him. Told him all sorts of things he never would have otherwise. Bared his soul to Stanley and Stanley had sat there, the knowledge that he’d done it all out of pity and nodded. Lied through his teeth for a while that he too felt the same way. Hardly mattering that it had morphed to be something much more than a lie, it felt rotten to the core. A love with an unhealthy root, a weed that Stanley himself had planted and decided was a flower — one to cultivate and let grow. Let it spread itself through the parable, wrapping its vines around the two of them until they were bound tightly in its grasp. Guilt forced its way into Stanley’s mind, overrunning all his thoughts and turning them to paranoia.

Narrator was bound to find out, Stanley was sure of it. Any time Narrator looked at him, Stanley could feel the vines pulling Narrator closer and closer. Closer to the truth, dragging it out of Stanley one way or another. It was a catastrophe inbound, no doubt about it and Stanley had to get ahead of it. It was the only way he’d ever feel alright. He had to tell Narrator the truth. Finally bring the garden shears and cut back the weeds of their relationship.

*

It had gone down about as well as Stanley could have imagined. What was meant to be a difficult conversation was more akin to walking backwards into hell. A path he’d carved for himself but difficult to walk no less. It had hurt, by god it had hurt. It hurt to see Narrator’s face fall, slowly and then all at once with a dawning look of horror that made Stanley’s stomach ache. Horror turned quickly to pain and Stanley had tried to reach for him. He’d tried to explain himself but he couldn’t really. Couldn’t say he hadn’t meant to hurt Narrator because he had and that was that. It was a fact Stanley would have to live with, for however long Narrator was angry.

And Narrator was angry. So very angry.

What once had seemed like loving looks were now rebranded as pity in Narrator's memories. All the time they'd spent together, repainted in the ugliest colour — that of falseness and deception. Betrayal of the highest degree. It hardly mattered if those feelings are real now, at some point it'd just been a lie. Any moment they shared, a fabrication because Stanley felt bad for poor over emotional Narrator. No doubt he'd thought Narrator's feelings silly. That he was some sort of poor sap that Stanley needed to take care of instead of an equal.

How humiliating.

Narrator tried not to get angry. He never normally did. No matter what. Even the countdown ending, it was always done with...well a certain knowledge that this was all just for the story. Stanley even caught himself smiling at some parts during the speech. Anything cruel sounded silly coming out of his Narrator's mouth — the very same man who had cried over the videos of silly birds because "Oh they are just so silly and cute, Stanley!"

But this? This humiliation, this rage, this was something Stanley hadn't ever seen. It started as insults, real insults. No longer just playful jabs. No, these were fighting words. Wishes that he didn't have to look at Stanley. That Stanley really was stupid and not amusingly so. Anything that Narrator had found endearing about Stanley had all but melted and it didn't seem like Stanley could put a foot right. He'd barely stepped through a door before Narrator would sigh heavily — even if it were the right choice. It seemed he didn't even want to tell the story anymore, narrate any of Stanley's actions, no matter how correctly Stanley did it. And Stanley took it all. He deserved it after all, after what he did. He deserved so much more.

And then Stanley tried to bring it up. Point out that it was hard to do this story with Narrator acting this way.

The second Stanley had signed that, Narrator felt his fingers go numb — rage trickling through his veins.

How. Dare. Stanley.

Suggest that he was making this harder, that it was his fault? After what he'd done?

Narrator never yelled. Not properly. He tried not to. He didn't get angry and he didn't lash out. He didn't. Not in any real way. He tried so hard to be good for Stanley.

Narrator couldn't help the scream that ripped its way out of his throat, tears gathering quickly in his eyes and Stanley nearly tripped over. He'd never heard him scream like that. It sounded like it hurt. And then Narrator did it again, sounding like he was spitting fire. Burning hatred bubbled up through his screams, insults flowing like lava shortly after and Narrator isn't even sure what he's saying but it doesn't matter. He yells and he sobs and wishes Stanley would disappear until his voice was sore.

Stanley just watches and listens. Listens as the office starts to shake, listen as Narrator's yells start to vibrate throughout him. Feeling his very being start to melt, like he can't quite perceive parts of himself anymore. Like...well it's a bit like that one ending where he can't move and Narrator begs him to. Where he feels so far away from his body and he can feel someone watching him from the ceiling — one who is not the Narrator.

All at once, he realises he's starting to be pulled out of himself. Narrator's cries and wails carry him away, soul slipping from his being slowly and then all at once.

Perhaps Narrator's wish for him to disappear had started to come true.

Of course, Stanley can't say what is happening. He can't move his hands anymore. He can't tell Narrator to stop. He can't explain what is happening, how far away he feels. How he keeps pulling away, past where he ever had gone before. The office starts to melt away. He's still there, standing right there but he feels so far away that Stanley wants to cry.

It's terrifying, being like this. Untethered and floating in a space that both does and doesn't exist, where Stanley was and was not. Where his mind ebbed away into the flow of eternity and it's endless quiet. That space that one couldn't label, couldn't see or hold. It slipped through Stanley's fingers like sand, disappearing before he even tried to grab onto it. There were no words to describe it, as there was nothing to describe. It wasn't an empty space, as there had never been anything to fill it in the first place. It just...was not. And yet, Stanley was there anyway, Narrator's screams but an echo in the back of his mind. A quickly fading one.

All while Stanley's body stayed firmly rooted to the spot, unmoving and to an outside viewer, perfectly fine.

Once Narrator's voice grows hoarse, he looks down. Down at Stanley's immobile model, an empty look in Stanley's eyes that he knows very well. Narrator sits back a little, gazing at him, thoughts starting to wander. Stanley was gone. His mind at least and Narrator knows where. He can snap him out of it, he has the power to eventually, if he pulled hard enough but…

Stanley without Stanley in him wasn't really Stanley. It wasn't really the man who'd betrayed him, who'd caused him so much pain. He was just an empty model now. One Narrator could stomach to look at. And although Narrator hadn't intended to send Stanley away like that…was the break really so awful? The hurt pulling at his chest told him no, that wasn't such a bad idea.

Yes, Narrator didn't really mind this new Stanley. He could get used to it.

*

The only thing Stanley can really feel is Narrator pulling away. It's a strong pull, one that would normally snap Stanley right back into himself but this time, it goes in the other direction.

Was...was this really how much he'd upset him? It was a ridiculous question, one he shot down the second he thought it. Of course he had. Of course, he'd shattered Narrator's heart and then complained when he'd been trying to pick up the pieces.

But for Narrator to pull away? To leave him here? For god knows how long?

It couldn't be. Stanley couldn't, he couldn't let it. Regardless of what he'd done or how much he felt he may deserve it, a much stronger feeling won him over. Fear. Utter and abject horror, swallowing him whole at even the mere idea of being left like this. Mind separated from body, floating in an unending quiet. Aware enough to feel every terror and understand every lonely second but not enough to do anything about it.

Terror crashed over him, washing through him and despite being so far away, he could almost feel his stomach start to hurt. Narrator couldn't. He couldn't leave him. Stanley would let him do whatever he wanted when he got back, torture him, lock him in a dark room, whatever Narrator wanted, just as long as he got back.

So, Stanley starts to cry. Well...he tries to. He feels the sting in his eyes — the ones he couldn't place — he feels the sob starting to choke him and the pull on his chest — all without a body. He could feel it but had no way to know if it was working.

Far away, back in the offices, tears start to cascade down the cheeks of Stanley's model. Fresh ones, full of pain. They wet his face, and his open eyes are filled, a seemingly never ending stream. It's a disconcerting scene to watch, Stanley's completely blank expression as waterfalls of emotion pour out of his wide eyes. He stares straight ahead, past Narrator who by now had joined him.

Oh. Narrator didn't like this new Stanley anymore.

Narrator waves a careful hand in front of Stanley's face. An action that feels a little silly but...he didn't really know what else to do.

Anger settles in his mind before retreating, rather politely making room for other, more pressing feelings. Seeing such an outpouring of emotion, in the most human of ways, making its way down a stationary model felt...wrong. So incredibly wrong, a wrong that Narrator couldn't be okay with.

Did...did he really want this to be the rest of his life? Did he really want to talk to no one, his voice but a quiet whisper to the real Stanley? Did he really want to wander empty halls, no doubt dragging what may as well be a corpse around with him? Was that...really any better than seeing the sparkle in the eyes of a man he thought loved him back? Would he trade that pain for this pain?

And indeed, would he trade his pain for Stanley's?

He'd been so angry. So very angry, he'd wished for nothing more than for Stanley to disappear. He'd wanted it so badly, so very badly and he was convinced he hated Stanley. How could he not? Stanley had lied to him, betrayed and humiliated him. Lead him on and— and—

Oh god. It was all because of that stupid mic. That one with the button that never really worked properly. There was a reason he had so many but even still...he had an odd sort of fondness for it. It was his first proper one after all...

If he hadn't been such a blabbermouth, Stanley would have never felt bad and this whole awful thing would have never started. Narrator looked down at his hands and how they shook. Even still, even here, without Stanley, he still felt ashamed. Embarrassed for ever letting Stanley see him like that.

Stanley could have just insisted he didn't mean to listen and it was all alright really and they best forget about it and they could have laughed it off and gotten on with things like any normal person would have but— he hadn't. He'd lied and betrayed and—

Narrator tried not to let his hands shake harder. Tried not to let anger back in, he was trying to be diplomatic.

Well screw trying to be diplomatic, he wasn't! He lied to you! A suddenly not so quiet part of him spoke up. Yelling louder and louder until Narrator looked up. Looked into Stanley's crying eyes. And it yelled until all Narrator saw in them was pity.

Narrator hated pity.

It took all Narrator's strength to not walk away right there and leave Stanley. Leave the man who'd torn up and spat out his heart.

But like that microphone he hadn't been able to bring himself to throw out — even when it malfunctioned and threw his life into disrepair — he couldn't quite bring himself to walk away. To just...throw away Stanley. Not matter how tempting it was. Not matter how hotly his rage burnt.

'I think you know he cares.' Narrator turned his head rather quickly, looking for the source of the voice before realising swiftly (and rather embarrassingly) that it was indeed coming from inside his head. Ah, yes. His conscience. That quiet, albeit stubborn little voice in his mind that ruined terrific plans like abandoning Stanley. The very same voice who would quell his anger and maddeningly, make him think clearly about his choices.

'I just don't think you want to admit that he can care for you without loving you back.' Narrator willed himself to shut up. He tried to block out its words, trying to find that anger he'd been running on.

"But he hurt me! Can't you see, he— he deserves this!" At any other time, Narrator may have been embarrassed to talk to himself but Stanley wasn't exactly around to listen.

'I'm not asking you to give up your hurt or your anger but you, more than anyone, knows no one deserves this fate. Even the very worst. And he is not the very worst.' Alright yes, this was all getting a bit annoying. It was making...too much sense. And Narrator hated that. He hated that the voice was right.

'I think...I think you still care for him. Dare I say...love him.' Narrator was seriously considering running his head through the next available wall, if only to shut the stupid thing up. Knowing sooner or later, it'd pull him to his senses. Narrator didn't want to come to his senses, not about this. Not ever, he wanted to stay angry and hurting and—

'I know you don't want to be hurt again. I know, this kindness will be scary. To do ultimately the right thing is scary. You are scared. It's okay.' Narrator watched himself move in third person, closer to Stanley.

'But is it not better to live in momentary fear than forever in regret?' Narrator watched his hand stroke the side of Stanley's face. Drying his tears, almost absentmindedly.

'Pity is not the fools way of showing one cares but often fools misinterpret its meaning.' Narrator knew what it was saying. 'Of course, you have both been very foolish. One much more than the other, but don't destroy him for trying. No matter how misguided and silly his attempts were.'

Narrator's arms wrap around Stanley's motionless figure, resting his head on his chest. Unable to find his heartbeat, Narrator lets his heart beat for the both of them.

'At the heart of it, he felt sorrow for you. Much as you felt sorrow for him not returning your feelings.' Narrator nods again. He knows. 'And is it not worse to know that one can care for you but not in the way you want so desperately for them to? Is it not easier to destroy them than live with that? To love them despite your feelings?' Narrator felt tears of his own start to roll down his cheeks. Yes. Yes it was easier to burn something to the ground then let something try to grow — even after a thunderstorm.

So caught up in his thoughts, Narrator didn't notice the warmth start to return to Stanley's model. Didn't notice when Stanley looked down, at Narrator clutching on so tightly — as if he was trying to reach wherever Stanley was and pull him back. Didn't notice when Stanley placed careful arms around Narrator, returning the embrace.

"I'm sorry Stanley. Just...come back and we can— I want you back."

'Hm. Perhaps you're both a little less foolish than first thought.' As quickly as the voice had entered Narrator's mind, it left. Quietly mind you and like it had never been there in the first place — leaving Narrator to wonder if it indeed had been his conscience.

Narrator buried his face in Stanley's shirt, crying quietly. He sniffled, hands gripping onto the body of the man he loved. If he'd really— if he'd really chased Stanley off—

He felt a hand rub his back, in slow circles and Narrator nearly pulled away.

"S—Stanley?" It's quiet and Narrator forgets all his anger, all his rage melts out his system in one whisper. Stanley just nods, not letting go of their embrace.

"I—I thought I—" Narrator's lip wobbles again and his eyes are filled with tears — looking up at Stanley with the most sorrowful look he can muster.

[Well I wasn't gone for that long.] It's the first thing Stanley can think of signing, freeing Narrator from their embrace for a few moments.

"—No but y—you were so far away and I—" Narrator catches Stanley's smile. It's small, and almost a little guilty looking but it's there. "—Oh...you were joking." Narrator straightens up and wipes his eyes.

Yes. Well. Stanley was back. That was that. Was it not?

Stanley tries to hold onto that moment. The one where they'd been holding each other like their worlds were ending, where they didn't care about what had landed them in this situation.

[I...thank you. For pulling me back.] Stanley reaches for Narrator but he turns away as if remembering the reality of it all.

"Well yes. Don't say I don't do anything for you." He can't really look Stanley in the eyes, of course he's overjoyed that Stanley is back. Incredibly so, almost too overjoyed. So much so that he's afraid to show it, to show how much he cares. That voice's words echo loudly in his head, he would be afraid. This kindness was scary. He'd known this. It was okay.

Narrator tries to hold onto that. Tries to hold onto that love, tries to put down his fear and free his hands so they can hold Stanley again. But when Stanley looks at him like that, with what could be love in his eyes but Narrator can't quite let himself believe it, he feels afraid all over again.

[Narrator?] Stanley reaches out a tentative hand. [It's a stupid question I know but...are you alright?] Stanley was right, it was a stupid question. Narrator was all sorts of mixed up, inside out and all over the place. He was the best he'd ever been and the worst. Nothing he says could capture the swirling pool inside his chest, a body of water turned to an ocean with waves of feeling that crashed over and nearly sunk him.

So Stanley tries to say it for him.

[No. You're not.] Stanley sighs but it's not an annoyed one. It's a soft one, as if realising how terrible he really had been. [And I'm the reason.] A simple fact, an obvious one really but Narrator feels himself getting a little teary at it again.

[Well.] Stanley strides over to Narrator, nearly backing him into a desk. [Let me fix it. Let me do whatever it takes. You can scream at me, insult me, hate me, ignore me and throw me away as much as you want but at least let me be here for it. Let me bear it, and let me apologise afterwards.] Stanley tries to take Narrator's hands but they shake so Stanley settles for mimicking the action.

"Stanley—"

For once, Stanley interrupts Narrator. [If you want to run from me, by all means you have every right. I don't like me much either right now. But if you do run, however far away from me you go, just know—] Stanley swallows thickly, with all the knowledge of a man who's sure he doesn't deserve to say any of this. [—There will be a soft place for you to land when you come back. If you of course want it, that is.] Stanley points to himself, not really needing to make the point any clearer but Narrator nods all the same. His pupils are constricted, much like a cornered animal, cowering from Stanley and Stanley feels terrible. By god he does but he had to say his piece. Whatever Narrator did with that information was his choice.

Stanley let Narrator have his space, backing up and the offices had never felt this quiet.

"Stanley—" Narrator tries again, but his voice fails him and his whole body follows suit. He shakes, time slowing as he starts to crash to the floor. Unintentionally, he reaches out and trembling fingers grab for Stanley. They find the fabric of his pant leg and then they hold on. Hold on as Narrator's body shivers, his whole frame quivering. It takes Stanley a second to realise he's crying again, quieter this time. Much quieter as if this was the last thing left in him. As if these cries were the last feelings left in his heart, lonely and desperate. Reaching for another, another heart who may be able to nurse it back to health.

Stanley joined him on the floor, gently and without words he pulled Narrator into him. His arm wrapped around the shaking man and Narrator didn't pull away — much too tired for that now.

Exhaustion had staked its claim on Narrator's mind, declaring itself ruler of all his thoughts and anger fell away to tired acceptance. A shrug of the shoulders, a refusal to fight this moment. One where Stanley's arms held Narrator tightly, heart beating faster than Narrator's fractured but quietly still alive own.

There wasn't anyone but them. They were all they had, and to fight that — no matter how afraid Narrator had been — was silly. For now, it was silly. It was enough to just let him fall into Stanley's embrace. To let himself cry, to let those tears carry out every single weight in his heart in its salty liquid.

And as Stanley hummed to him, using his limited voice to try to calm Narrator — Narrator felt himself drifting further and further into that softness Stanley had promised him. That place he'd promised Narrator would be here for him, if he ever did choose to run.

Stanley pressed a soft kiss to Narrator's hand, gentle and imbued with a thousand apologies. He then traced the lines on Narrator's hand, marvelling at each detail. Everything that had been carefully crafted, just to spend time with Stanley in person.

And now, for Stanley to love. To kiss and hold close and admire — if Narrator let him. If Narrator didn't choose to run.

Well... Narrator figured there would be plenty of time for running later. Now...now was time to just be. He was happy to just let them be.