Work Text:
The night was silent.
The sound of crickets chirping and cars passing accompanied the dimness of the bedroom Piles and piles of books and papers lay scattered on The Narrator’s cramped table, the desk lamp flickering in its vain attempt to shed some light on this whole situation. A dusty mini-fan spins in the corner, struggling to cool down the warm, humid atmosphere.
The Narrator, with a pen in his right hand and chin on his left, mindlessly scribbled sentence after sentence on a piece of paper in front of him. Previously pristine white, the paper is now tattered and creased, filled with scribbles of black ink. Under it lay more wrinkled sheets of parchment, also scrawled with The Narrator’s handwriting. A cover page laid at the bottom of the pile, titled “Novel (name TBD) Draft 5”. The Narrator was never the best at coming up with names—he had joked before that truly, the hardest part of writing is not the writing itself, but it is coming up with a perfect title.
It was quite funny, that even though he was rather proficient with technology—no trouble at all using laptops and phones—he very much enjoyed the feeling of putting his words onto a piece of paper. He’s been told to be “old-fashioned” for his method, but The Narrator did not see it as so. Perhaps he enjoyed creating something tangible for once—something he could observe, that he could grab and feel on his fingertips. It was definitely something an omnipresent being like him had never experienced, especially back in The Parable.
However, on this particular night, The Narrator was not enjoying anything. He was writing, but what the hell was he writing? He wanted to tear his papers apart and burn them all into nothingness. He who initially felt confident, who felt that this novel could be something to be proud of, was now in a suffocating state of restlessness.
He stopped writing and exasperatedly sighed as he placed down his pen. Rubbing his dry eyes, he then looked over to his right at some stapled papers. Snatching it and flipping through the pages, his eyes focus on the bold, red pen markings that his editor has written—so red that his eyes latch onto them like a hawk:
“This part doesn’t work, remove the part where...”
“Too much rambling, remove from this paragraph…”
“MC’s action doesn’t make sense, consider another way…”
He dreaded every time he looked at these markings. Granted, he had no grudge towards his editor; he understood that these comments were necessary, in order to refine the novel to perfection. He recognizes the arduous journey of an artist, to hear and take into account the critiques that come his way. What is an artist who does not seek perfection in his craft?
Even still, seeing his flaws on display, seeing his words being picked apart and destroyed, and considering the time he had now wasted writing them…
His train of thought was then interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. His heavy burden slightly lifted as he gazed at his office-attire-wearing husband coming into the bedroom.
“Stanley, darling,” The Narrator croaked weakly.
Stanley approached his exhausted husband, leaning over to cradle his face and kiss his lips. The Narrator, yearning for his partner’s warmth, rested his head onto Stanley’s shoulders and melted into his embrace.
They both remained there until Stanley walked over to The Narrator’s desk and shifted close the draft with red pen markings. He sighed and turned around to his husband.
[Pulling an all-nighter?] he signed.
A rumbling, low chuckle came from The Narrator as he smiled ruefully.
“Unfortunately, so. I have to complete this new draft before tomorrow. As you can observe, I am not in my prime. I’m having a bit of trouble finishing this.”
Stanley didn’t need any confirmation of that; usually, anytime Stanley wanted to peek at his partner’s incomplete drafts, The Narrator would take them away from within his reach. He knew how rather insecure his darling was with his writing, no matter how many times he reassured that it was all great. So, for The Narrator to not even bother to stop him from looking at his ruthlessly marked drafts…
[Narry, you need to rest. You can just show what you have now to your editor tomorrow.]
The Narrator rumbled deeply as he took off his glasses and buried his face into his hand, massaging his eyes.
“I know, Stanley, I know I should rest. But I just can’t afford to show such little progress…” The Narrator groaned, placing back his glasses and staring off into the distance.
Stanley remembered before he went off to work in the morning that The Narrator was already at his desk, scrawling away and mumbling to himself. Seeing Narry’s lethargic body slouching and red veins visible in his eyes, he knew he didn’t take a break at all.
[Then a short nap. No negotiations. I know you’re not used to having a human body, so I’m telling you that your body needs rest.]
Stanley knew he had to take action or else his overworked bastard of a husband will not budge. He came over and firmly gripped his Narrator’s hands, pulling a flustered Narry up from his chair and leading him to bed.
[I’ll set an alarm for you so you can wake up later, but now I don’t want to see you working,] Stanley firmly stared, but painted across his face was a genuine expression of concern.
Well, Narry knows more than anything that when his dear Stanley sets his mind onto something, there’s not much use arguing…he knows from several personal experiences.
“Alright, alright,” The Narrator huffed, as he got himself comfortable in bed, “I think a little rest will give me the inspiration I so need.”
Stanley pulled the blanket closer to The Narrator’s shoulder and gave a gentle kiss on his forehead as The Narrator’s heavy eyelids closed shut.
---
An aggravating ringing interrupted The Narrator’s sleep. He struggled to lift his body as he searched for the source of the noise and found Stanley’s phone beside him, blaring and piercing his ears. Frustrated, he turned it off and wiped both of his eyes to regain some consciousness.
Good god.
The nap only made things worse. Calling it a nap was also quite an overstatement.
The Narrator couldn’t really get proper sleep as his mind was occupied with his story, how he needed to finish this gruelling assignment that weighed him down—and yet he still couldn’t find a solution.
He pressed the home button on Stanley’s phone to check the time—and as it lit up, he gazed at Stanley’s default wallpaper with 02:32 AM dead centre. Speaking of, he looked around to see where his husband was, and to his relief, he saw Stanley sleeping soundly beside him in a comfy t-shirt and boxers. He leaned closer as he stroked gently his partner’s hair, smiling earnestly at how peaceful his sweetheart looked. However, the smile soon dropped; as much as he wanted to gaze at him for eternity, his story was his priority for the night.
Maybe he just needed to get back to his workspace, he groggily thought to himself. Yes, sitting on the bed grumbling to himself was not going to get him anywhere. Perhaps once he was writing again, he could get into the flow and he will be finished in no time. That’s right…it will be over soon, he just needed to push through for a while.
The Narrator hoisted himself up and slumped on his chair. He picked up his pen and stared once again at the scribbles in front of him.
“Right, okay,” he deeply sighed, “now where was I?”
Leaning his chin onto his left hand, he reread the sentences he had written before his nap. After a few minutes of pondering, he scrawled away, continuing where he had left off.
It was steady progress and, as he initially thought, he managed to get back into the flow of writing again. He felt his burden being lifted; he was confident this new draft was going to be finished. His editor would marvel at his amazing improvement, his story would become a best-selling novel and book readers will come and acknowledge his splendid, fantastical story-telling capabilities.
The Narrator put down his pen and sighed in relief, stretching his arms and legs (Stanley often needed to remind him to do so.) He got up from his chair and walked over to the bed, checking the time again on Stanley’s phone.
03:55 AM.
Oh, god, The Narrator groaned internally. Finishing one page took longer than he had anticipated; he didn’t even feel that more than an hour had passed by. On a more positive note, however, he had one less page to worry about.
He returned to his desk and picked up his old draft, flipping through the pages he had yet to touch on.
“Erm, let’s see, okay,” he muttered to himself, “it was up to…ah, here, yes. I’ve written until here so I now just have…one, two, three, three pages! I will finally be done with this cursed task.”
Feeling his stress starting to alleviate, he flipped through the remaining pages and-
Oh. Oh, my fucking god.
He had not realised how many things his editor had asked him to change; he had only skimmed through his editor’s feedback the first time he received them. It took a substantial amount of his willpower to sit down and really observe those dreaded red pens.
And now here he is, standing despondently, his eyes sluggishly darting at all the red marks scrawled on the last three pages.
“It’s alright, I can do this. Just a few pages, that is all. Yes…that is…all.”
With the energy he surprisingly still had, he dragged back to his desk and returned to his confined, creative space. What used to be a snug, comfy space for him to write was now turning into a claustrophobic box. The lethargy was really getting to him, and he so wished to return to bed with Stanley, to be with his love, to be in his comforting presence.
He picked up his pen once again, his left hand grabbing a new piece of paper and slapping it in front of him. He scrubbed his irritated eyes behind his glasses and grumbled even louder.
“Good god, okay, okay. Just three more pages and I’ll be done. Just need…to do this.”
He placed his pen onto the paper and attempted to return to the flow of writing. He wrote a few words down, getting into the rhythm once again—until he stopped and reread the sentence.
“No, no, this just won’t do.”
He crossed it all out and started again, his left hand gripping his dishevelled hair. More words churned out, only to be scribbled once more.
“What the hell do these words even mean- no, this is horrendous, I will not have it.”
He tried again, again, and again, scribbling words away in an attempt to complete his damned draft, to get to the fucking finish line, to finally be done with it all…
And yet, his attempts were all in vain as he furiously scratched out all the words he had written.
He stopped writing. And he stared.
He stared at the mess—the black, scrawny mess on the paper.
The Narrator felt nauseous; his body wanted to crumble apart and he wanted to vomit whatever crappy dinner he made for himself. He wanted to rip apart this vessel of his, to rid of the fatigue coursing through his body.
He tried again, weakly gripping his pen and placing it on the paper.
He dug through the recess of his mind for any idea, any inspiration, anything that he could write. Something worthy to put, whatever he can muster up right now.
He stared blankly at the paper. He stared for a while. He stared at the empty, blank piece of paper, lit dimly by the desk lamp.
…Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
His mind was like static noise—all his thoughts fuzzy and blurred, and he was unable to grasp any of them in his hands. His mind refused to give him anything, leaving him alone in a sea of noise, to drown in the cacophony of it all.
And even with everything on his mind.
He couldn’t feel anything.
He felt…nothing. Absolutely nothing.
…
He wanted to cry.
He wanted nothing more than to let out whatever the hell was occupying his mind. His story did not matter anymore, he couldn’t even begin to do anything. His body feels frail but heavy at the same time; moving an inch of his limbs made his body sting, its pain coursing through to his head, back, stomach, and feet.
It all hurt. It hurts so much.
“…I can’t do this anymore.”
He lugged his body up from the chair and turned off the desk lamp. He left the table scattered with his papers, and usually, he would have the decency to tidy up before he goes to bed.
He couldn’t care less.
As he stomped his way to the bed, he plopped onto the mattress and thrashed his head onto the pillow.
Perhaps Stanley was right. He was just going to show his editor what he had so far, and see how it will turn out. He checked once again the time on Stanley’s phone.
04:27 AM. Hah, how amusing.
He placed down Stanley’s phone and made himself comfortable. He feels his whole body melting into the fluffy mattress.
Yes, he needed this, The Narrator thought. He needed this rest.
---
It was unusual for Stanley to wake up at this hour; however, his throat was getting quite sore and a glass of cold water would be really nice right now. Stanley peeked his eyes open and rubbed them to gain some consciousness. He noticed that the desk lamp was already turned off—ah, has The Narrator finished his work, he sleepily pondered.
However, before he made his way to the kitchen, he heard a faint sound beside him. Still half-conscious, he tried to decipher what the sound was before immediately realising; he gained his consciousness and swiftly turned his head to see a heart-breaking sight: the love of his life curled up and weeping quietly.
Stanley leaned close and reached out to gently tap his shoulders. Startled, The Narrator stopped his sobbing and looked up at his husband.
“Huh? Oh, Stanley…” his voice was weak and barely audible.
Stanley’s heart dropped as he saw his lover’s state; he could only see so much in a dark room but he noticed the red nose and the red eyes, streams of tears still rolling down his cheek. His dishevelled hair was not long enough to cover the aching sorrow his teary eyes reflected.
Stanley wanted nothing more than to grasp him in his embrace, to shower him with love and affection, to rid of whatever ache and suffering his husband was going through.
[Narry, are you okay?]
From those words alone, The Narrator started to sob again, louder, messier and more cathartic. He gripped tight his pillow and buried his face deep into it—too embarrassed to show his hideous appearance to his sweetheart.
“Stanley, I…I’m so tired. My whole body, it’s…I’m just so tired.”
Stanley immediately pulled him close, caressing his hair softly as he felt him sobbing in his arms. He hugged him tight, placing some kisses on his head and rubbing his back. They both remained in the position, and Stanley will not let him go until his darling husband was fine.
It seemed that The Narrator had reached his limit.
“Stanley, I…I hate feeling like this,” Narrator rasped, his voice muffled, “I want to do so much, but I just can’t seem to do anything. My body aches all over, and I want nothing more than to go back to my disembodied form. Why are human bodies so utterly weak and fragile, so dastardly easy to break?”
[Because you pushed yourself too hard. Again.] Stanley signed, pulling back from the embrace but staying close to his darling, gently stroking The Narrator’s hand.
The Narrator huffed out and shifted his gaze to the side, and for a while it was quiet. Then, The Narrator’s eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes expressed anguish.
“Stanley, I…am I just a not good enough writer?”
Hearing this, Stanley felt his chest tighten. He was about to answer back but his lover continued talking.
“I feel…like a failure…that the reason I can’t finish writing my drafts is that I’m not a good enough writer. I can’t help but feel that I’ve let my editor down, Stanley…that I wasn’t able to meet their expectation.”
The Narrator ruefully chuckled, then coughed hoarsely from all the crying he has done.
“Come to think about it, how did I even end up in this position in the first place? Look at me, breaking down from being unable to finish a measly draft… Perhaps I don’t have what it takes to become a novelist.”
He looks at Stanley, and even in the darkness, Stanley clearly saw his Narrator’s frightened eyes.
“Stanley, I’m scared. What if I lose my passion for writing?”
Upon hearing him utter those words, Stanley was left stunted—not because he doubted his husband’s writing skills, but because The Narrator doubted his love for writing.
He really had reached his limit.
Stanley felt so much for him—the things he would give to carry all of his husband’s burden, to eradicate the hurt and pain his dear lover was going through.
All he could offer were his words, and he hoped, at least, to provide just a piece of his love.
[My dear Narrator, we have been married for 2 years, and never has your passion for writing faltered. You always light up reading new kinds of literature and admiring other authors’ works. You find beauty in words and sentences that not all will understand. And anytime I see you at your desk, you have those sparkles in your eyes, writing away whatever ideas you have in that brilliant mind of yours.]
His hands were getting drained and his eyelids became heavier, but he kept going.
[And your editor sees that passion. I know they do, because if not then they wouldn’t have agreed to work with you. I know you struggle with critiques still, but they mean well...they also want your writing to succeed as much as you do.]
Stanley stroked his sweetheart’s hair, slowly running it over, and The Narrator melted into his hand.
[You will have days when you’re down, like now. But they’re just days…you’ll be okay.]
The Narrator mused those words to himself—well, he was not wrong. Even in his exhausted state now where moving felt like a chore, even when he was so sick of writing that holding a pen was enough to make him nauseous…he still wanted to create.
There were still so many ideas unexplored for him to experiment with, musings to jot down, ramblings he must share although he knows how cumbersome they are—after all, for what is an artist who does not create?
Stanley somehow always knew what to say, he who uttered no words—and The Narrator was grateful to have him.
[Now I want you here with your eyes closed and resting,] Stanley firmly stared, with one of his eyebrows lifted, [pretty sure you need your body to write words with, don’t you think?]
The Narrator let out a small chuckle—a genuine one. Finally seeing his Narrator relax, Stanley tenderly smiled…and yawned loudly as he rested his head on the pillow.
“Oh, Stanley. I’m sorry for waking you up so early- “
Stanley sleepily shook his hand before The Narrator could finish.
[Don’t apologise. Sleep first, alright? You’ll be okay tomorrow, I can…assure…of that…]
Stanley didn’t finish his sentence as his eyes closed shut and his hands drooped down. As The Narrator saw his darling husband peacefully doze off, he softly placed a forehead kiss.
“…thank you, Stanley.” And he gently closed his eyes.