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The Narrator frowns into the bathroom mirror. His shirt is sitting on the counter beside him as he stares at his exposed stomach, his nose twisted up. Long white lines stretch across the curve of his belly, zigzagging their way down past the waistband of his pants.
Stretch marks, Stanley had called them. The Narrator prefers the term blemishes. Imperfections in his skin that make it, just…less appealing to him. He’s never loved this body, he’d designed it more with Stanley’s interest in mind than his own, but, well…
These? These lines that tug at his skin and make it look like he’s cracking apart at the seams?
No, he hates these.
And maybe hate is a rather strong word, but it’s the only way to describe the sickening, ugly feeling that burns the Narrator’s throat whenever he looks at those marks. They’re just– They’re hideous! They taint his body and make him look so, so much worse, so much more delicate, more human. The Narrator is far from human, he only looks the part. But this body of his has grown and changed with him, and since they escaped the Parable together, he’s been stuck in it, love it or hate it.
He didn’t used to have these stretch marks. But then, he used to be smaller, too. Didn’t have the soft rolls on his belly, wasn’t quite so… squishy. Not to say he minds that part. He honestly couldn’t give a damn about ridiculous human beauty standards. The Narrator can’t be arsed if he’s thick or thin or whatever the media tells him he should be. Besides, living life as a human who sits around working on his stories all day and absolutely not exercising explains a lot when it comes to his body.
No, the Narrator doesn’t care about that. He hates these bloody marks. Human skin is meant to be soft and malleable, why does he have to have scars forming because he’s grown bigger over the years? Stanley explained to him that it’s only natural, but…it isn’t so easy to simply accept it just because he knows someone else likes it.
There’s a loud knock on the bathroom door that yanks the Narrator from his thoughts.
He jumps away from the sink, knocking a stray bottle of soap off of the edge. It clatters to the floor loudly, making the Narrator cringe as he reaches for his shirt, hurrying to try to put it back on.
Unfortunately for him, the door swings open with concern at the ruckus, catching the Narrator with his shirt still off, held in his arms to cover his chest mostly out of instinct as if Stanley hasn’t seen it dozens of times already.
“Narry?” he signs as he steps in, glancing at the soap on the floor before carefully stepping past it, standing in front of him. “Is everything alright?”
Gentle hands reach out, brushing against the Narrator’s knuckles feather-light and lifting the shirt from his grasp. He hadn’t even noticed he was squeezing it so hard until it’s taken from him, carefully folded in Stanley’s arms before being set on the counter.
“Oh– Yes, I’m fine, Stanley, no need to worry about me,” the Narrator says softly, letting the other intertwine their fingers for a moment, squeezing gently before taking his hands back so that he can sign. The Narrator immediately misses the warmth.
“I know you,” he tells him, leveling him with an expectant look, his eyebrows raised. “You can tell me, you know. I’m not going to judge you for anything.”
With a long sigh, the Narrator looks away, his eyes straying on the floor of the bathroom. He pushes up the bridge of his glasses, trying to appear like he isn’t all that upset. His heart isn’t very in the act, though, and the slight tremble in his voice gives him away easily.
“I appreciate your concern, dear, but…”
The Narrator trails off as his cheek is cupped lovingly, making him raise his eyes to look at Stanley’s face. His smile is warm, calm, like a ray of sun peeking out at him over the horizon. Without the use of both hands, he’s unable to properly sign, but he uses his free arm to fingerspell, “T-E-L-L T-R-U-T-H.”
It makes the Narrator huff out a small laugh, cradling the palm against his cheek with calloused hands and leaning into the soft touch. “You really do know me too well, hm?” he asks. Stanley smiles brighter. “It’s honestly rather silly. We’ve talked about it before, even.”
Letting out a breath, Stanley leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to the Narrator’s forehead before taking his hands back to sign. “It isn’t silly if it’s upsetting you. I’m not forcing you, but I’d like to know what’s wrong so I can help.”
Despite the way that his anxiety spikes, the Narrator can’t deny the warm buzz in his chest, a happy, loving feeling that he wouldn’t trade for the world. The feeling that Stanley gives him, just being here for him. It’s enough to make him want to cry, even though he doesn’t.
“Fine,” he relents, his face falling as he looks down at the marks across his abdomen. “It’s the stretch marks. I know you told me they’re beautiful, but…I fail to see that.” His voice is quiet, as if it’ll break if he speaks any louder.
Stanley’s eyes lower, following the Narrator’s gaze. He frowns softly, carefully reaching out towards the marks. He meets his Narrator’s eyes for a moment, as if to make sure this is okay. The Narrator can only give the tiniest nod.
The contact almost burns, warm to the touch and electrifying. Not to say that the Narrator doesn’t love it; of course he loves it, this is Stanley. It’s just such a strange feeling, something that takes getting used to, even if it isn’t the first time.
Stanley’s fingers glide over the marred skin so gingerly, as if afraid that any ounce of pressure will hurt him. He traces the lines slowly, running his finger over them carefully. He only stops in order to sign, “I meant it last time. You are beautiful.” Then, his hands are back on his stomach.
As Stanley continues to trace the pattern of his skin, the Narrator breathes out shakily. It isn’t quite ticklish, but bordering on a line similar to that, the lightness of the touch makes him squirm a bit. If Stanley notices, he doesn’t comment, nor does he show any signs of stopping.
“That–” He sucks in a sharp breath, the feeling overwhelmingly good for something so small. “That’s okay, Stanley, you needn’t lie.”
Stanley slows, looking back up at him. He shakes his head, no, he’s not lying. The Narrator’s mouth twists downward.
“They’re ugly, you don’t– Oh!”
He’s shut up rather effectively with a small pinch to his hip, not enough to truly hurt, just enough to get him to stop talking. Stanley’s face is firm as he holds up his hands for the Narrator to see. “They’re not ugly. They’re beautiful, Narry.” His face softens. “Just because they’re not perfect doesn’t make you any less pretty to me. In fact, it makes you more so, in my opinion, because it makes you unique and shows your growth as a person. Everyone changes, it’s so amazing to have a physical reminder of that.”
No, no, the Narrator is not going to cry, he refuses to cry.
Stanley laughs silently, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “The fact that they’re part of you just makes it all the better. I love you, Narry. Every single part of you, no matter how ‘ugly’ you think it is.”
The Narrator will deny it later, but in that moment, he falls into a puddle of tears and ooey-gooey emotions that he’s been holding off for the entire time he’s been in the bathroom. His heart overflows and leaks through his eyes, Stanley holding him safely and pressing soft kisses against his cheeks and temples, chasing away the tears with loving actions.
“Dear lord,” the Narrator croaks after a moment, laughing at his emotional outburst. “You– You are too perfect for me, Stanley.”
Stanley only shakes his head. “I’m just giving you what you deserve,” he replies, his hands slowly falling to the Narrator’s hips. He looks back at him for a moment, watching as Stanley carefully sinks lower, holding eye contact. The Narrator’s face burns, watching Stanley slowly bring his face towards the stretch marks before pressing a gentle kiss there.
The Narrator holds onto the counter behind him for support, heat thrumming through his veins with each delicate press of lips against his flesh. Stanley kisses each and every mark that he can, lighting a trail of fire beneath the lines decorating his skin. The Narrator shivers beneath the attention, laving up all the love from his partner as he gasps softly.
Stanley seems immensely pleased with the reaction, peppering kisses over everywhere he can in an effort to show him just how loved he is, no matter how he looks. And the Narrator can feel it, feel the meaning and intention in each and every press of lips against his skin. He revels in it, in fact, the hot fire warding away the bad, hateful thoughts and protecting him from his own self-loathing in such a wonderfully loving way.
That, and it just feels good. Absurdly good for just a few small kisses. Stanley’s mouth pressed to his skin makes his chest swell with that warm fuzziness, making his knees simultaneously weak and lock up. The Narrator wants to melt right there into the bathroom counter. He probably would, if not for Stanley slowly pulling away from him.
“Besides,” he signs once he deems each and every stretch mark thoroughly kissed, “scars are badass.”
The Narrator holds back a snort once he processes the signs, watching the other stand beside him again. “I’d hardly call these ‘badass,’ Stanley. I didn’t even receive them from any real injury. I just got them from living.”
Stanley’s grin is so wide, the Narrator wonders how his face doesn’t hurt. “That makes them even more badass, then!” he signs with excitement. “You lived, you have stories to tell, you’ve grown and have something to show for it. You’re here, and that’s something to be proud of.”
“Stanley…”
“I’m proud of you for it.”
“Y-You dolt,” the Narrator stutters, scrubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses, “You’re going to make me cry again.”
But Stanley doesn’t seem so remorseful. He cups his Narrator’s face, tilting his head as he leans forward and kisses him softly, breathing out languidly as the kiss is returned. It tastes salty from the tears but he can hardly care, it just feels so nice.
“I love you,” the Narrator breathes into the small space between them when they part, his body soaked in that warmth. The little peck to his lips that Stanley gives him is a clear “I love you, too.”
Stanley steps away, taking the Narrator’s hand and motioning for him to follow him out of the bathroom. They both deserve some time to relax, he’s decided. But the Narrator stops, face hot, refusing to meet Stanley’s eyes again as he turns to look at him.
“Um, Stanley?” he says quietly, that little nervous grin on his face that Stanley does so adore. “I do believe you missed a few stretch marks earlier…”
Ohhh. Stanley steps back over to him, his eyebrows raised and an amused smile playing at his lips. “Did I?”
Preciously, the Narrator nods, continuing to blush as if asking this is really such a challenge. (And even if it is, Stanley would never judge. He’s patient with him. He’d give the Narrator all the time in the world.)
“Well, there are plenty on my thighs that could…ah, use some attention as well…?”
Say no more. Stanley leans forward and yanks the Narrator into another kiss, his hands sliding downward. Appreciated, the Narrator will absolutely be.
And neither could be happier.