Work Text:
“…You don’t have to stay.”
Stanley huddles on the floor of a small, buzzing closet. His voice is a hoarse mumble from between his knees, elbows resting on them, head buried in the crook of his folded arms.
“I’m sure you have better things to do than watch me do…literally nothing.”
Stanley croaks, his voice laced with spite. His voice always turns rough when he’s upset - even rougher now, from the fact he’s close to tears. As for why, well…which reason to pick? There's so many reasons. So many horrors he could choose to break down over, so many things that, should he dwell on them, reduce him to tears. The only question is when, Stanley bearing no uncertainty that it will happen. He’d prefer not to be watched when he finally does.
There’s silence for a moment, before the familiar voice echoes from the ceiling, quiet and hesitant.
“Would…would that help…? If I left?”
Stanley looks up. He’d almost forgotten, the narrator isn’t on script anymore - he’d apparently “thrown it in the void” the moment he’d found out Stanley wasn’t actually his protagonist. He’s been… a lot nicer, since then.
“No.” Stanley replies, staring dully at the ceiling. “But I’m sure you have places to be.”
“I assure you I don’t! Stanley, you are literally my whole world.”
The Narrator says insistently, and Stanley snorts, a smile gracing his face for a brief moment. Sorta sweet, that - the Narrator does seem just as trapped as he is, albeit in his own plane of existence, unlike Stanley. Stanley doesn’t really know why he thought the Narrator could go ‘somewhere else,’ as if an omniscient voice could go grocery shopping or something. Stanley’s stomach twists at the thought of food, something he hasn’t had in…too long, not that it’s physically hurt him. Psychologically, now, that might be a different story. He just wants to feel hungry - at least that’d be something.
“Must suck for you. I’m pretty underwhelming.”
Stanley shoots back dully, his eyes dropping again. The Narrator is silent for a long moment, and Stanley sighs, resting his chin on his knees. His eyes are dull and red-rimmed where they stare at the concrete, stocky body curled into a tight ball. Being in his late-thirties and built like a truck, Stanley is not exactly a small person, and only barely fits in here. Hey, maybe that’s why he was thrown into the parable in the first place - because he's ‘resilient.’ Whatever it was that put me here, it has bad taste in men. Stanley thinks to himself, glowering into his knees. And bad taste in….whatever the Narrator is.
“Stanley, are you lonely?”
The abruptness is slightly startling, and Stanley stares at the ceiling for a long, long moment. Okay. Hm. That’s another thing he’s noticed since the narrator went off script; it’s either three word sentences, or thirty ones. This would be the much rarer former.
“I mean, is that why you’re, ah, not moving? Because you miss home?”
This moment stretches into a full minute. At first, Stanley was simply stunned - it’s not often the Narrator actually asks him questions. Usually the man just natters on and on, so this time, Stanley genuinely considers the question. He leans back against the drywall, the buzzing fluorescents humming above, cleaning supplies standing in haphazard rows on their shelves.
“That’s…part of it, I guess.”
Stanley admits, rubbing his arms. Goosebumps prickle up his skin, and Stanley frowns, pulling his knees up closer to his chest.
“Humans’re social things, i guess. Gets to you, after a while...”
Stanley shrugs with a deep sigh, which echoes through his chest. He folds his arms back over his knees, the apathy settling back over his mind like a blanket of numbness. He’s so tired, he just wants to sulk - but even so, the conversation has…lifted him, slightly. Talking to the Narrator, really talking, reveals the flip side of his personality. The soft, nervous author, sent stuttering by the fact Stanley somehow ended up trapped in his creation. Sent wheeling, by the fact he can no longer escape it himself…
There’s another deep breath from the Narrator, and Stanley ears would’ve pricked like a dogs if they could. There’s a quiet shuffling of paper, and a tap-tap as if someone were folding pages away, the sound bearing the special tambre of hardwood.
“Stanley, would you…”
A pause, and another breath.
“I know this is odd, considering your…prior impressions of me, but I’m worried . Really, worried…you seem sad, and if I can help, I’d like to. Even if it’s not in the, um, getting home department, so, I, uh…”
The Narrator trails off, and Stanley lifts his head with a loud sigh, glaring up at the ceiling. The sharpness in his eye is unechoed in his voice, croaking though it is, which bears no hostility. Only weariness.
“Just choke it out, bud.”
Stanley says flatly, and the Narrator sighs. Even then, he still pauses a few seconds before finally speaking.
“Would you want comfort?”
His voice is hesitant, though not because he’s unsure of his offer. More out of a strange anxiety, as if afraid the offer is out of turn, or unexpected. And unexpected it certainly is - Stanley is not given nearly enough time to properly process the implications of that before the Narrator continues, in a fiddling kind of way that gives the image of a twirling pen.
“I’m generally bad at, ah, verbal comfort, ironically enough, but I am capable of giving you a hug, if you’d want that. Even though I’m probably not going to be very good at it, since - well, lack of experience, but I…I-if that would be helpful…”
The Narrator trails off as he loses courage, dissolving into worried mumbling. Stanley had always known the Narrator did exist, somewhere, as…something, but the way he just offered a hug…
Physical comfort.
Physical touch.
Stanley looks down at his hands for a moment. And when he looks back up at the ceiling, there’s a shimmer in his eyes, as if they were full of water.
“Yeah,” Stanley croaks at last, voice slightly hoarse, “I…Thank you.”
The Narrator makes a little ‘ah!’ Noise, and the sound of shuffling paper reaches Stanley’s ears - the open and shut of a desk drawer, the tapping of a pen…what would his desk look like? Where is he? An office? Like Stanley’s, or the bosses office? Does he eat? Sleep? Does he have a bed? A room? Blankets? Clothes? It takes Stanley a moment to realize the Narrator has begun speaking again, his voice drifting from everywhere, as always.
“- will take me a minute to actually…figure out how to get down. But still! In the meantime, how about you head to, uh…”
The Narrator trails off, mumbling thoughtfully. Stanley clears his throat, swallowing thickly and wiping at his eyes with one wrist. He pushes himself up, brushing off his black work pants (which he is absolutely sick of by now, the f*ckin texture ) and tilting his face up at the ceiling.
“Apartment.”
He interjects, and clears his throat again, still trying to get the hoarseness out of it.
“- it’s - in between. In the middle. I assume you're somewhere near the end.”
He supplies, by way of explanation, waving a hand vaguely. He speaks carefully, so his voice won’t crack, still trying to shake off the dregs of his previous stupor. The Narrator makes a sound of agreement, Stanley hearing his smile in the soft huff he makes between words.
“Great idea! I think I might even know how to teleport myself there…take the bucket, it’ll load in the decent version that way.”
Stanley snorts, his spirits lifted for a multitude of reasons, so much so he flashes a tired smile. He raises an eyebrow as he steps over to the door, glancing up at the ceiling above.
“Never thought I’d hear you actually ask me to take it.”
Stanley adds, twisting the knob to leave the broom closet. The Narrator only snorts - the sound Stanley attributes to an eyeroll - the sound of a tapping pen twitching at the air as Stanley begins backtracking through the employee lounge.
“Stanley, don’t be a doof. I don’t feel any actual amnesty for it, that was only a little inside joke of mine.”
Stanley snorts, smiling at the name - he says it so fondly - pushing the door open to backtracks down another hallway.
“Yeah, I’m guessin’ a lot of what you said was on script, huh?”
Stabley says offhandedly, reaching the two doors room. It’s strange, walking backwards along this path. Heading for one door, instead of two. The Narrator gasps lightly, and there it is again - tap tap, a pen against hardwood, preceding his words.
“Oh, all of it! That’s why I’m - I was so proud of this place. At least before it became your prison…”
The disgust in his voice is evident, and Stanley smiles to himself. He’s not sure why - maybe it’s just nice to know, at least somebody is worried about him. Even if it is an unnamable entity capable of creating entire office buildings out of nowhere…an entity who must have arms, if he can offer to -
“…Stanley? You passed the bucket?”
Stanley jolts, and frowns, spinning around. He stares at the bucket podium, which is indeed there, behind him, and then the floor. He looks around. Desks, not hallway.
“I did, didn't I…”
Stanley mutters, scratching the back of his head. Wow, I spaced out hard. He huffs to himself, perking his eyebrows slightly - almost as impressive as the time I did an entire Costco run on autopilot. He shrugs, flashing a weary grin at the ceiling.
“Hah, sorry - must’ve spaced out there.”
Stanley adds, laughing a little and scooping up the bucket. He pats it appreciatively - one sturdy hunk of steel, this.
“Is that a thing humans can do? Space out?”
Stanley nods, humming to himself. It’s the tune of All Star, which has been stuck in his head for…oh, let’s say…four years? Ever since that shitty bar at the edge of London blasted it for an hour straight…or rather, an hour gay, considering the bar. Yeah, i met that redhead there, what was their name? Franklin? Yeah, they were nice, picked me up off the floor a couple times… S tanley stares blankly at the floor for a moment, his thought patterns drifting slowly past Jupiter as he tries to recall a few hazy details.
“…may I ask what you’re thinking about?”
Stanley blinks, looking up, an eyebrow raised.
“Sorry, I just - silence makes me nervous, and I can’t talk while I work, so perhaps I could…listen to you for a while? Maybe? Only if you’d like, of course.”
Stanley takes a moment to process that. Then, he smiles, hefting the bucket on his hip as he begins heading right back the way he came.
“…A bud I had back home. Franklin - or Franny, sometimes.”
Stanley explains, and the Narrator makes an interested ‘!’ noise. Stanley hears papers rustling, and imagines pale hands - the Narrator does sound like a pale sort of person - shifting through them, that tapping pen held between two fingers.
“Now that is a good name. What are they like?”
Stanley grins.
As he walks, Stanley tells the Narrator all about Franklin. About how they’d kicked his ass at a game of drunk uno, and had continued kicking his ass at it months later, even when Stanley himself was sober. He talks about how the drinks had kinda sucked, but the people hadn’t - the bartender and her favorite customer, a barista, who everyone knew damn well were in love but wouldn’t admit it. At the Narrator's prompting, he explains all about London, that it’s the city he lives in, a haphazard place bursting full of people of all walks of life. Stanley describes his own, actual flat, how the Narrator was almost right - it’s not two rooms, it’s three, but he has a balcony so that makes it better.
Stanley, after a spell, mentions the bar again. “ Everyone just called it ‘Wi-Fi No Bi-Fi’, since it was gayer than Ellen, and the internet sucked .” He talks about how it was small and loud but had the best mood lighting in the city, and how it’s owner - a kickass woman, Natalia, rumored to secretly be a marine - could and did beat anyone and everyone at arm wrestling.
Stanley describes the old band posters, the deer skull hanging on one wall, and even the spiral staircase with an iron rail that couples would climb to kiss in private. He hears the Narrator snort in amusement at that, and tells the tale of how he’d climbed up there himself once, after he accidentally drank the wrong drink, and threw up onto somebody’s head. This earns him an “ Eew! Stanley!! ” But the words are laced with a laugh, and despite himself, Stanley feels…better.
Then, he finds himself at the apartment.
“Oh! Here we are!”
Stanley swallows hard, trying to settle the cannonball in his stomach. It’s an odd thing, being unsure of what will happen, after this long spent in the lull of the familiar.
Slowly, he walks through the door, bucket clutched tightly to his chest. His head is, naturally, racing like a pack of wolves - away from itself for the most part, fleeing the thought of what’s coming. What a strange kind of dread, the fear of something longed for, the anxiety that it won’t be what you hoped.
“Alright, I’ll - oh hell.”
Stanley blinks, stopping in the middle of the apartment and looking up, eyebrow raised. Focus on this. Focus on this, not the thought of what’s about to happen, and what it might make him feel.
“You good?”
Stanley asks, and clears his throat, frowning. That came out hoarser than he meant it. The Narrator sighs dejectedly, and Stanley hears a soft thunk, as if he’s just bonked his head on a wood surface - his desk, Stanley supposes.
“I completely forgot to figure out a way down. ”
His voice is muffled by unseen hands, and Stanley grins despite himself, imagining his Narrator face down on his desk in theatrical defeat. All it’d take is a touch of the shoulder, though, and he’d… he’d trail his fingertips over his back, and he’d look up, smiling at the -
“ I was meant to do that while you were talking! I must’ve gotten distracted - it was nice listening to you talk like that.”
The Narrator whines, Stanley ignoring the heat burning in his ears and instead focusing very hard on a nearby book. Yes. Very interesting, that book. Standard hardback. Very - wait did he say nice!?
“You have low standards.”
Stanley blurts out, glowering at the ceiling. His face is hot. Why is his face hot?
“Stanley! How dare you, you have a lovely voice, and I would know!”
The narrator cries, and Stanley blinks, pupils contracting as he - he’s blushing, that’s what’s happening. That’s why his face is on fire, isn’t it.
“Really. It was nice hearing you happy…”
Stanley is on the verge of physically stopping and clutching his heart, which he’s sure must be palpitating. Oh no .
“Still, on that note, how am I meant to get in…? I’m not about to go back on a promise, Stanley, you’re going to get that hug - “
Stanley might actually die. He’s going to die here because for f*cks sake , how’s he meant to keep his thoughts straight here!? Stanley stares at his shoes, gritting his teeth - it’s high school all over again. Yeah, that’s what this is - useless, pathetic pining with no real meaning. Yes. Definitely. Definitely not because he’s slowly, progressively gained a crush on a disembodied voice, and ABSOLUTELY not because he’s fallen completely head-over-heels for him ever since he started being f*cking adorable , and only realized it now, because he’s a f*ckin idiot -
“Hmm…Stanley, what do you think?”
Stanley looks blankly up at the ceiling, having an entire gay crisis even though he’s been comfortable in his sexuality for 30 years, and blinks. I think I’m gonna go scream into the couch cushions until the floor swallows me whole, he almost says, because Oh My Gosh, i'm in love with you. I’m in love with you.
“I’m gonna nap on the couch.”
Is what comes out his mouth, in the most perfectly normal, indifferent tone, as if he’s not internally screaming. Almost robotically, he sets the bucket down on a side table, and walks over to the couch, collapsing limply onto it with a soft thud. The TV is off, thankfully, and the couch cushions are…tolerable, even if the material of his shirt isn’t.
“Oh! Yes! Good idea, you get your rest. I’ll…well, I’ll work on convincing the parable to let me in. It’s very stubborn, you know - a bit like you!”
The Narrator adds brightly, clapping softly. Stanley just groans into the couch cushions, and holds up a thumbs-up. He lets his arm drop limply onto the floor, and sighs, his face burning.
Well.
He's officially screwed.
He’s screwed, and he’s not gonna listen to the soft rustling of papers, or the muttering - or the - oh hell he’s humming. Stanley, who is already essentially planking, tries to lie down even harder, practically vibrating with tension as he hears the Narrator hum a cheerful little tune. Stanley can only imagine the lingering smile that must be on his face as he does, or the way he might bob his head, the way he might rock side to side - or maybe he’s sitting perfectly still like a nice little neurotypical, and I’m projecting! Stanley yells inside his head, gritting his teeth into the couch cushions and burning crimson. No no no his bisexual ass has picked the worst time to be gay! The! Worst! Time!
“Alright, you know what Stanley? To heck with it, I’ll just come in the hard way. Hold on!”
The squeak of a swivel chair, the ever so soft sound of shifting clothes. Oh. So he wears those. Like a human perso - HES F*CKING COMING!? Stanley is reeling for a multitude of reasons, and somehow, this sends him off on yet another carousel ride - oh no. He shoves himself up so fast he might’ve tipped over, sitting motionless on the couch with, somehow, incredible intensity. Now. He’s coming now!? The sounds of moving, closing drawers, a pen clinking into a pen pot -
Okay, Stanley, you can do this. Stanley orders himself, staring at his knees. Think. Straight. Thoughts.
His thoughts (which were not straight at all) are cut off by a sudden twanging noise that makes poor Stanley nearly jump nearly out of his skin - accompanied by a loud yelp. Stanley's first thought is OH HELL HES HERE NOW!?? His head snapping left and right - the apartment door? The bedroom d- no not gonna think about that!! His heart rate jumps like a stallion, eyes flicking around wildly for the source, but seeing…absolutely nothing.
“Ah, sorry…I forgot to unplug my headset before I got up, and they, ah…caught.”
Comes the Narrator's voice sheepishly, slightly fainter than usual.
Stanley, who is much paler than normal and on the (literal) edge of the couch, just nods, very slowly. He quietly folds his hands in his knees, burning a hole into the floor directly in front of him, trying very very hard not to have a heart attack. The Narrator. The Narrator. He’s an utter dork , and that - apparently - is whats making Stanley’s heart violently try to escape his rib cage, his face glow bright red, and his foot tap an anxious rhythm into the carpet. Oh no. Ohhhh nonono. It only gets worse, as he hears the footsteps again, the soft clunk of headphones being set down, and then -
“ Alright Stanley, I’m going to step away from my mic now, so you won’t be able to hear me. ”
Oh hell, his lips must be only an inch from the mic - his voice ringing out in an in-your-ear tambre, louder, richer, smoother, more adequately suited to kicking Stanley in the metaphorical crotch -
“ See you…hopefully soon! Only a few minutes, I’d wager. Maybe ten? Anyway, to quote myself, toodle pip, Stanley! ”
Son of a bitch he’s British. Son of a bitch he’s going to be the death of Stanley. Stanley who sits on the couch with extreme, vibrating force. He’s on his way. To come here. The blissfully oblivious (for he must be, to not have spotted Stanley's shade of flustered by now) bastard that is the Narrator, is coming here . As in he’s going to come here, and he’s going to be physically there, with Stanley. And he. Is going. To give him. A hug .
Stanley grabs the nearest cushion, and yells into it.
“F*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck F*CK -“
- Stanley does not know by what power a little ‘Bleep!’ Noise is put over the ‘u’ vowel whenever he swears, but whatever it is, he wants to kick it. Let him swear, dammit! He’s thirty eight and it’s a free f*ckin’ country! Parable! Whatever! He’s gay, and he’s about to die, and oh no this isn’t just a crush is it, oh no, oh no no no, what’s going to happen if he finds a way out!? Would he come? But - no, that’s assuming he’d even - ! No, no, he’d never, he’s not even…human! Really!
Stanley stares blankly into his hands, and begins contemplating whether or not he should just lock himself in the bedroom and see if those rose petals are edibl -
THUNK!
Stanley looks up. He stares into the empty, unchanged room before him, and squints.
THUNK!
There it is again! Stanley lifts his head fully - it came from where now…?
Thunkthunkthunkthunk!
The hallway, there it is - what on earth is it?
THUNK! Thunkthunkthunkthunk
It sounds muffled, like trying to hear a conversation happening downstairs. Or rather…upstairs, since it seems to be coming from above him. Stanley stares up at the ceiling, and shifts nervously on the couch, his mind flashing to unsavory places. What if…what if this was all a trick. What if the Narrator isn’t actually coming, and he sent something bad down instead? What if the Narrator himself is a monster?
Let’s be real, Stanley, a little voice in the back of his head interrupts, you’re not picky.
Shut up. Stanley tells it, and continues staring at the Extremely Suspicious patch of ceiling.
Or, well, he was staring at it - before it broke.
Stanley jolts back, clutching the sofa like a lifeline as a black shoe kicks right through one of the ceiling lights. The poor unsuspecting light fixture shatters onto the floor below, as the foot rapidly turns into a leg, then two, then a blur of dark clothes which gravity eagerly takes a hold of, the - the person? - landing headfirst on the carpet with a dull “ Ouf! ”
Their legs stick straight up for a moment, back flattened to the unforgiving floor. Then, after a few seconds of faint panting, they let out a faint groannn… and suddenly sit up, their back to Stanley as they shake their head, one pale arm raising to run nimble fingers through thick black curls. They mutter something to themselves, seemingly oblivious to poor Stanley’s presence - Stanley, who’s scrambled back on the couch so far he’s nearly on top of it, clinging to it as his breathing shakes.
He watches, mine blank with fear and other such hindrances, as the stranger slowly rises. They stack themselves like a pile of stones, leaning against the wall as they steady, then brush themselves off with a satisfied ‘Hm!’ And, before Stanley can rearrange himself into a more dignified position, their - no, his head turns, and two pairs of eyes lock.
Stanley has, officially, lost the ability to breathe.
The face that stares into his, even if separated by a room’s distance, is…it’s human. The wide, surprised green eyes, the shoulder-length curls, the angle of his brow, his jaw, his - Oh, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his shoulders taper, the way his hands curl by his sides, the way he stands, the way his neck turns, the way his hair falls, the way his eyes gleam, the way He Is.
The way he smiles.
“Stanley!”
The way he says that name, in the same rich voice he always has, kind and sweet. This is him. So him. The Narrator spins on his heels, tugging the creases out of his sweater as he clasps his hands together. It's dark, but a warm kind of dark, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal pale, fair skin. A pair of reading glasses rest tangled in his hair, as his face lights up, yet bears an edge of nervousness - a hint of anxiety, and just a dash of hope.
He’s…oh, he’s everything.
Stanley grip on the couch slowly, slowly loosens. Before he knows it, he’s stepping off it, walking closer, eyes wide, the breath taken out of him.
The Narrator waits, watching him with a faint, nervous grin. He folds his arms behind his back, twiddling with his hands, rocking on his heels - and that smile . So full of kindness, so full of doubt - what does he have to fear? What does he have to doubt, when he’s literally the most blessed thing Stanley’s seen yet - proof , proof that he cares . He is a real person, he isn’t just a nameless voice, isn’t just empty words and lesser promises, no. he’s something more, and Stanley wants to cling to him and never let go. Never let go of this wonderful new impossible, that terrifies him with every step he takes.
Suddenly, they are standing nose to nose. The Narrator tilts his head, dark curls pillowing on one side more than the other, in a way that shakes Stanley to his core. He’s so pale, but not lifelessly so - pale like washed-out watercolors, pale like milk, pale like the moon, and a million other poetic euphemisms that do not do it justice. His face reminds Stanley very faintly of some actor who’s name he can’t remember - perhaps it’s the hair, thick and curly and raven-black, the curls resting neatly just above his shoulders. And oh, the way it curves, bearing an expression soft with worry.
Anxiety flickers at the edges of his eyes at the silence, and the Narrator spreads his arms wide, smiling nervously.
“…w-Well, this is me. Sorry if I’m a mite underwhelming!”
His laugh is soft and nervous and huffs in his throat, chest rising and falling in steady up-down dips with the motion. He tilts his head, that soft worry returning, strands of dark hair still tufting out of place.
“…would you still like that hug? Of you don’t, that’s alright, I can sit with you if you’d -”
Stanley nods his head silently, his eyes very full. He signs ‘ hug’ with shaking hands, mind flashing back to the day he’d finally been able to tell the Narrator he wasn’t his protagonist. That he was not, in fact, an office worker, and was very much trapped here. He remembers the way the Narrator had very nearly had a mental breakdown at the thought, and then…
“Ah, I see!”
The Narrator lightly taps Stanley’s hands, still frozen in the sign. The touch shocks him out of it like static electricity, and the smile that accompanies it is more like a defibrillator. The way this man smiles , so slightly, so sadly - laced with worry like caramel is laced with salt, and so human. So excruciatingly, softly human.
“I’m afraid I…don’t quite know how, but I assume you do, so -“
The Narrator trails off as Stanley’s hands brush his wrists. Stanley’s touch trembles, very light, but the Narrator follows it automatically, as if something in him already knows what to do. He studies Stanley's face, the expression on it unreadable, but strikingly fragile.
“Like this.”
Stanley whispers, his voice hoarse. Slowly, Stanley guides his hands so they curve just under his arms, floating near the place his ribs meet the spine. They hover there, exactly where Stanley put them, an inch away from touching - and with each breath he takes, the electricity in the air rises, as if like a static pulse. The Narrator's eyes meet Stanley’s, so tired and tear-heavy, aching for something other than fear or uncertainty - how much has all this drained him? He wears that fragile expression again, quavering like his hands, wobbling like the resolve keeping his tears from falling. He looks so broken, this close, and the Narrator's face suddenly just…crumples. It dissolves into something sad, something worried, something that cares. Something so human, the dull shock of it nearly, nearly drowns the moment his hands press down.
Stanley feels the sudden warmth like a blow to the face.
Stanley shudders as the arms wrap around him, hands sliding up his back without once breaking touch. They clasping on the ridge of his spine, gently pulls him closer until he’s swallowed by a hug, and there’s a chin on his shoulder, a neck smooth against his jaw, the arms pressing to his ribs - it’s all Stanley can do to curl his own arms over the Narrator's waist, and desperately try to hold the tears in, every inch of him roiling in the gentleness of it. The careful care of each little movement.
The Narrator has never hugged, or been hugged.
But…he can see the appeal. See it like it struck him dead between the eyes, and feel it just as acutely.
The warmth of Stanley’s arms is a wonderful thing, sending fireworks up soft-shuddering senses. The feeling of his chin, curving perfectly into Stanley’s shoulder, is another wonderful thing, warm and safe. Something deep in him is singing, as the Narrator slowly smooths his palm over Stanley’s back, feeling him arch into the given touch, the trembling tension in his chest apparent in everything he is. He’s shaking so hard, trembling as if he’s overwhelmed, and yet clinging to the Narrator's waist as if he’s the whole world. His palm smooths over every muscle and sinew in Stanley’s back, all of them tensed and twitching, the Narrator feeling every tiny hitch in stanleys throat - hearing the little humming snaps of sounds that sputter from him, the million tiny hiccups and hesitations, that show Stanley desperately needs this. That despite the broken stoicism, lying littered on the floor, he has needed this a long, long time.
That, just for once, he needs to rest.
The Narrator slowly, slowly unwinds the tension in his shoulders, and feels Stanley’s - still pressing tight to his - loosen too, just a bit. The Narrator's arms shift slightly higher, and Stanley shivers in response, a high whine nearly breaking the dam. He’s shaking so hard he can barely think, as the Narrator gently smooths all the little creases of his shirt, hand sliding over the gentle ridge of his shoulder blades and leaving fire in its wake. It’s so much, and Stanley himself can hardly believe how hard it’s hitting him - is that how long it’s been? Is this how bad he’s gotten…? The Narrators breath is soft over Stanley’s neck, as a single hitching sob escapes his throat, the Narrator instinctively curling Stanley closer to him at the sound.
“ Shh…”
Despite the fact Stanley is bigger, taller, probably a good sight stronger - he still feels swallowed, by that tiny motion. The protective squeeze, the soft sound of a hush breathed over his skin, leaving warmth everywhere the sound touches. His own arms tighten around the Narrator's warm sides, as if it’s the last thing left in the universe, as if this feeling is all that matters and ever will, all that ever has. The warmth of the heartbeat, the way he can feel the soft-spoken words in the hum of his neck, the way he’s being held so gently…He can hardly think for the care of it, for the softness in the tone, for the soft curls that pillow his cheek, for the world in this moment. The Narrator's hands, flat and warm against his shoulders, and Stanley, teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown, feels one smooth down the arch of his back.
“Shh, it’s okay. ”
Stanley almost seems to tighten, his whole body shrinking in on itself slightly, as his shaking breathing hitches. The Narrator shifts, leaning an inch closer, so he can do that dangerous act of wrapping his arms tight around Stanley’s chest. Their chests press together, a faint heartbeat, so much slower than his, suddenly felt against him. Stanley's eyes can only widen, his mind washed clean, staring blankly at the floor and seeing what’s left of his resolve melting onto it.
“ It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Stanley's knees, understandably, buckle.
The Narrator only falters for a moment, before his arms are supporting as much of Stanley’s weight as they can, lowering them both to the floor and collapsing onto their knees. Stanley bursts, the tension in his body breaking like ice, deflating out of him with a high, quavering whine like a deflating balloon. It wobbles and trembles into tears at the end, hitching and breaking into dry sobs, breath heaving into the Narrator's shoulder as the warmth against him remains unimaginably there. His head is so full by now he’s sure the Narrator can hear it, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t, all he cares about is holding this moment close. Holding it close to his chest and not once ever letting go, lest it slip through his fingers like an unheard prayer.
“ I’ve got you.”
The words are said right against his neck, and once again a shiver goes up his spine, the spinning in his head a cocktail of anything and everything ever felt from Genesis to last Tuesday. He feels as if he’s burning from the inside out, a ball of fire descending over his brain and melting everything it touches. The dripping Molotov of it makes him feel sick, like he’s been punched in the stomach, the kind of punch that feels like knives yet smells like roses. The kind of punch that feels like relief, as he collapses into the arms of the only person he has left in the world.
Stanley is sobbing openly into his shoulder, and the Narrator whispers things only he can hear. He smooths his hand up and down, up and down, until the muscles no longer twitch when he passes over them. Until the tension drains, seeped away, until the sobs are soft and quiet, and the weight against him is heavy and warm. He closed his eyes minutes ago, continuing the motion in a gentle loop, floating in some soft feeling he still can’t name. Stanley’s arms still rest around his waist, and the Narrator barely notices them twitch.
Stanley slowly, slowly, trails his fingers up the Narrator's spine. His hand rests somewhere between the Narrator’s shoulder blades, and he soon melts like butter. He still twitches, when Stanleys hand flattens entirely - this is still such a real thing, realer than he’s ever been - but the tension is gone as soon as it had come, draining out of him with a hum in minor key. It feels so warm, like the shoulders that nestle into his, the warm brown curls right next to his eyes, the shirt he rests against and the skin beneath it. The wool of his sweater is soft under Stanley’s hands, and slowly - still slowly, as if he’s still unused to these things - the Narrator leans his weight back into the pressure, melting like wax, his cheek flattening against Stanley’s neck. So warm, and soft, and something even the Narrator can’t describe, hidden in the prickling warmth slowly creeping up his chest, along the line of his jaw, as the warmth of Stanley’s body finally seeps through the thick wool.
A smooth, gentle silence settles over them, which neither breaks. Only the sound of eachothers breathing, and the crushing comfort that brings. One who’s never known it, and another who hasn’t in far, far too long, limp in eachothers arms - comfort seeping through them, like words to page.
And after infinity passed silently by, Stanley drew backwards - just slightly. He moves slowly, gently, as if the man against him might break at the touch. Break, or break away, rip the warmth from him as Stanley keeps his eyes closed, moving by touch alone. He feels the shape leaning against him, the curve of the shoulders his hands rest on, the breath against his chin, as he leaning their foreheads together and lets his mind quiet. He lets the warmth wash over him, and just…listens. Listens to him breathe, soft and slow, and felt with every huff. He can feel the narrator's hand trail slowly up his side, along his neck, cup the line of his face, the other still pressed to his side. The thumb rubs over his cheek, and without thinking Stanley leans into it, his face dipping dangerously close.
Stanley’s eyes may be closed, but the narrators are open.
He can see the soft, slow smile trembling on Stanley’s face. He can feel the breath rise and fall under one hand, and the unshaven face cupped in the other. It’s only hitting him now, how close they are. How fluttering and fumbling the warmth in his stomach is - a bit spikier than the fated butterflies are described, but unmistakably…
“Oh.”
The narrator whispers, softly, and Stanley’s eyes drift open. They flutter once, to clear themselves, before the full brown gaze meets his, and he feels part of himself melt. He’s so close. He can see every dip and rise, every angle, every soft curve and edge - though of those, there aren’t many. He can see every ridge in his eyes, every glimmer and dip of the warm brown, such a natural, loving thing.
“I think…I realized something.”
The narrator continues, and Stanley flinches. Anxiety creeps into his gaze, and his hands - still resting on the narrator's shoulders - twitch away, drawing back slightly. The narrator quickly shakes his head, tutting softly dark hair swaying as the strands dance over his face.
“No, no, it’s not that - i don’t mind this, you’re alright.”
Is the reply to that unspoken question, said through a smile. His voice is so gentle, the accent lost in the lull of a whisper.
“I love this.”
The eyes staring into his widen. The pupils dilate, flicking over every wave of green in his, taking everything in. That word. That is the word, for what he’s feeling, and with only one replaced, it could mean -
“I love you .”