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Stanley was tired.
He stood there in the dim lighting, bucket in hand, staring at the rose-covered bed.
In all honesty, he wasn't taking the bucket route for the ending. No, he didn't gain fulfilment from any of the endings anymore. Once, yes, when everything was new and exciting, but now... It wasn't exactly disdain he felt, rather it was apathy.
Nothing. He felt nothing. That was the simplest way to put it, not the best way but, once again, he was too tired to think about that. The player did the thinking, he did the doing. But now the player wasn't here, leaving him to his own devices. If only he could be more bothered, maybe he would be enjoying this. Or maybe it wouldn't make a difference. Hundreds of resets and redoing routes would do that to a person, in this case the person being him. He chuckled darkly under his breath at the repetitive humour of the joke. But it wasn't funny.
"Stanley?" There he was, the instigator of his torment. "Oh, Stanley what are you doing just standing there? If you insist on taking this route at least do it to completion."
He stayed stood there, unmoving as ever, eyes stuck on the soft, cotton plush of the pillows.
"Stanley, come on now, you must make up your mind."
He blinked, slow and heavy. How nice would it feel to rest his head against one of those? He wondered if the Narrator had put any thought at all into actually making the bed a 'bed', or if it was just another meaningless, empty prop.
"What?" He sounded offended, "Of course I put effort into it Stanley," he huffed, "I can't believe you thought I didn't."
Well, that answered his question. He breathed out, letting his shoulders sag, just a little. He placed the bucket down, walking over to the bed as the Narrator went on about all the details he put into this game, some of which he was upset Stanley hadn't noticed yet.
On a good day, he would listen the Narrator's ramblings in full, paying attention all the details and information being thrown at him. It wasn't even much of a difficult task. To others, maybe; he could see how it could come across as long and tedious. But for him, oh never. It was like when you want a playlist with songs that all have the same vibe but are all different: calming, soothing, filling all that space in your head with something good. On a good day, he would pace about the office, listening to him, picturing that they were somewhere else, somewhere outside. They would be wearing summer clothes, perhaps on a café table on a street, a street with railing that overlooked a beach. Maybe, they would walk around a little, at noon or at evening, he wasn't picky, and he would listen as the Narrator talked and talked, and when he stopped, he would ask him another question, prompting another half an hour of rambling. He came up to the mattress, dusting off the petals.
What? The Narrator had said it himself. 'Oh, but in his mind, Stanley could go on amazing adventures. Wild expeditions into the unknown...' This just happened to be one of those adventures. Yeah, he thought, pushing himself back onto the bed. All of those and more... On a good day.
That just didn't happen to be today. His brain was aching with troublesome thoughts: some were just thoughts he always had, such as the nature of this world he was in and the sadistic tendencies of the Narrator, but, as always with these kinds of days, others were more... Unkind. For example, this had not been the first time his brain had been trying to tell him to do the Zending over and over. After all, if he would always be revived, what was the point? Couldn't he just feel it, the adrenaline of that fall rushing throughout his body? Or he could go do the Museum ending again; he really didn't get to savour the feeling of having his bones crushed in like that last time. He laid down, his head a deadweight against the plush of the pillow. If he wanted something simpler, he could always go jump off the cargo lift again, that seemed to be a popular choice. Or perhaps-
"Stanley, Stanley stop..." Oh, he sounded genuinely distressed. Well, maybe he'd drop him into a bottomless pit for that. He could only hope- well- partially hope, that is. "You'll do both our heads in thinking like that." Stanley lay still, looking dead as ever. "Hmm, no, no. This won't do, this won't do at all." He shifted to lay on his side.
The pillow was so soft against his head and hair. He squashed his face into it further, letting it tousle the brown strands and cause some of his eyelashes to come into contact with the top of his eyelid. He breathed out, melting into the soft, velvety mattress cover, absorbing the coolness of the pillowcase. He could feel his worries and stress diffuse out his brain into the cotton beneath him with every exhale, drifting further and further into the world of sleep, one where he didn't have to think at all. And what was a better reward than not having to think? He smiled, sinking deeper, deeper, yet deeper...
All of a sudden, a loud string of jazz bolted throughout the room, jolting his eyes back open. He slightly craned his neck, no more than he had to though, just to see whatever was going on.
"There! A nice flow of music ought to get your mind off things." Of course, Stanley thought, aggravated, this was his way of saying 'go on, get the story moving'. He had begun humming along and making little rhymes to the song he himself had put there. He'd find it endearing if his head wasn't trying to crack itself open at the moment. Although, he did appreciate his concern for his well-being, as subtle as it was. His heart fluttered a little, which would've felt romantic if it weren't for the fact that his heart was also marinating under the pressure of all of his internal suffering, making the light action of 'fluttering' take ten times the effort for none of the payoff. He groaned, letting his head fall uncomfortably back onto the pillow, bringing his hand up in front of him.
As he did, he felt a sudden touch brush past his knuckles, short and quick.
He quickly lifted up hand, Who had- only to see that it was the corner of the pillowcase, the part that stuck out a little. Oh, of course. How rash of him to assume there was actually someone else there. How stupid.
He put his hand back down on the pillow, tracing circles into the thin fabric. Distantly, he thought back to the apartment ending, how much it made him feel, how much it ripped him apart.
Just the thought, the simple thought that he could open the door to a loving wife, sharing her wonderful food at the table, telling her about his wonderful day at work, holding each other in wonderful, loving arms... It was... It was beautiful. He turned his head, hiding the small smile that had formed on his face into the cloth of the pillow. It was stupid. That's what it was, what 'he' was, for believing in such a thing: stupid.
'You didn't actually think you had a loving wife, did you?'
Exactly, how dare he even consider it.
'Who would want to commit their life to you?'
He brought up both hands to hold either side of the pillow, opening his mouth to groan into it out frustration.
Instead, all that came out was a pathetic, choked cry.
The music immediately stopped.
"Oh- uh, Stanley..." his voice trailed off as it usually did when he encountered situations he couldn't fully control like this. Stanley didn't listen, only pressing his face further down, hoping that any second now the Narrator would just reset the world and put him out of his misery.
"I didn't mean to make it worse... Truly, I didn't!" He added on, as the distraught office worker only mumbled more angry things into the pillow. "...Look, I'm sorry, alright?" It had that air of awkwardness around it, as always when the Narrator was caught apologising.
The Narrator always spoke with so much character; Stanley could almost always imagine him right next to him whenever he spoke. He pictured him moving with various hand gestures, expressions always changing, pacing around wildly. It was so easy to imagine his words coming out of a physical mouth. It was so easy, he thought, to imagine him as a real person doing real things as he spoke.
Maybe that was why, through the almost shy choice of words, he could almost imagine a man, with rough yet kind features, sitting at the side of the bed, running his hand softly up and down Stanley's side. Or maybe it was just his feelings talking. Or the fatigue.
"Alright," he sighed, "I'll do this just this once, since I do owe you an apology." The hand stopped. Stanley missed it. With a deep breath, the Narrator asked, "What do you want, Stanley?"
What did he want? If he had the energy to argue, he would've asked to be free. But he didn't want that right now. In fact...
He thought back, to the idea of a wife, the idea of a home, the idea of loving, and of being loved, of being wanted, of being held. He thought of the brush against his knuckles, how, even for a split second, how good it felt to feel the touch of another. He couldn't remember the last time he had. He let out another gross croak.
Proximity. Intimacy. He wanted to be close to someone.
"Oh, well, um..." He imagined a man, with gentle eyes and worn yet slender hands, tapping away at his chin, wondering how he would get past this conundrum. "I suppose the mannequin wouldn't quite cut it, would it?" he asked, clearly already aware of the answer. Stanley slowly shook his head against the pillow. "No..."
He imagined a man, with a grey waistcoat, shirt and turtleneck, staring at his sorry excuse of a person through green irises and glasses, with one hand on his greying hair as he wondered what to do. He imagined him in his all-knowing chamber, looking through his all-powerful things for something to soothe this protagonist's heart... He imagined taking his face and kissing him on the lips-
"You know-" the handsome man's voice stilted, "this would be a lot easier if you could stop thinking about... whatever it is you are thinking about," he quickly finished. At that, he couldn't help but smile, albeit strained, into the pillow. He could hear the blush in his voice.
"Well, I'll have you know I have thought of a solution." Stanley listened. "But, um, it does require you to keep your eyes closed for its entirety," he attempted to quell the awkwardness in his voice, "Alright?" Stanley turned his head to the side a little, opening one eye. "Oh for the love of- I try to do something nice for you and you already disobey my instructions?" Stanley chuckled. "I suppose you don't deserve my kindness after all," he spoke in annoyance, though Stanley knew he wasn't really.
Respecting his orders regardless, he shuffled around, turning onto his side, eyes closed. The Narrator coughed.
They stayed like that, in the dim lighting of the room, surrounded by half-decayed rose petals on the floor, existing in each other's presence. It felt nice, homely even. The candles flickered, impatient, but Stanley waited. He waited as seconds turned to minutes, then as the minutes ticked by, until...
"Stanley lay still on the mattress, eyes tightly shut closed." And Stanley did.
"'How long have I been in this office alone?', 'When will I be able to see another person again?', Stanley wondered." And he had.
"But, as Stanley yawned, a long, deep, yawn, he realised he was too tired to be worrying about these things and instead focused on trying to fall asleep."
Stanley would've retorted at Narrator's the lame attempt at comfort if he wasn't so comfortable. The Narrator had this weird power of sometimes just being able to manifest things into the world, whether they involved his character or not. This was one of the times they did, and it was working, because as his lovely Narrator had said, he was falling into a deeper sleep.
Then, he continued, his voice more hushed this time.
"Suddenly, Stanley, through his dazed consciousness began to feel a being moving onto the bed. Another human, perhaps?" Another human? "Not that he cared, for he was for too deep in his sleep to be focused on such things." Of course.
"...But, as he felt himself begin to drift off, slowly, and very gently, he felt two arms come wrap around him. One dipped under his body, coming around his waist, holding him against the velvet mattress cover, whilst the other went around his shoulder, gently holding his head." He could feel the hand, even in his almost fast-asleep state, shyly curling the strands of his hair around its fingers. He leaned into it, even if it was barely so, finding it far more comforting than the plush of the pillow.
"The hand moved his head to nestle between where their torso and shoulder must have been." It was so soft, so warm.
"The person began to speak, small, sweet affirmations into his ear. 'You work very hard', they said, 'You're doing so well', they praised. They kept saying phrases of the like, lulling the office worker deeper into his slumber. He relished in all of it, finding peace of mind in it." He yawned, long and drawled out. So sweet... So...
"He yawned again, his brain finally shutting down after his long day at work. Stanley deserved it." He was now pressed flush against the body, who he knew was in fact the Narrator, stably breathing in and out, a warm blush colouring his cheeks. His chest rose in and out, a smile sitting contently on his face as he probably dreamt of walks along beaches and café talks, holding slender hands and kissing grey hair. In fact, had he been even the slightest bit awake at that moment, he might have felt the whisper of a kiss brush the strands on his forehead.
"But Stanley was far too fast asleep. So instead, the person reached down, pulling up the weighted blanket over them and then returning their arm around him, holding Stanley as he had the best sleep of his life."
And Stanley did.