Chapter Text
Mr Narrator Tales day was not going well.
Firstly, it was a Monday. That speaks for itself. The only people who could possibly enjoy Mondays are sociopaths.
It had, and remained, to be a very cold winter, and London was buried under a foot of snow, snow in which his car stubbornly refused to move through.
So he had to walk. It was roughly a mile walk to work, and he despised the underground, so that was out… He had a pile of homework he had hoped to grade before school started, hence why he left early so he could do it there.
Narrator was the type of person who wore fancy Oxford shoes, ties, blazers and either a waistcoat or a pompous knitted vest every day of the week, all in various shades of brown and yellow. He liked to do his work in cute frilly little cafes where the workers knew his name and his order by heart, he named his plants, and read classic literature and would act surprised when others hadn’t.
The opposite of the kind of person who would walk through icy and snow at 7 in the morning just to grade some tests.
Narrator was a english teacher, and quite good at it. His passion for literature had been since he read ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray ’ as a teenager. Not only did this help figure out his career path, but it also made him realise why he blushed around other boys so much.
He wasn’t greatly liked by students and fellow teachers alike. He was considered… cranky. Tosh, he thought. He could be charming! He could be funny! He was funny! He king of being funny! Hmm…
There was some students who liked him, though, mostly awkward, bookish, probably gay students who clearly related to him and would eat in his classrooms some lunch times. All of them were rather reminicent to his own teen years.
But alas.
“Bugger all this..” He muttered as he shuffled along, grimacing as his nicely polished shoes met the slushy-icy-snowy mix of doom.
It wasn’t completely slush yet, as there was a fresh layer of snow dusted on top, hiding the ice. He’d already nearly fallen twice and had to cling to his cane for support. He wasn’t greatly stable on his feet at the best of times, but this made it ten times worse.
“Really bugger all this…”
He remembered as a child being excited to see the snow, going out for the first time and being amazed at the pure white dusting over his world. He remembered the first snowman he named. That had been his best and only friend. Until it melted.
Now the sight of it just made him shiver and dread the walk.
He nearly slipped again, letting out a string of curses and clinging to the wall beside him for support.
The gates were in view as he rounded the corner. Only a little more to shuffle… almost there…
SMACK!
A pile of freezing snow collided with his cheek with force.
“WHO—?!”
He heard a familiar giggle from across the street. Really, it was a stupid question to ask.
“Alright, Narry?”
— — ❅ — —
Mr Stanley Parable’s day was going pretty good.
Ever since he was a kid, he’d loved snow, usually because it meant a snow day and school was closed, but there was something so beautiful in looking out and seeing the snowy landscape and knowing it was going to be a good day.
He set off for work with a spring in his step. He liked walking to school most days, weather permitting, but walking through the snowy, quiet streets was something else. That’s the only reason he left so early, plus he would be able to turn on the heater before school started.
Usually, he wasn’t much of a morning person, and had to rely on 5 different alarms to wake him up and about 5 cups of coffee.
But, he could certainly change his tune for a snowy morning.
Stanley was an art teacher. He wasn’t annoying about art, not like how his teachers had been. It had always been a pet peeve of his when art teachers had a very ‘one size fits all’ idea of how art should look, completely going against the whole point!
He remembered in his senior year creating a multi-medium self portrait, which his teacher took one look at and suggested he try tracing and realism instead. Not because Stanley was bad at anything else, the teacher… simply didn’t like it. He proved them wrong, though… got an A+ for it.
Ever since Stanley started working as a teacher, he strived to be the opposite of this. Encouraging his students to try different styles and mediums, and many of them had found talent in something outside of just colouring pencils (not that there was anything wrong with colouring pencils)
He was liked. Obviously, some students chose art as a skive, idiots… but those who took it out of interest liked him. He was friendly, funny, but still a good teacher. Rare, really. Usually, you got one or the other, but not with Stanley.
He half-skipped down the street, a huge grin on his face. To a inosent bystander, he would look… interesting to say the least.
He wore an odd mix of smart black jeans, a thick neon jacket, a blue bobble hat, a pink fuzzy scarf, and big yellow wellington boots. It was quite the statement, but at least he had no risk of being run over by an early morning cyclist.
He stopped short of the gates, about to cross the road, when he spotted a hunched figure grumbling under his breath.
His grin widened, leaning down and scooping up a pile of cold powder, balling it up… aiming…
SMACK!
The man spun round, “WHO—?!”
Stanley laughed, beaming at the man. “Alright, Narry?”
Narrator opened his mouth to shout something back, then he lost his footing, stumbling. He looked like Bambi on ice, running in place, arms windmilling whildly then SMACK!
Stanley barely had time to register what happened.
One moment the man was stood, scowling across the street at him, snow clinging to his chubby cheek and stuck in his moustache and hair, then he was flat on his arse in the cold snow, looking dazed and furious.
“Oh shit! Sorry mate!”
He hurried over, still giggling, and pulled Narrator up, grabbing his cane. “You alright? You looked like Bambi for a moment there!”
Narrator clearly didn’t share his humour.
Stanley grinned awkwardly, holding out the cane. “Sorry, I didn’t realise how icy it was.”
“Hmm!”
Narrator snatched back his cane, cheeks rosy, either from the cold or embarresment.. probably both.
“Ehm…” Stanley cast around for something to lighten the mood. “Nice morning, isn’t it—”
“LOOK!?” Narrator furiously gestured at his soaking trousers, practically shaking with rage.
Anger. His cheeks were probably red from anger, too.
“YOU THINK?!”
“How’d you—”
“You're very easy to read, Mr Parable.” Narrator tried in vain to wipe at the snow on his trousers, which was surprisingly difficult to do with one hand.
“Here, let me,” Stanley whipped at the snow on Narrator thigh, instantly realising his mistake, as he was met with the solid handle of Narrator’s cane colliding with his nose.
He stumbled back, slipping and knocking all the wind out of his lungs.
“Oww…”
Stanley touched his stinging nose, drawing away to see bloodied fingers.
He glanced up, noticing how Narrator was on the floor for the second time. He must have slipped when he hit Stanley.
He was purple now, “You LITTLE—”
“Mr Tale? Mr Parable?”
The pair looked up like misbehaving students and were met with the sharp eyes of Miss Curie Rator, the headmistress.
Their boss.
“I can explain—!” Narrator scrambled up, just to lose his foot and fall over again, at which Stanley let out a snort of amusement and the snow was showered in blood.
“Both of you in, now.”
— — ❅ — —
It really was like being a kid in detention, Stanley thought, glancing around Miss Rator’s office. Narrator sat on his left, wearing shorts borrowed from the P.E. department while his trousers dried, and look througholy pissed off. Currie sat in front of both of them, scowling.
“You are both grown adults, messing around in the snow?! Really. And how did your nose start bleeding, Stanley?”
Stanley pulled the tissue away from his nose, “N’rrator hit me wif ‘is cane,” Stanley glanced at the angry Narrator. “Really ‘urt.”
Curie glanced at Narrator. “Is this true?”
“I! Well! He— HE MOLLESTED ME!”
“WHAT?!”
“He touched my thigh.”
“TO BRUSH SNOW OFF.”
“YOU—”
Curie slammed her hand down, silencing both of them. “Are both acting like children.”
The two glanced sideways at each other, like petulant children being told off.
Curie sighed, looking over her glasses at the pair. “There is a long… long list of issues between you both, and it makes it impossible for others to work around you both! If you're in the same room your both tearing at each other’s throats! And really, you both need to grow up and put your differences aside. You both have to work together, but your constant bickering is affecting students’ learning.”
Stanley side-eyed Narrator again, who had his gaze fixed on Curie like he was hanging off her every word. Bloody suck up.
“Now…” She adjusted her glasses, her tone becoming more serious. “We have two options on how to sort this out. I assume both of you are aware of the trip to Paris that is coming up, yes?”
Both of them nodded, confused where this was going.
“As it is being classed as an arts trip, we need two teachers from art, English, drama, or anything else that falls under that umbrella.” She raised an eyebrow at them, “I trust you see where I’m going with this?”
They stared at her blankly.
What idiots… she thought, how did they even graduate from university?
“We will send you both as the two teachers—” They both let out cries of anger, but she silenced them with a look. “AND… you will need to get along. A week in another country with a group of 25 teenagers, it’s a big responsibility.”
She smiled a little at the looks on their faces, a mix of grief, anger, and denial.
“And if you don’t… I’ll just fire you.”
“WHAT?”
“Miss Rator, you can’t—”
“Are you questioning me?”
“No, Miss… sorry, Miss.”
Stanley scowled at him, BLOODY. SUCK. UP.
“So? It’s settled. Unless you would both like to work as buger king cashires instead?” They didn’t answer. “Good. I’ll get the forms to you later. Now, hurry up, both of you will need to get ready for the day.”
As soon as the office door was shut, Narrator rounded on Stanley.
“All because of a snowball?! You prick.” He whispered furiously, glancing at the door in fear.
“You gave me a nosebleed!”
Narrator turned and started to march away, or as march-like as he could get with a cane and a permanent limp.
“You're the reason I have to wear these bloody..! THINGS!!”
“Careful, your boxers are showing.”
Narrator scowled over his shoulder, tugging at the hem as he rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.
Stanley sighed.
His day wasn’t going as well now.