Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You know Stanley, I think I’ve figured out what your problem is. You lack motivation. Incentive. Clearly the ending of my story is not rewarding enough for you.”

Stanley spun lazily in his office chair, eyes gazing halfheartedly at the ceiling, counting the tiles. He could hear the sound of the Narrator’s voice, but none of the words were coming through to him. He’d grown tired of this little game they played, this charade.

What did he expect Stanley to do? Keep going, over and over again, to turn the machine off and “be free” as the Narrator had put it and be “truly happy”? What was it all for, if the end was never really the end? How could he feel happiness when it would be ripped away from him seconds later, starting at the very beginning all over again?

At first, he had listened to what the Narrator told him to do. There was no harm in it and the Narrator really did sound pleased when everything went the way he wanted. But Stanley grew tired of it very quickly. How many times would he live out this “ending” before the Narrator was satisfied? Was he supposed to keep repeating this indefinitely?

No, a life where everything had been predetermined for you was no life at all. So Stanley adapted. Why not go to the right door? Why not jump off the catwalk? Who would stop him? What consequences awaited him for doing as he pleased? The Narrator obviously disliked it, buzzing incessantly in his ear over every little thought he made, every decision, every step forward. 

“No, that’s not supposed to be a choice!” The Narrator would say to him, or “No, why did you do that!” And of course, Stanley’s personal favorite, “Stanley was so bad at following directions it’s incredible he wasn’t fired years ago.”

But even that began to grow old. Yes, it was always fun to get a reaction out of the Narrator, but the novelty of it had started to fade away. He had completed so many endings, woken up at his desk so many times, that he began to wonder how long he had been here. Weeks? Months? Years ?

Was time still moving on outside of the parable? He hoped not. After all, if he did have a family or a wife, he would rather not have them worry about him being gone for so long. At least, he thought he had a family. The Narrator had always implied such and of course, had mocked him with that stupid mannequin more than once. But if he really strained himself, really thought about his life, his home or even his childhood…

He couldn’t recall. Obviously, he had to have come from somewhere. How could he not remember his parents or, if he didn’t have any, some of the people he loved? If not people, then what about his house? An apartment? Did he go to school? College? How did he even start working here?

It made his head hurt to think about any of his past. Like he was trying to put together a puzzle but had none of the pieces. Or perhaps, had the pieces to an entirely different puzzle.

He had tried, countless times, to ask the Narrator outright. But he rarely answered any of Stanley’s questions and if he did, it was vague and contradictory. No matter how many times Stanley had pestered him, it was clear that the Narrator was not going to give him an answer. Stanley was certain he knew something, or at least, more than Stanley did. He seemed to be responsible for all this after all. 

There was an uncomfortable answer to all of his questions that had presented itself to him more than once. What if… what if he didn’t have a life outside of the parable? 

What if he was made here, what if he wasn’t… real? But that couldn't be possible because he would know if he wasn’t. Wouldn’t he? He could breathe, he could walk, he could think and feel and do anything that any other person could do. He wasn’t extraordinary in any way except for… well, except for literally everything that happened to him in here.

Though he couldn’t recall a world outside of this building, he was certain that it wasn’t normal to die over and over again. Death was supposed to be a permanent event, it was supposed to be something to fear and dread but for Stanley, it was almost a relief. It was never fun to die but no matter what happened, he knew he would be perfectly fine at the end of it. God, he had been blown up and smashed to pieces more times than he could count. If anything, death was something he could look forward to because… because maybe one day it would work.

He found himself longing for an end to it sometimes, especially for the quiet relief that came between the “resets” as he had begun to call them. There was the temporary pain that came of course, that feeling of his bones crunching, his chest collapsing in on itself, that heaviness in his limbs that told him he was dying, and this was it, there’s too much blood and maybe this time it will work, maybe this time he won’t wake up, maybe this time- 

And then it would be quiet. Just for a moment.

Like waking up after a long and restful sleep. Of course, he was only at his desk again and it would be a few seconds before he had to continue this stupid story but… but it was nice.

Stanley knew it probably wasn’t normal to feel this way but what else could he do within the parable? How could he be happy about any of this? There was nothing he could do to change his entrapment. The only way forward, the only way to keep from breaking down right here and now, was to not think about it. Don’t think about the past, don’t think about a way out, don’t think about a permanent death because none of it was within his realm of possibility. Was it healthy to ignore his feelings? Absolutely not. But Stanley didn’t have the luxury to do otherwise. 

And so the harsh reality of his situation had really begun to set in. He couldn’t bring himself to complete any of the “endings” anymore because what was the point if everything would repeat itself?

The last few runs Stanley found himself counting ceiling tiles, removing the keys from keyboards, even collecting all the coffee mugs in the office so he could build a tower of them. Anything he could do to keep himself entertained. Anything to keep his thoughts off of the parable, from the Narrator and the story and this goddamned building that trapped him at every turn. Hallways upon hallways and doors upon doors that led to nowhere and everywhere, in circles and loops that never stopped.

He must have gotten too upset because the Narrator interrupted his thoughts. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say the Narrator was in his thoughts. He was capable of reading Stanley’s thoughts on a surface level, those emotions or impulses that rise to the front of your mind, and the conscious thoughts that direct your decision making. Stanley knew he could feel his emotions to some extent as well. All of it was accessible to the Narrator, but despite that, he still had a hard time understanding Stanley. 

“Did I assume correctly? Well, you should’ve just said so Stanley, no need to make me guess.”

The voice was smug, with an edge to it that said I know more than you do, and I know better than you do. And yet, Stanley very much doubted that the Narrator knew how he was truly feeling.

“Though I think having a reward system is completely unnecessary and absurd, I…” He paused, as if fighting back the urge to add more. “…suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try something new. Just for this run, and then we'll go back to business as usual. How does that sound Stanley?”

Stanley considered the idea of more Stanlurines or achievements and decided he wasn’t interested. Yes, a scavenger hunt for more figurines could be fun, but they had already done that multiple times and it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he thought it would feel. 

“No no, no more Figleys, we’ve had enough of those. I was thinking of something else.”

Something else? What could the Narrator possibly offer Stanley? More buttons? A sticker that said “Great job!” or “Good work!” on it? A silly little song? Or would it just be empty words of praise from the Narrator himself?

“You’re being awfully pessimistic today, do you know that? Here I am, trying to reach out to you, trying to understand why you’ve been so utterly distant these past few runs and you’re just dismissing everything I have to say!”

Stanley’s chair completed another slow circle, the creaking of the wheels answering for him. No thoughts, no answer for the Narrator. Perhaps if Stanley stopped responding to him, he would get frustrated enough to leave Stanley alone and let him do whatever the hell he wanted. But Stanley knew the Narrator much too well, and the chances of him leaving Stanley to his own devices were slim to none. 

“I see. Well, if you don’t want to communicate clearly to me, then I suppose I’ve nothing more to do with this conversation. You want to be left alone? Fine. Stay in your stupid little office for all I care.” 

Stanley’s chair was thrust forward by an invisible force, slamming him into his desk and knocking the air out of his chest for a moment. He had been sitting in the doorway prior to this, so as to avoid being locked in, but now he watched as the door clicked shut and locked with all the rage of an angry god. 

Really? That’s how we’re going to do this? Resorting to physical violence?

“Don’t be so dramatic, it was merely a push. And you’ve got what you wanted, haven't you? Now you can spend as much time as you like doing absolutely nothing of importance and nothing to do with my story or me. I hope you’re nice and cozy Stanley, as you’ll be spending the rest of this run stuck in here until I feel the need to start over. Maybe I’ll read a new book. Maybe I’ll create a new game, a better one, without a protagonist who feels the need to sow discord wherever he goes and disregard the necessity of a proper story!”

What the hell is your problem? 

“MY problem?” The Narrator spat the words out with as much malice as he could. “For the past 32 runs— YES, Stanley I kept track— you haven’t done anything . No endings, no thoughts! Trying to speak with you has been more difficult than trying to understand you. You may find it entertaining to hear me complain about the loss of my story or describe your utter incompetence, but do you ever pause to think about how I feel? What it is like to talk to someone who shows as much interest in you or your words as the wallpaper?”

He paused just for a moment, almost hesitating if he should go on, before plowing ahead. It sounded as if all of this had been building for some time, and there was no stopping it now. 

“No! No, why would Stanley ever bother to think about someone other than himself? No, poor Stanley is the only one stuck here, poor Stanley is trapped with this terrible Narrator, so let’s do everything possible to make his existence even worse. Let’s ignore the Narrator, or rather, let's pretend you can’t hear him at all because Stanley thinks this is all one big game. Good job Stanley, you did it! You won! Is that what you want to hear? Because it changes absolutely nothing.”

Stanley stared dumbly up at the ceiling, stunned into silence (which was ironic given that he couldn’t speak to begin with). It took several moments before he could even process the Narrator’s words, honestly shocked that the Narrator had gotten this angry at him. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for them to argue; in fact, it was normal. But this sounded much deeper and much more personal than simple frustration. And besides that, the Narrator rarely let his emotions get the better of him. Sure, he was petty and sarcastic and rude and- well, Stanley could list things all day, but the point was that it was never personal for either of them. At least, their disagreements never were. 

Finally, words began to string together in his mind. 

You’re not the one who put me here?

“No!” The Narrator sounded exasperated, almost annoyed at how that was the only bit of information Stanley heard. “No, I didn’t trap you here.”

And you… can’t leave either?

“Come now Stanley, do you need me to repeat everything to you? Use your brain for a moment, I know that’s hard for you, but seriously think about our time here together. Do you honestly believe I enjoy watching you suffer?”

The voice waited for a reply, daring Stanley to agree with his last statement. 

But Stanley didn’t know what to think. He looked back down towards his desk, towards his shirt, towards the floor. Anywhere where he felt the Narrator’s gaze couldn’t reach his own. He had no idea where the Narrator was or how he could see Stanley, but Stanley liked to imagine he was somewhere above him. 

To be honest, Stanley had never even considered that the Narrator was stuck here too. He had always pushed Stanley along, telling him what to do and where to go, and so Stanley had just assumed that the Narrator had built the parable himself. He clearly had some control over the environment, always closing doors or creating rooms and “resetting” the day for Stanley. It wasn’t a stretch for Stanley to believe the Narrator had created all of this. But now… well, now he felt rather stupid.

His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and he didn’t have a response for the Narrator. Nothing he could say would remedy the situation, and the silence had gone on for long enough now that it was absolutely unbearable.

The Narrator made a loud huff before speaking again. But the passion in his voice was gone, back to that familiar monotone sound that he used whenever he went back to his script.

“But Stanley simply couldn't handle the pressure. What if he had to make a decision? What if- "

Stanley tuned the rest of his words out. He knew the Narrator well enough that once he had gone back to the script, their conversation was over. 

It was his way of telling Stanley that he would not talk about this anymore, and by sticking exclusively to the story, he could refuse any further questions. From this moment forward, the Narrator would treat him only as a character and himself as a storyteller, nothing more and nothing less. 

It was not the first time he had done this. 

The Narrator would often act as if they hadn’t said anything, as if nothing had happened at all. He would pretend that this conversation had never happened, and by doing that, he could avoid having any sort of bond or attachment to Stanley. After all, a narrator is supposed to be an impartial storyteller. How could he do that if he kept injecting himself into the story?

Or at least, that’s what he told Stanley.

Sometimes, it made things easier. To pretend that they were just part of a “game” as the Narrator called it. Unsurprisingly, it led to a lot of resentment and frustration for both parties. 

Stanley slumped back in his chair and dragged his hand down his face, thinking about what he should do for the next run. He felt guilty, like he should apologize to the Narrator but if he did that, he would never hear the end of it. 

The Narrator droned on and on about how Stanley would stay in the office indefinitely, how “hours passed” and that “if he waited long enough, the answers would come”. Now, Stanley would spend an immeasurable amount of time stuck in his office, bored out of his mind. Though it wasn’t much different from what he had been doing before, Stanley didn’t like the feeling of being shut in, nor did he like the silence that followed once the Narrator finished monologuing.

Though he would never admit it out loud, he really did enjoy the Narrator’s company. The sound of his voice (when it wasn’t making a snip or jab towards Stanley) could be so warm at times, so calming and surprisingly kind. It was very rare to hear the Narrator go off script, and even more unusual to hear him talk to Stanley like they were… friends. Were they friends? Enemies? Acquaintances, coworkers? He couldn’t find the right name for what they had.

Well, whatever their relationship was— no, no relationship was much too strong of a word, he thought. It sounded serious, like they had something, and Stanley didn’t feel that way, or at least, he had never thought that— well, he wasn’t opposed but— No! No he’s not thinking about this right now. 

And he supposed that maybe… just maybe… he would have to apologize to the Narrator after this. Not because he cared of course, that’s ridiculous. It was simply a matter of doing what was right. 

– - -

“When Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left.”

I know you can hear me.

“Stanley just stood there doing nothing at all. He seems to think I have nothing better to do with my time than to sit around and describe every fascinating little detail of his inability to do anything. This is why Stanley and I are on such good terms.”

I said I was sorry!

…

Nothing. Of course the Narrator was still giving him the cold shoulder.

Stanley ran a hand through his hair and pulled gently at the roots, trying his very best not to get angry at the Narrator. Their argument had been at least 7 or 8 runs ago, and no matter how many times Stanley tried to apologize, the Narrator would ignore him. 

He had tried the “freedom” ending (ha! freedom ), tried going to that room with the lights that the Narrator liked so much, tried to follow everything he said and play the part of a good little protagonist, but he was rewarded with absolutely nothing. Stanley knew the Narrator could be stubborn, but he didn’t think he was this petty. 

You can’t ignore me forever.  

…

Silence.

He narrowed his eyes up at the ceiling and crossed his arms. Maybe if he waited long enough, the Narrator would give in. After all, they couldn’t just stand here doing nothing forever, right?

…

…

The Narrator is fat and ugly and really really stupid. He probably only got the job because of a family connection; that's how stupid he is.

…

Not even a chuckle? Well, at least Stanley thought it was a little funny. 

…

Fine. 

Stanley sighed and shoved the left door open. He couldn’t think of any other way to apologize other than to keep listening to the Narrator’s directions. So, once again, he found himself trudging through the meeting room, up the stairs, punching the code in…

Ugh. Elevator, mind control facility, blah blah blah. Everything was the same to Stanley, and he only focused on the actual choices he can make here. Those buttons. 

How many times has he stood in front of these buttons? Too many, that’s for sure. 

His hand hovered over the ON and OFF buttons in the center of the mind control facility. He hesitated, considering the ON button and wondering if the Narrator would enjoy exploding both him and the room up. Stanley thought that he always sounded at least a little happy during that ending speech. 

An exasperated sigh echoed through the room.

“No, Stanley, I would not enjoy blowing you up.”

His head shot up towards the rafters, shocked. What had he done differently this time to get the Narrator to respond to him?

“Nothing. I simply grew tired of ignoring you.”

Oh. 

Well then, perhaps the Narrator would be open to hearing an apology?

“You don’t have to. I’ve already heard you say it a million times over and I think that if you utter “sorry” one more time, the word will completely lose all meaning.”

Stanley looked down sheepishly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He still felt guilty about what happened earlier. The Narrator was right after all. Stanley had been rather blind to the Narrator’s role in the story.  

I know sorry doesn’t cut it, but I still feel terrible. Is there anything I can do? Anything to make things a little better for you?

The Narrator was quiet for a moment, thinking. 

“Anything?”

Stanley grumbled. Alright, maybe “anything ” had too many options for the Narrator to exploit. 

A loud, rather dramatic sigh followed. Stanley could imagine the Narrator leaning back in his chair (did he have a chair? Did he even have a body ?), arms crossed. 

“I see. You don’t really mean your apology; you simply want things to return to normal.”  

No no no, that’s not- no. Come on, the Narrator knew what Stanley meant, didn’t he?

“I’m afraid I don’t. Haven’t a clue.”

The sarcasm was so thick that Stanley could’ve drowned in it. He knew he would regret agreeing to this, but he didn’t feel like playing this game with the Narrator at the moment. He just wanted someone to talk to (think to? He wasn’t exactly talking but- ah, well, it doesn't matter) again.

Fine. Anything. 

“Really? My, I didn’t know you could be so agreeable Stanley. It’s a nice change of pace, and to be honest, it looks rather good for you.”

What do you want?

“Getting right into it, are we now? So eager to please, to-“

Stop it.

“Well now you’re just acting rude. What happened to being sorry ?”

What. do. you. want?

“Hmm…”

The Narrator drummed his hands against his desk, humming to himself (again, did he even have hands? It sounded like it, but if the Narrator was really as omnipotent as he described himself to be, then surely he wouldn’t look human… right? It made Stanley’s head hurt to think too hard about this.) 

“I suppose, I do have something in mind. I have for a while, but I…”

His words failed him, trailing off. 

Stanley’s eyebrows scrunched up together, absolutely baffled. The Narrator, at a loss for words? What the hell could he possibly be thinking?

He cleared his throat, starting again. “Do you remember earlier, Stanley, when I proposed we try something new? Something different?”

Yes.

“Good. You see, I’ve been thinking a lot about the nature of this game, of you, of-” A slight pause. “- us. And just how difficult it is to truly describe the human condition. I mean, I wrote a delightful story about this monotonous lifestyle that you’ve pursued and allow you to break free of your corporate shackles, to seize the day and become something more, but… but it just doesn't seem to appeal to you. I don’t understand what more you, or anyone really, could possibly want. Isn’t the whole point of life to become something? To be a part of something extraordinary?”

I-

“Don’t answer, it was rhetorical. Now, I’ve pondered this question for a while, through many of our little adventures, and I can’t seem to pin it down. Just when I think I’ve figured it out, figured you out, you make a completely different decision than I expected! For example, I was certain you would go through the right door just a moment ago, and yet you surprised me and took the left. One would assume given your nature, and all other decisions you’ve made up to this point, that you would have done the opposite. So it seems, when it comes to you, and by extension all others, that my logic and reasoning completely go out the window.”

What are you getting at?

“I am proposing that we solve both of our problems in one fell swoop. You receive the spontaneity and adventure you are seeking whilst I obtain the knowledge I am looking for.”

Stanley leaned up against the rail, thinking to himself. Was that really feasible? They had been together long enough to know that it was near impossible to come to a compromise on anything. They were just too different. It was either Stanley’s way or the Narrator’s, with nothing in between. 

How are you going to do that?

“It’s simple really. To know the human experience, I need to put myself in your shoes, your position. And you must understand, there are no other assets in this game like you Stanley, and if there were, I would not suggest this, but given that there aren’t-”

Please get to the point.

“I would like to become you.”

...

Stanley, once again, was dumbfounded. What the hell did that mean? That they should switch places? Was that even possible?

“No no no, I would never do that. You, with all the power of the office? That would be an absolute disaster.”

He hesitated and an edge of nervousness crept into his voice, as though he was preparing for Stanley to mock or dismiss his words. 

“No, I want to experience what you experience. Feel as you feel, think as you think. I am suggesting that we, for a temporary amount of time of course, share one collective body.”

What.

“Now I know that sounds extreme, but really, it would be no different than what we’re doing now. I would still narrate of course, and you would still do whatever the hell you usually do, but I could finally understand, or at least, begin to understand, the human psyche.”

Stanley didn’t think anything in this world could possibly surprise him given all he had gone through, but clearly he was wrong. To share a body with the Narrator? It sounded terrifying if he was being honest. He already had limited privacy in the parable— he was always being watched, always perceived from every angle. 

Even his conscious thoughts were laid bare to the Narrator. But to remove what little boundaries he still had left? 

He wanted to shut down the idea immediately. If they had difficulty cooperating as it was, how were they supposed to function as one person? And besides, how would that even work? Would the Narrator control what he did and where he would go in the name of “experience”? Stanley shuddered at the thought. He had already lost control of everything else in his life. The autonomy of his body was one of the few things he could rely on. 

“I… know that it is a lot to ask. And I’m very aware of how frightening it could be for you.” 

There it was, that gentle tone Stanley was so fond of. There were times Stanley doubted if the Narrator truly cared about him, but it was moments like this that took away any uncertainty. It was soft, it was understanding, it was… breathtaking. 

Stanley batted away the thought, feeling his cheeks grow warmer. Breathtaking, really? What is wrong with him, describing the Narrator’s tone like that? It was just a voice. An annoying, insufferable one at that! He must have gone crazy, there was no other explanation. Yes, he had been stuck here for so long, been devoid of any other contact that he was drawn to the mere sound of the Narrator. That must have been it. And the fact that he was truly, honestly considering the Narrator's idea... he's absolutely insane. He must be.

Regardless, he could tell the Narrator truly meant no harm to Stanley and genuinely believed this could be good for the both of them.

...

Maybe the Narrator was right. 

The Narrator seemed oblivious to Stanley’s inner turmoil however, surging onward. “But Stanley, I wouldn’t be doing any more than I am now. I would just… be there.”

The quiet pause that followed went on for a little too long. Stanley wanted to agree, but this had disaster written all over it. Was he really willing to give up what little control he had over his life just so that the Narrator could be happy?

“I understand this is a rather personal thing to ask of you, so I don’t expect a response immediately of course. I-“

Okay.

“-know that- wait, what?” Now it was the Narrator’s turn to be surprised. Once again, Stanley could envision the Narrator leaning closer to Stanley from wherever he was, to really get a better look at him and determine if he was serious.

“A-Are you sure? I mean really, absolutely sure?”

Yes. I'm sure.

He was really doing this. Stanley was really, truly, doing this! He was completely positive that he had lost his mind now, as there was no way that any sane person would agree to such a thing.

“You’re not being sarcastic?”

Not this time.

“Oh!” It was a soft, faint little sound. He could hear the excitement, the nervous energy that followed. Was he clasping his hands together now? Was he smiling? Holding back laughter? What a sight that would be- the Narrator, beaming over something Stanley had done. It would certainly be a first. And it certainly felt good.

“Oh Stanley, I promise you won’t regret this decision.”

Stanley hoped so too.

Chapter Text

Stanley regretted his decision. 

The Narrator had insisted on resetting the parable at least 4 or 5 times now. He would say “No no no, this isn’t the right moment” or “The scene isn’t good at all, no cinematic value to it” and “It needs to have a dramatic effect Stanley, you wouldn’t understand”. The Narrator was right of course; Stanley didn’t understand.

Why was this such a big deal to him? It was Stanley’s body, it was Stanley who would be most affected by the situation. Yet it was the Narrator who was acting so anxious, slipping up with his lines and letting the excitement shine through every word he said.

It was almost adorable.

But not in a cute way! Cute, why did he think that, no no no. No, that would be strange to think that- the Narrator, cute?- no, Stanley must also be feeling a little stressed, that’s all. These fleeting thoughts and feelings were really starting to worry Stanley. They had been occurring more than he’d like to admit. 

He was sitting down on the floor, legs crossed with his hand on his cheek, propping his head up. Somehow he had found himself wandering to the “zen” room as the Narrator had called it before. He was never a big fan of this place; Afterall, it was just a big empty room with lights. But it made the Narrator happy and well, Stanley found himself doing a lot of things to make him happy recently. 

The lights weren’t even that interesting to Stanley. They just washed over each other in waves of color, shifting from hue to hue endlessly. It was almost calming, he thought, in the same way that sensory videos could be (now how in the hell did he remember what a sensory video was if he couldn’t even remember his life? It only posed more questions that Stanley was loath to think about). 

His eyelids began to lower, a heaviness seeping into his body. He was only waiting for the Narrator to say his usual lines, to talk about how much he enjoyed the room and how they could be happy if they just stopped here. But the Narrator hadn’t said anything. Nothing at all.

He had been going off the script more often lately, but this felt… different. Quiet. Unusually quiet. Like Stanley had been left alone in here. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? The Narrator would never leave Stanley to his own devices. The last time that happened, Stanley had managed to clip through the floor and get himself stuck between the layers. Neither were very happy about it, and Stanley still has no idea how he did it.

Just as he was on the precipice of sleep, the Narrator’s voice echoed through the room, anxious but excited. “I think… I think now would be good. If you’re ready.”

Stanley straightened his posture, looking up towards the ceiling nervously.

Will it hurt?

“No no no, of course not.” A pause. “At least I don’t think it will.”

Oh. Oh, that sounded much less confident than he would’ve liked. 

“Well you see, this is as new to me as it is to you. Despite your preconceived notions, I am not actually omniscient.”

Somehow, every word the Narrator spoke made Stanley feel worse. A queasy, knotted sensation coiled itself in his stomach and he held onto his sides for comfort. This was a bad idea. No, Stanley had changed his mind, he didn’t want to do this anymore. He couldn’t-

“Alright. Alright, we’re doing it Stanley! Here we go. Let me just-“

With no warning, no countdown or any sort of notice, the Narrator plunged his consciousness into Stanley’s. A flash of white spiked across his vision, followed by a terrible pounding in his head. Like a migraine, but much much worse. There was more flashing, colors he had never seen, feelings he had never felt and couldn’t begin to describe. The closest analogy he could even begin to compare it to would be as if he had been tossed into a blender and the blades were not only tearing him apart but pulling him back together.

It was horrible. 

It was amazing. 

No. No, it was definitely horrible.

Instinctively, he curled in on himself, fingers digging in his temples and whimpering. He could actually feel his mind burning up, synapses and neurons so stuffed with information, with these new sensations, that they were going to explode.  

This is it, he thought. This is how I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me.

But as quickly as the sensations came, they left. A dull thud in his chest resounded even as the pain melted away, reminding him that he was unfortunately still alive. A hazy, stuffy sort of feeling came over him, like he had just come out of a very unrestful sleep. Partially aware, but not fully. 

The pressure on his skull was still there, but only because his hands were still firmly rooted in place, keeping him in a vice grip. Internally, everything was… wrong. Not wrong in a way that felt painful, but in that he was hyper aware of every possible sensation that was happening to him in this moment. Every nerve, every muscle, every sickening lurch his insides made. 

“Stanley? Stanley, can you hear me?”

It was so loud. So very loud. Every beat of his heart, every contraction in his lungs, it was so fucking loud. 

“Oh! Oh, hold on, I didn’t realize- just a moment!”

Who was that voice? It sounded familiar but Stanley couldn’t put his finger on it. The world had been thrown so out of balance that perhaps there was no one there at all. Was it just him? And who was he? No, what was he?

Slowly, unbearably slowly, the vibrancy of the room and world around him began to die down. He no longer had to think about everything, or anything, and his limbs finally eased up and let themselves drop to the floor. There was a numbness on his skin that tingled, like a pressure had finally been released and he could just become a puddle on the ground.

Yes, that would be nice, he thought. To just melt onto the floor and become nothing. 

“Stanley? Stanley, are you alright?”

Stanley? Who… oh. Oh! He was Stanley. How could he have forgotten?

Still laying on the floor, he raised his hands up in front of his face, just to see if they were still there. And then, even more carefully, he lowered them back down and began to take inventory of his body. Legs? Check. Arms? Check. Sanity? Hmm. He wasn’t too sure about that one. 

Alright, so he was still physically here. Still in one piece. And the Narrator…

“I’m right here.”

His voice was quiet, clear and cautious, like he was being careful not to upset Stanley. It reverberated inside his skull rather than the walls around him, and he could actually feel the Narrator’s nervous energy. 

Stanley had done some stupid things before. He had thrown himself into death countless times but this, he was certain, was the worst thing he had ever done. 

I feel like absolute shit.

“Watch your words, Stanley. I won’t have such vulgar language in my game-“

I don’t fucking care.

“You!” A loud huff followed. “Absolutely crass, that’s what you are. I don’t know why I put up with you, I really don’t.”

Stanley groaned in response, letting himself sink even further into the ground, limbs spread out in a starfish-like shape. He was starting to feel a little better now, less tense and the remnants of pain began to fade away. He still had a terrible headache though.

What happened? Why was it so… 

He trailed off, letting the words bounce around and drift away before he could finish.  

“Ah.” The Narrator cleared Stanley’s throat, which was not only surprising but bizarre. Yet when he spoke, it was still only inside of Stanley’s mind. “Well, that would be an oversight on my end. I didn’t think you would have such a limited capacity, nor did I believe that I could possibly take up so much room.”

Stanley didn’t follow. 

An exasperated sigh, again coming physically from Stanley. “Your brain could not handle the sum of my being. How do I explain this in a way you can understand?… Hm, well, imagine that you are a cup, Stanley. Any sort of cup will do, it doesn’t matter.”

Cup. Okay, he’s a cup.

“Yes, perfect. Now visualize that I am… er, let’s see… An ocean. Are you still with me Stanley? Good. Now, we are going to take the ocean and put the entirety of it inside the cup.”

Oh. Stanley didn’t want to be the cup anymore. 

“I’m sure you’re thinking; but how can that be possible? No matter how big the cup is, there’s no way it could fit all of that water!” The Narrator made a proud little smirk slide across Stanley’s lips. Stanley forced the corners of his mouth back down.

“Well, I’ve done just that Stanley. I have made the impossible possible. It’s taking quite a lot of focus to keep the cup— sorry, keep you from falling apart, but it’s working! I’m going to be honest with you, for a moment I really thought you were about to implode. But you didn’t!”

A gleeful little laugh followed. 

I… Am I supposed to be happy about that?

“Would you rather I had left your cells to rapidly decompose and combust?”

That sounds pretty bad, so no.

“Correct! It would be, as you put it, ‘pretty bad’. You’re doing excellent keeping up with me.”

Stanley’s cheeks flushed and he kept his thoughts as concealed from the Narrator as best as he possibly could. Was it because the Narrator had told him he was doing good? Is that why he felt so warm? 

No, no he was probably just recovering from earlier. That’s why his cheeks were burning, heart skipping a beat as he let the words “You’re doing excellent” play over and over again in his head. He was just confused from everything that had just happened, because why else would he be feeling so giddy over a compliment? 

“I’m going to reset the game now, Stanley, so we may experience this properly. Just a moment, if you please.”

The world turned black and Stanley felt that terrible jerking sensation that always followed a reset when he hadn’t died. It had the same feeling of weightlessness that a rollercoaster did, just as you began to go down the hill and felt all of your guts leap upward. It was only for a fraction of a moment before he felt the stiffness of his office chair and hands resting on the keyboard. 

At least he didn’t feel terrible anymore. 

“This…” The Narrator took a deep breath, like he was telling the story for the very first time. Stanley supposed he was, from this perspective anyways. He sounded almost nervous.

“This is the story of a man named Stanley.”

The Narrator continued the opening while Stanley stretched out from his chair, all former pain and exhaustion gone. Thank god he felt normal again. Part of him was a little worried that his headache would have persisted beyond the reset. 

Stanley let out a sigh and tried to zone out for the rest of the introduction but found it nigh impossible with the Narrator’s little inflections of joy seeping into him. 

“...and stepped out of his office.” An involuntary shudder ran through his body and Stanley felt the Narrator press in closer to his consciousness, almost like he was leaning in over his shoulder to gauge his reaction. It felt tense, as though he was steeling himself to ask Stanley something. 

“Ahem. Er, Stanley? May I… move forward?”

Stanley seemed a little confused. Obviously the story had to progress somehow. Why would the Narrator ask to continue monologuing now, when he never had before?

I don’t see why not.

“Splendid! Here we are, I’ll just-” A zap ran through Stanley, like he had been shocked with static electricity. He frowned, letting his displeasure at the sensation make its way to the Narrator. What the hell was he doing?

If he heard Stanley, he didn’t answer. His foot twitched, then a muscle in his leg contracted. As he bent over to rub the offended spot, his knee jerked upward and hit him directly in the nose. Stanley gasped, cupping his nose and watching in morbid fascination as he stiffly stood up regardless of his own will. 

The Narrator wasn’t moving forward with the story through dialogue; he was moving forward physically. And poor Stanley was just along for the ride.

One leg lifted itself up and dangled in the air, rolling his ankle around in a circle. Stanley had to hold onto his desk for support, as the Narrator was so fixated on the idea of moving, he had completely neglected balancing. At least he was only using the lower half of Stanley’s body; if he went all in, god knows how terribly this would have gone.

“Ha! Are you seeing this Stanley, do you see me? Look, I’m rotating your ankle. And I- I have toes, they’re so funny, aren’t they? Why would anyone want to separate the flesh on your extremities into these little nubs? It’s so peculiar!” Another wiggle of his toes followed and Stanley, despite the startling sensations, had to admit it was pretty strange.

“There’s so many muscles and tendons that you use down here. How is this not overwhelming for you? I thought walking was supposed to be a simple function to execute.”

Stanley forced his leg back down, shifting his weight onto the other side. I dunno. I just walk. There’s no thinking required.

“Fascinating. I suppose I should do just that then!”

And he proceeded to send them straight into a wall.

Watch where you’re going! And slow down, you- wait wait wait! 

Another collision.

Stop, you’re- stOP!

This time he tripped over his own feet, sending them down onto the floor with a loud crash. Stanley peeled his cheek off of the carpet, groaning.

Okay, you’re done. You had your fun, this is over, you-

“Good gracious Stanley, you can’t expect me to be perfect at this right off the bat! I’m pleased to know you have such high expectations of me, but really, if you were in my position, you’d fare much worse. I’m sure of it.”

You’re not even looking where you’re going, or- Stop moving my legs!

The Narrator had tried to get back to an upright position, but only succeeded in making bicycle-like motions in the air while Stanley kept them firmly on the ground. Somehow, he managed to slam their knee into the wall, causing the both of them to hiss in pain.

“What- What was that? What did you do? It- augh, I don’t like that.” The Narrator whined and rubbed their newly made sore spot. With an exasperated huff, Stanley tried not to roll his eyes too hard.

I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who hit the wall.

“I’m not talking about the wall Stanley, I’m talking about this- this feeling.” He said the word like it was a completely foreign concept to him. “It aches terribly, I-”

He gasped. “My god, have I broken your leg? Is that what this is?”

Stanley hesitated. He was joking, wasn’t he? Surely the Narrator wasn’t serious. At the worst, they had bruised the leg, nothing more. Stanley would know if they had broken anything or had any sort of major bodily trauma. Another thought pressed itself to his mind, one much more likely. Had the Narrator never felt pain before?

Are you… serious? You really don’t know what pain is?

The Narrator scoffed, slightly offended. “I know what pain is, Stanley. Pain is losing your favorite writing utensil or being unable to overcome writer's block. This is… raw and overwhelming. It’s extremely uncomfortable and I cannot take my mind off of the sensation!”

Oh my god. The Narrator really hadn’t felt pain before.

Stanley almost wanted to laugh. Was this truly the same Narrator who had blown him into pieces and mocked him? The same Narrator who encouraged Stanley to jump off the catwalk and acted so indifferent about Stanley’s death afterwards? The Narrator who, up until this moment, had been like an all-knowing god to him?

Stanley couldn’t hold back anymore, the beginnings of a smile spreading on his lips. He giggled, and upon feeling the Narrator’s confusion, began to laugh even harder. The Narrator threw some words out as Stanley gasped for air, absolutely baffled.

“You- what is happening to you? Why are you laughing? This isn’t supposed to be funny, Stanley, there is something seriously wrong and you’re treating this like a joke!”

My leg isn’t- HA, it isn’t broken! I- Haha! This is- oh my god, this is pain, idiot. Real physical pain. I can’t believe you- heh, I can’t- ha!

He could feel the Narrator’s growing displeasure and embarrassment as his cheeks grew red. “I’m pleased to hear this is so amusing to you Stanley, absolutely chuffed. I’m so glad you’re finding some solace in the situation but really, I feel this has gone on long enough. Make it stop hurting now.”

Stanley wiped a tear from his eye and tried to calm himself down. 

I can’t make it stop hurting. That’s how pain works. It hurts because it means something was injured and your body is telling you to not do that again.

“Ah. Then I suppose we should avoid walking altogether. That would eliminate any probability of getting damaged.” The Narrator paused and ruminated on the thought. “Yes, we need to stay here and not receive any more injuries.”

Alright, at this point, he had to be trying to make Stanley laugh. 

How do you expect to get through the story without moving? You can’t make any meaningful choices when we’re only five steps outside of my office.

“I- well, I don’t know exactly, but I refuse to experience any further sensations. This pain is disgusting, I don’t understand how you could put up with this. Are all physical stimuli like this? So visceral?”

Stanley was still trying not to smile, pushing them up into a more comfortable sitting position. He leaned his back up against the wall, resting his head and sighing, letting the last fit of giggles leave him.

Of course not. If I could only feel pain, then why would I ever bother stepping out of the office? There are all sorts of sensations, like uh… 

He wracked his mind for an example. 

Oh! There’s temperature. Like being too hot or cold, and er… Hunger, I guess. But I haven’t felt hungry since…

Stanley trailed off, trying to recall. Obviously he had eaten at some point in his life, as he knew what certain foods tasted like, and what his preferences were. But for as long as he had been in the parable, there had never been a moment when he needed to eat or drink. It was unnatural, and he knew that, but he tried not to think about it.

“Well there must be something other than those, because I cannot create any consumables for you, nor do I want to change the temperature of the office. It would alter the environment, and therefore the story.”

Stanley seriously doubted that changing the temperature would cause any major plot divergences, but he didn’t care enough to argue. He tried to think of more examples but the only sensation he could think of was… well, it was sex. The euphoria that came from it, that, he was certain the Narrator would have never experienced it. After all, most of it is physical. But Stanley couldn’t exactly do this with just himself and-

No. No no no, why is he even entertaining the idea! This is ridiculous. He’s not sharing what it’s like to be aroused, not going to- to pleasure himself for the Narrator, and ohmygod he would be with the Narrator and- NO! No, what was wrong with him? He must be much lonelier than he had realized, that must be it. This whole situation was already strange and to share any sort of sexual pleasure with the Narrator was not on his list of things to do, ever. 

A small part of him disagreed. Afterall, he did like being around the Narrator and-

No. That was only because Stanley was lonely. He was lonely, and he was latching onto the only other sentient being here. Those thoughts, those feelings, those fantasies -

Fuck. Stop thinking, stop thinking! 

“Stanley? You’re awfully quiet and I can’t quite figure out what you’re thinking. It’s all muddled and disorganized.”

No no no, no thoughts. Don’t tell him anything, don’t think about-

“You can’t hide things from me Stanley, we both know that. I am, afterall, inside your head.” 

God, the Narrator almost sounded amused. Did he know? Did he hear what Stanley was thinking? Did he know Stanley was avoiding the word pleasure because- oh fuck, oh no. No, he didn’t think of any words, no words at all. What are words anyways? Just some letters and letters are so strange too, little characters that have all sorts of sounds-

“Pleasure?”

Stanley’s face turned a deep shade of red and he buried his face in his hands, despite knowing that it did nothing to hide himself. This isn’t how he wanted any of this to go.

“I don’t understand. Why are you so upset over a word? Pleasure. Pleh-sure. Pleeaa-”

No. No, I'm not doing this with you. This is too much.

“Why? Please, do enlighten me. Is it another bad sensation? Pain and pleasure, they both start with the same letter so I suppose that could be it.”

No! It’s a good feeling, a really good feeling, but it’s too- too intimate. Just forget about it. Please.

The Narrator scoffed. “Intimate? Stanley, there’s nothing more intimate than what we’re doing right now. I’m literally inside of you.”

Stanley sank further to the floor, wishing he could disappear and never return. 

“How am I supposed to understand the human experience if you refuse to tell me all the details? It makes no sense Stanley, none at all. You’re being extremely obstinate.”

You wouldn’t understand.

“Then help me to understand! To comprehend the incomprehensible, to decipher this mysterious pleasure that you feel so strongly about!”

NO.

The Narrator let out a loud huff and crossed their arms. Stanley immediately uncrossed them, and the Narrator let out an even louder, more irritated sigh. A moment passed between them, and Stanley felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, maybe the Narrator had dropped it.

He was wrong.

“Please, Stanley?” The voice was so soft, so benevolent. Why did he have to sound like that? Why did that stupid voice cause Stanley to lose all inhibitions, any doubts that he ever had? 

He hated this. He hated that stupid voice and its stupid sweetness and its stupid honeyed tone and that stupid feeling inside his chest that told him to listen to it. What’s the worst that could happen, it said. What could go wrong?

Everything. Everything could go wrong.

And just as Stanley was about to give in, the Narrator finally relented. 

“Fine. I suppose this has been a lot for you. I’ll… leave you be then, and we can try this again another time. Alright?”

No. Not alright. He didn’t want the Narrator to leave just yet. But his reply said just the opposite.

Yeah. Yeah, we can stop for now.

The Narrator withdrew, and Stanley came to a terrible conclusion. 

What if… 

What if his feelings for the Narrator were much deeper than he realized?

Chapter Text

Stanley never had any doubts concerning his sexuality or love life. For him, it didn’t matter who he was with, so long as he was genuinely happy. Of course, he couldn’t remember if he even did have a love life, let alone a partner for that matter. But his lack of memory wasn’t important right now; no, he had much more pressing issues to attend to.

Why, why on earth was he fantasizing about a relationship with the Narrator? Why did he want to feel the warmth of another’s hand on his cheek, and why did he want it to belong to that voice, that wonderfully deep and agonizingly beautiful voice? Why did he long to hear that voice in his ear and have it whisper that he loved him, he loved him, and everything would be okay? Stanley couldn’t dare to imagine more than that as just being with the Narrator was an impossible dream.

And would the Narrator ever feel the same? Certainly not. The Narrator wasn’t even human. Up until moments ago, he hadn’t even felt pain; how could he possibly begin to feel or understand love? Stanley knew better than to ever get his hopes up, to ever have something beyond a friendship (if what they had could even be called that).

And besides, this man, this voice or whatever he was, had tormented him for how long? Years? Decades? Centuries? And even if the Narrator was not the one that kept Stanley trapped here, he had still gone out of his way to harass Stanley during every waking moment. He forced Stanley to play along with his stupid little story and when Stanley didn’t, he made life infinitely worse. Insulting him, berating him, and literally blowing him up when things didn’t go the way he wanted them to.

So why then, why did his heart flutter when the Narrator directed his attention towards Stanley and away from the script? Why did he get butterflies in his stomach upon hearing the Narrator laugh? Why did he care so much about making the Narrator happy?

By all accounts, it made no sense. But then again, nothing here ever made sense. Perhaps this was a form of Stockholm syndrome for Stanley. Maybe he had been trapped here for so long that he had no choice but to develop feelings for the Narrator. But the Narrator was not his captor, so that couldn’t be it. A trauma response maybe? Yet he knew that that wasn’t true either. What was wrong with him?

All of these thoughts were… distressing to say the least.

It had been almost twenty minutes now that he sat here in silence, multitasking between keeping the Narrator from reading his thoughts and untangling the emotional knot inside of him. Thankfully, the Narrator had not said a thing to him during this time. Stanley knew the Narrator struggled to understand the concept of privacy (as they argued many times before about why reading someone’s mind was wrong) and was extremely thankful that the Narrator had actually backed off and left Stanley’s thoughts alone.

Maybe… maybe he could just ignore it. Ignore these feelings. They wouldn’t do anything but make things worse for the both of them, so if he tried hard enough, maybe he could just bury them and never think about this again. Once again, Stanley knew it wasn’t a healthy choice to make, but what other options did he have?

He let out a deep breath and steeled himself to stand up. He could do this. Everything could be normal again.

Just don’t think.

- - -

It had been several runs now since the Narrator and Stanley separated. Stanley still refused to let the Narrator read his thoughts, afraid he might accidentally let his feelings slip. He kept the catchiest, most irritating commercial jingle he could think of going on a loop in his head. Not only did it stop the Narrator from hearing Stanley’s mind, but it also gave him the not-so-subtle hint to give him some space.

This was not the first time Stanley had done this, and thankfully they had another way to communicate besides mind reading, which was sign language. It bothered the Narrator of course, because he felt that it was infinitely easier to just listen in to Stanley’s inner monologue, but he couldn’t really stop Stanley from blocking him out.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to decide on where to go or what to do. Stanley stood before the very first choice he could make in this “game”, the room with two doors. It’s not like he had much of a decision to make. Whether he went left or right, all of his choices were already laid out for him. It was just a matter of what places he wanted to see or what dialogue he wanted to hear the Narrator say again.

But the Narrator interrupted his train of thought, clearing his throat and drawing Stanley’s attention away from the doors in front of him.

“Not to distract you from the extremely important and monumental task of choosing whether or not you’ll actually go through the left door, but I’ve been doing some light reading on this pleasure you mentioned before.”

Stanley almost choked on his own air, blindsided by the sudden change of topic. They had been doing so well avoiding this. What the hell had the Narrator read about, or worse; what had he seen?

“Now now now, I know you said to drop it but I just- well, I just couldn’t help myself!”

His cheeks burned as his mind raced through any and all possibilities of where the Narrator was going with this. The internet was a vast and overly informative place; god knows what he could have possibly gotten into.

“And I really don’t understand why you’re so bothered about it! Perhaps you’re just thinking of the wrong word, because the definition of pleasure that I found is as follows.” He paused for dramatic effect. Stanley wanted to strangle him right then and there.

“A feeling of happy satisfaction and enjoyment. Or at least, that’s the first statement that came up when I searched.”

Stanley let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Alright, so the Narrator had just searched for the definition. That wasn’t too bad, no harm to be done there.

“But no research is properly done without several checks and thorough exploration!”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Of course he hadn’t stopped there. That would be too easy for Stanley, and the Narrator would never make things simple for him.

“Did you know, another source informed me that pleasure is the antithesis of pain or suffering? I do believe we’ve experienced that-"

Yes, their suffering, Stanley mused. Because the Narrator had truly suffered during the few minutes Stanley had bruised his knee. He rolled his eyes.

“-so I don’t understand why you’re so against this! I cannot imagine something worse than pain, so if pleasure is such a wonderful thing…” He took a deep breath before diving right into it.

“Well, I’ve decided to make the executive decision to experience pleasure. With you, of course.”

Did the Narrator ever think before he spoke? Did he ever stop to consider how any of this sounded to Stanley? No, no of course he didn’t. How could he understand how terribly attractive this all was?

The room felt as if it had gone up several degrees and his face burned, trying to think of a way out of this (even as another part desperately wanted to agree). The lack of sign language or any sort of response must have led the Narrator to assume that Stanley was against the idea. He stammered out more words, much more anxious now.

“But- but only if you’re okay with that! I still don’t quite understand what happened earlier, but erm, I really think this would be good for me. Or, uh, us. For you! I mean.”

Stanley couldn’t exactly hide his feelings forever, he knew that. But maybe he could play it off as something else. The Narrator rarely understood what Stanley’s emotions meant, so maybe, just maybe, he could let the Narrator in again. It would make the Narrator happy and isn’t that what Stanley wanted too?

The voice was quieter now, tense, like he expected Stanley’s rejection to happen at any moment now. “If happiness is anything close to what it’s like to see the lights in the zen room, then I… I would really like to experience it.”

Fuck. Fuck. Why did he have to sound like that? If the Narrator ever figured out just how badly his voice affected Stanley, just how wonderful and needy it made him feel… It would completely change the dynamics of their relationship. He could easily wrap Stanley around his metaphorical finger and Stanley would be more than happy to oblige in anything and everything the Narrator could ever think of. It would be horrible. (Or lovely. No! Horrible. Bad. It would be bad. As in the opposite of fantastic and amazing. Definitely).

Stanley lifted his hands up, keeping them as steady as he could, and signed. Fine. Go ahead.

A delighted sound came from overhead and Stanley closed his eyes, bracing himself for that terrible pain he felt the first time the Narrator had entered his consciousness. But none came.

There was a slight tingling, a weight that pressed down over his thoughts like a blanket, but he didn’t think much of it. He signed again.

Narrator?

“I’m here, Stanley.” The excitement in his tone was hard to mask, but the voice didn’t come from overhead anymore. Once again, the Narrator was a part of him.

He lowered his hands, having no need to physically communicate anymore. He still kept as much of his thoughts as hidden as he could, besides what he wanted to show the Narrator. And if he was lucky, the Narrator would not look beyond that.

That was quick. Why didn’t it hurt?

The Narrator chuckled and Stanley’s cheeks flushed. “Yes, well, it’s not exactly difficult to manipulate certain sensations in your brain. It’s almost like a machine you see. It’s complex and there’s so many options but once I- oh, well, you don’t want to hear this.”

He cleared his throat. “You see, since pain is, well, painful, I didn’t think you wanted to feel that way again. I certainly don’t. So I blocked out anything uncomfortable for you and- well, it is okay, isn’t it? I didn’t overstep?”

Part of him was unnerved at the ease at which the Narrator could control how and what he was feeling. It should be a red flag to Stanley, a sign that the Narrator could do significantly more than just influence his emotions. But the word “manipulate” sounded terribly attractive to him (fuck, what was wrong with him?).

No, i-it’s fine. Thank you.

A pleasant little hum followed, and the Narrator smiled. For some reason, Stanley didn’t bother changing the expression on his (their) face.

“Now, if you would direct us back to the main office and to a computer- any computer really, it doesn’t matter- I have something to show you.”

Another wave of heat hit Stanley and he stifled any and all thoughts that came his way. He focused on the carpet, the wallpaper, the movement of one foot in front of the other. Thankfully, the Narrator was more occupied with understanding how Stanley was able to walk without tripping or overthinking every motion. He mumbled inside Stanley’s head, taking notes on every action Stanley took.

Normally, it would have been uncomfortable to be analyzed so closely, but somehow this felt different. He liked the attention the Narrator was giving him, the focused concentration on Stanley and nothing else.

It didn’t take very long for Stanley to find the nearest computer, sitting down in the office chair anxiously. His palms were warm and sweaty, and he hastily wiped them off on his slacks before settling in more comfortably.

“Alright! I’m going to move your hands for just a moment now.”

Even with the warning, it was still an alien sensation to watch as his arms lift of their own accord. His fingers flexed, opening and closing in his palm a few times before the Narrator felt comfortable enough to move them towards the keyboard. They fumbled over the letters, backspacing several times before the Narrator was able to enter what he wanted to on the computer.

The screen blinked once, twice, and then flashed Welcome Administrator before giving him access to an internet browser. Stanley frowned. No matter how many times he had tried to log into the computers, it only ever gave him access to solitaire or various office documents (and reading about quarterly numbers and profit revenue got very boring, very quickly).

How did you do that?

“Do what? Type? Well, first I moved your-”

No, the computer. How did you get it to connect to the internet?

“I entered the override code, obviously.”

Stanley waited for the Narrator to tell him more, but he didn’t. He huffed impatiently.

So? What’s the code?

The Narrator laughed, clearly amused. “I can’t exactly tell you that, now can I? If you had unlimited access to these computers, then you wouldn’t entertain yourself with my story, and by extension, me.”

But you just typed it in!

“And if you really wanted to know it, then you should’ve been more observant. It’s not my fault you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

Stanley scowled, letting his annoyance come through as clear as possible to the Narrator. All he got in response was another little laugh, as if Stanley’s frustration was entertaining to him. Which of course, only served to make Stanley blush even further.

The Narrator let one of Stanley’s hands slide over to the mouse, whilst the other rested its elbow on the desk, palm side up. As the Narrator clicked around, Stanley took the opportunity to rest his chin on that palm, which started the Narrator. For a moment, Stanley was afraid he had done something wrong (but it was his hand, after all. It’s not like he was resting on the Narrator or anything like that! And he definitely wasn’t imagining it was that way either! No, this was perfectly normal, perfectly fine and natural and not at all because the Narrator was using that arm at the moment…).

Goddamnit. Had he always been this pathetic?

The Narrator paused, if only for a fraction of a second, before resuming his search. Good. Stanley was worried the Narrator would catch on to his inner battle with himself, but thankfully he was more preoccupied with the computer.

He pulled up a document with several links embedded in it, with small notes written beside each of them. Some simply had ratings, such as a 6/10 or a 9/20.75 (which was a strange parameter of numbers, but that was beside the point). Others had lengthy paragraphs discussing the nature of happiness and what satisfaction truly was, and whether or not all components of the aforementioned video fulfilled the definition of pleasure. It was honestly shocking to see so much data gathered over something so simple, and Stanley wondered how the Narrator had ever found the time to compile this.

He clicked on a link that had “Paradigm of pleasure” written beside it, and Stanley’s heart jumped as the loading sign swirled into view.

“Here we are! Now, I must let you know, this is merely one of several hundred videos that I have searched through. It’s possible that I looked over a thousand videos, I honestly don’t know. The specific number isn’t as important as the understanding that of all the videos that I looked at, this one is the most pleasurable.”

A dramatic pause and Stanley watched as the spinning arrows finally stopped and the video began to play.

It was… It was…

A gleeful laugh followed, both from the internal voice and Stanley’s physical throat. “Yes! Yes, Stanley it’s a cat! You see, I found that almost every comment on this video described how immensely entertaining it was to watch as this cat put his paws on the piano! I hope you can see that he’s not really playing, Stanley. After all, cats cannot play the piano. That would be absurd!”

Stanley was still recovering from his overly eager (and sexual) thoughts. Of course, it wouldn’t be anything lewd. The internet was broad, but it was also lighthearted on the surface, and chances are that the Narrator probably had some sort of family settings on the computers anyways. A wave of relief surged through him, and he finally allowed himself to relax, chuckling at the recording in front of him. He hadn’t realized how tense he was.

The Narrator did strike him as a cat person, he supposed. A recluse who indulged in tea (he did sound British, so Stanley felt it was only natural that he liked tea) and books, and of course, a little cat. He seemed like the type of fellow who wore glasses too, not because he needed them, but because he wanted to impress upon everyone else that he was more intelligent. Such a pompous bastard. Stanley could see him akin to a college professor, with a well-dressed but relaxed sort of air about him. Maybe he had sweaters, maybe a suit. The details didn’t really matter to him.

“Is that what you think of me? A- a pompous bastard?” The Narrator didn’t sound offended thankfully, but he did sound annoyed. “I thought we had gotten past the name-calling stage in our relationship.”

Stanley’s eyes widened and he shook his head. He hadn’t meant to tell the Narrator any of that, nor did he expect the Narrator to focus on his inner monologue at that moment. Wasn’t he supposed to be watching that cat video?

“I could say the same to you! Clearly this cat is not entertaining enough for you. I thought I had chosen the most pleasurable thing imaginable, but what you and I are feeling right now is nothing like what the internet described. I am neither satisfied nor delighted.” A loud harrumph followed.

Well, I mean, it is pretty cute but-

“No no no no no, we’re not looking for cute, Stanley! We’re looking for something pleasurable!” The Narrator let out a huge sigh through Stanley’s chest and paged back to his list of information.

“I suppose they can’t all be winners. Try to pay attention to this next one Stanley, really let that feeling take hold in you.”

They went through several pages of the Narrator’s list, through recordings of cats and dogs and every other animal in between. Though the Narrator insisted these examples were supposed to be the best, Stanley wasn’t really entertained. Some were funny of course but did not do much more than elicit a smile or a chuckle. The Narrator then moved on to the “satisfying” portion of pleasure, watching various cleaning videos with Stanley, or of domino tracks and paint mixing. Again, most of it did feel rather enjoyable to watch to the end, but it didn’t give the feeling the Narrator was looking for.

“I don’t understand! This is supposed to be the opposite of pain, it’s supposed to be stronger than this!” The Narrator lamented, putting Stanley’s head in his (their) hands. He ran his hands through their hair, tugging at the roots as he muttered about how difficult this was and how stupid the internet is.

A choked sound came from Stanley’s throat at the feeling of his hair being pulled, and he scrambled to get every dirty thought under control and to stop that warm feeling in his gut from spreading. But he was too late this time, and the Narrator gasped as the same emotions hit him.

The silence was horribly loud.

One heartbeat.

Two.

And then-

“T-that. What was- What was that Stanley? It- I-” He fumbled over his words and Stanley could feel him trying to grasp onto the feeling, to hold onto it longer, even as the sensation faded.

Stanley bit his lip and tried to come up with an excuse. Maybe he could convince the Narrator that he was imagining things, that nothing had happened, and they could just go back to perusing the internet and everything was fine and-

“I want that.”

The voice was low, desperate even, and Stanley couldn’t stop his pulse from spiking. The Narrator moved one hand overtop of their chest, feeling as their heart pounded and hammered behind their ribcage. He studied the sensation and Stanley could almost hear the gears in the Narrator’s mind turning, trying to figure out why they were experiencing this and how to replicate it.

Narrator, I-

“Stanley, I don’t want to hear your excuses.” The voice was sharp, but Stanley could feel the underlying desperate and needy tone. The words came swiftly, as though he wouldn’t be able to say what he needed to before the feeling left again. “I know you know why this is happening. And I- I want it to continue. Please. Please, Stanley.”

Stanley swallowed thickly, hands shaking as he tried to think of something, anything, to prevent this. But… Why did he want to stop this? Isn’t this exactly what he wanted? Maybe… Maybe he could look at this in a different light. He wasn’t doing this for his own sexual wants and desires, no no no.

He was just going to give the Narrator what he wanted. The human experience. Right? He wouldn’t get attached; he wouldn’t be upset by any of it. No, this was purely a friendly and educational experience. Definitely nothing more.

And Stanley finally relented, letting the quietest “Okay” slip through his thoughts to the Narrator. This couldn’t possibly go wrong.

Chapter Text

What does it really mean to be human? Is it simply the way we are built physically? Most humans have two legs, opposable thumbs, and large brains. But if we follow this logic, then any bipedal with thumbs and a brain could pass as human; was it not Diogenes who mocked this train of logic upon hearing that humans were merely “featherless bipeds” by flourishing a plucked chicken and stating, “Behold! I’ve brought you a man”?

It seems a physical characterization can not be counted on then. Perhaps intellectually, or emotionally? 

Intellectually, humans are excellent at problem solving, reasoning, and communication. And yet again, can a wolf not communicate to their pack through their howls? And what of a peacock and his feathers, a bee and their dance, a raven and her gifts? They, and many others, can communicate. 

But they are not human either.

Emotionally, humans experience a wide range of feelings, from joy and love to fear and sadness. These emotions are central to the human experience, they shape memories and decisions, interactions and reactions. Humans, however, are not the only species capable of emotion. Once again, we are at an impasse.

So how, how could Stanley possibly begin to show the Narrator what it is like to be human? When we ourselves cannot classify it, how can one man alone give this experience to something, someone, so beyond his comprehension? 

Perhaps it starts with something as simple as a touch. 

A hand, raising itself up to his throat, letting his nails dance just along the skin, delicate and careful. It drifts down to his belt, loosening it slowly, not because he had the time to, but because he wanted to savor the rising anticipation he could feel building in the Narrator. 

Getting off for himself was something he could have done a long time ago. But to do it for the Narrator, with the Narrator, and as the Narrator was entirely different. Stanley had never stopped to consider that as much as the Narrator was now experiencing what he felt, he too could feel as the Narrator. 

It was Stanley’s body yes, but was it not also the Narrator’s at this very moment? He could feel his hands as his own and yet the heart in his chest was not. It was thundering, screaming against his ribs in time with the Narrator’s uneven breaths in his mind but soon he found his lungs also betraying him and syncing up with the Narrator’s gasps of air. He hadn’t even done anything yet, just letting his fingers trace along his skin, but between Stanley’s rising excitement and the Narrator’s building desire, their body was already spiraling out of control.

The Narrator started several half-formed sentences, but couldn’t finish any of them, too distracted by every little sensation on their skin. His questions would start with a how and a what and sometimes a why but usually just merged into a new statement, leaving Stanley to fill in the blanks. All he could focus on was chasing that feeling, that pleasure, that snaked through his entire body. 

And Stanley tried his best to respond but his thoughts were also too jumbled for any proper sentences to make their way through. Just feelings and images and sensations that didn’t make sense until all of the pieces were put together. He pushed forward some ideas, memories of hands on his body, on his hips, on his lips. He tried to show, to the best of his ability, how this would feel if done with another person and how the simple act of touch could elicit such strong feelings.

“Oh! Oh, I- yes, I think-” The Narrator dropped the sentence there, without finishing it as he moved Stanley’s hands himself. It took Stanley by surprise (after all, wasn’t he supposed to be directing the Narrator and not the other way around?) and as much as he wanted to regain control, he didn’t. He wanted to see where the Narrator was going with this. The tips of his ears and cheeks flushed even darker at the thought, reaching new shades of red and warmth he hadn’t believed to be possible.

The hands were awkward, blindly groping about on Stanley’s sides and hips, trying to replicate the same motions as the ones Stanley had shown him in his mind. He could feel the Narrator’s frustration growing as he failed to draw out the same sensations, and then something extremely peculiar happened, one that almost shook Stanley completely out of the moment. 

He could hear the Narrator’s thoughts. 

He was certain the Narrator wasn’t speaking at the moment. The voice was always loud and so close in his head, and the only audible sound the Narrator was currently making was a distressed sort of whine. But there were words, Stanley was sure of it. Whispers, far away and something he could barely hear. They were so quiet, so distant, and he knew he wasn’t supposed to be hearing anything at all but if he focused, those words became louder.

“No, not here, there’s no feeling here, no warmth. But I squeezed and- I don’t understand, I’m doing exactly as he- no, maybe if I- oh, I must research how to do this properly. That feeling, that heat in his- my- no, our stomach, why is it- how do I make it do that again? Oh no, he’s gone quiet. What if he’s disappointed with me? I can’t get it to work, why won’t it-”

Stanley threw himself out of it, bringing his attention back to his body and to the hands that had stopped on his thighs. He gently moved them inward, but the Narrator was quiet and distracted. Stanley could tell he was probably still going on that downward spiral of negative thoughts and though he wanted to listen, he refrained. He needed to pull the Narrator out of it, he needed a reminder that Stanley was still here, and he did appreciate him, that he wasn’t disappointed in the Narrator at all.

So of course, Stanley did the only thing he could think of at the moment, which was to palm himself, hard. The moan that escaped his lips could have come from either of them, or perhaps both. Absolute euphoria shot out from between his legs, lighting all of his nerves on fire and he couldn’t help but let a stupid smile spread across his lips, shivering as he reveled in the feeling. 

The Narrator sputtered, caught completely off guard. “S-Stanley! What are you-”

Another push downward and the Narrator groaned, and Stanley could feel his whole body shudder with the Narrator’s delight. He actually whimpered and that was all Stanley needed to finally take off his pants. His thumbs slid under the waistband of his boxers, ready to throw them off when the Narrator regained his ability to speak.

“Wait wait wait-!”

Stanley paused, pushing aside the urge to ignore him and just give in to his own desires. If the Narrator wanted a step-by-step explanation, it would be rather turnoff-ish, but Stanley supposed he could do that for him.

“No! No, Stanley, you-” He fumbled over the words, sounding extremely flustered. Stanley’s own heart betrayed him, fluttering in time with the Narrator’s agitated breathing. “You didn’t tell me that this was going to be sexual!”

Stanley’s mind processed the statement like an old internet browser, spinning over and over until it finally connected. He was absolutely dumbfounded, unsure how this miscommunication had even occurred. What else could the Narrator have possibly expected to happen?

“I- I don’t know! This is- I mean- you-” More words, spilling out into garbled nonsense. 

Stanley quickly defended himself, fighting back the rising embarrassment. 

You told me to chase that ‘feeling’!

“Yes yes, I know that.” The Narrator whined. “But I didn’t know that feeling was… was erotic in nature!”

Stanley wanted to laugh at how carefully the Narrator said the word ‘erotic’, like it didn’t belong in his vocabulary. But now was not the time to mock him.

Do you… want me to stop?

“No!” The response was sharp, ringing out in his mind. It sounded almost desperate. The hesitation that followed lasted too long, and the Narrator quickly backtracked, scrambling to regain his composure.

“No, I mean, I don’t dislike it, I just- Stanley, you must realize the kind of situation we’re in, don’t you? Wouldn’t this be as if…” He trailed off and Stanley felt more heat rise into his cheeks. They both knew what the Narrator was implying.

Maybe the Narrator was simply looking out for Stanley. Perhaps he didn’t want to put him in an uncomfortable situation and was giving him a way out. But Stanley didn’t need a way out; he was right where he wanted to be.

Or was it that the Narrator himself felt self-conscious about all of this? If that was the case, then Stanley was alright with this being a ‘no strings attached’ sort of situation. He had already expected going into this that this was to be purely educational and informative for the Narrator, and to not get overly sentimental (even though his heart felt completely different on the matter). 

Yes, that must be it. The Narrator must be looking for reassurance that this was just another exercise in his study of the human psyche. Stanley wished he could hear the Narrator’s thoughts again like before, to confirm this theory, but it was eerily quiet and he wondered if he had even heard the Narrator’s thoughts to begin with, or if he had simply imagined the whole thing.

I don’t think so. I mean, it’s my body. And you just… happen to be here too. Right?

Stanley felt the Narrator shift anxiously inside of him, contemplating the thought.

“Right. Right, yes, this is… completely normal.” He sounded like he didn’t really believe that but continued anyway. “Though I think that perhaps we- you, I mean, should try something a little less… intense.”

Stanley let a soft smile spread out onto his lips and he leaned back in the chair, moving his hands over to the armrests. 

Like what?

“Well, I don’t know, you’re supposed to be the expert here.” Once again, Stanley could feel the Narrator’s discomfort with the power imbalance between them. Yet Stanley found himself liking it, liking the control that he finally had over the Narrator. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I enjoyed what you were doing, I really did, but Stanley I…” He cleared his throat and Stanley felt the Narrator’s anxiety creeping up inside of him again.

“It was rather overwhelming. You’ve done nothing wrong, really, but you must understand, I’ve never felt something so… so intoxicating before. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe- not that I need to but that’s beside the point.”

Oh, so Stanley was intoxicating now? How interesting.

“You!” He puffed, annoyed at Stanley’s only takeaway from this. “You are misconstruing my words and you know it.”

Stanley flashed a smug smile and hummed. Though he did enjoy teasing the Narrator, he also knew there was a time and a place for games, and this moment was not one of them. The Narrator was being surprisingly open, honest with him, and Stanley knew he would be rude to dismiss it.

Since I’m so intoxicating-

Another loud scoff and the Narrator started to cut him off, but Stanley pushed forward, his thoughts dropping that teasing tone.

-then I don’t mind taking this slowly. We could… work up to something like arousal. Gradually. When you’re ready.

The Narrator fidgeted inside of him, and Stanley could only describe the sensation as something similar to having butterflies in your stomach. Fluttery, twisting his guts into little knots, looping around and tangling every thought so that all he could focus on was this feeling.

Finally, the Narrator sighed and the tension in his body began to melt away.

“...Thank you.” 

It was only two words, but Stanley knew it meant so much more than that. It was trust. It was vulnerability. It was admitting that they both wanted this, wanted this intimacy with one another, wanted to share and experience every possible thing imaginable with each other. But neither wanted to rush this. For the Narrator, it was all so new, all so sensual that it was almost addictive. He needed to go slowly, else he lose all rationality. And for Stanley, this connection, this step forward in their trust for one another, was something he desperately needed and longed for. He wanted, no, needed to savor every single second.

And yet, as intelligent as they both were, neither were the most observant. Neither really knew how the other felt, how desperately they wanted to latch onto each other and never let go. Both felt that this was not a relationship, just a friendly and mutual understanding between two... colleagues? Associates? Something like that.

You see, this was completely normal. They needed to believe this was normal, because if it wasn’t, then where would they go? What would the other do? They couldn’t let this stop, not when they both needed it so badly. And so, in order to not jeopardize their current situation, both found that they could not say or do anything in fear of ruining it all.

So, it wasn’t a relationship, of course not! Anyone would do the same in their situation. Anyone would feel the urge to spend the rest of their lives with someone they despised (loved), with someone they couldn’t stand to be around (couldn’t stand to be without), with someone who made each and every day a struggle (a reason to go on).

And Stanley knew that his real feelings could easily be put to the side for this strange new connection they had. He had to. To know that the Narrator was willing and interested in him (no, interested in feeling as Stanley, not being with Stanley. He had to keep reminding himself of that) even if it wasn’t in the way he wanted… He could bear it. He could do this. 

He could keep pretending.

Chapter Text

Something had changed between them after that conversation, that event, if you will. Though they still argued and bickered over every little thing, it was much less tense or serious. Compromises became much more common, or at least, they agreed to disagree without harassing the other over their opinion or decision. They could actually hold conversations without shutting the other out, and actually began to open up to one another, albeit slowly.

Stanley found that it became more and more often that the Narrator would ask to spend time with him, the frequency of their little excursions increasing with every reset. It began as every once in a while, like a special treat, and then it was every few resets, then every other. And Stanley soon realized that they were spending more time with each other than on the story itself. 

They even started to complete certain endings together, though the Narrator was very nervous to experience them. He wouldn’t let Stanley choose a violent one, and Stanley found himself strangely okay with that. It wasn’t as if he ever enjoyed killing himself before and only ever partook in it when he felt particularly depressed or suicidal. It helped to remind him that he was alive. But since the Narrator had become a part of him, he hadn’t once thought about his place in this world, or of the desperation he had felt before.

Stanley even found that he was doing the Narrator’s ‘freedom’ ending more than he ever had before, and actually started to enjoy it. The ending itself was the same as it had always been, but it was that excitement, that wonderful pride and passion that rushed through the Narrator, and subsequently him, that he loved. When the Narrator was happy, he was happy. And when Stanley was happy, the Narrator was happy. It was a cycle that Stanley was very content to indulge in.

They had gone through so many resets now, so many endings, that Stanley started to lose track of how long it had been since he had actually been alone. Not that he wanted to be; in fact, he found that when the Narrator did leave him, he felt terribly lonely and sad. It was empty, quiet, like he was only a shell of what he could be. Stanley wasn’t a stranger to isolation (as he had lived his entire life up until this moment as one person)  and it had never been a problem before, but now… now he hated the thought of the Narrator not being a part of him.

Thankfully, the Narrator seemed to share those feelings. He could feel the relief and comfort that hit him, hit both of them, when the Narrator would return after a brief separation. Neither commented on it of course. That would make their feelings real, a confession to the other party that they needed each other. Stanley was terrified of doing so. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, convinced the Narrator would not reciprocate those feelings. No, it was best to say nothing, and treasure the little compliments and emotions the Narrator would send his way as merely a friend.

It wasn’t until much later, hundreds of resets later (or perhaps only a dozen. Time was strange here and it hurt Stanley’s head to think too hard about it) that Stanley realized the Narrator had begun to stay with him through the resets. He actually couldn’t recall the last time they had been separated anymore. It became harder to differentiate his feelings from the Narrator’s sometimes, to figure out who was walking or smiling or breathing. It was so natural to be together now, that Stanley could barely recall a time otherwise.

This increase in time together also brought other surprising revelations. Stanley noticed that he could hear the Narrator’s thoughts afterall and it hadn’t been some sort of hallucination before. It rarely ever happened, and Stanley deduced that it was only when the Narrator was distracted or preoccupied with something else. However, he hadn’t told the Narrator he could hear them yet, and he didn’t feel a need to. After all, Stanley’s thoughts were always available to the other party; it was only fair that he got to hear the Narrator’s every now and then. 

At the present moment, Stanley was letting the Narrator use his hands to feel a variety of different objects he had spawned in, all of different textures and consistencies. True to Stanley’s word, they had been taking things slow. Perhaps too slow, as they hadn’t done anything remotely romantic or sexual since, but Stanley could be patient for his Narrator. It was difficult to keep his fantasies, his thoughts hidden, but Stanley knew they would inevitably be intimate again. It made him more excited than he’d like to admit.

Their current objective was for the Narrator to adjust to feeling things physically, starting with their hands. Stanley could not understand why touch was such a foreign concept to the Narrator (as he had interacted with Stanley’s environment before by closing doors, moving chairs, even slapping stickers on his bucket) but he didn’t mind it.

“Stanley, do you think this will stick to me? It looks… sticky.” The Narrator narrowed their eyes, silently calculating the probability of the surface being adhesive.

Stanley brought his attention to the container of liquid in front of them. He hadn’t really been focused on what the Narrator was doing, more so what he was feeling. It was so strange to feel his own breath hitch, to feel his nails dig into his palm with a nervous squeeze, to know his body was reacting to someone else’s will. For as long as they had been doing this, it was still unnerving to him, fascinating almost.

What is it?

“It’s water. Fresh water, to be exact.”

Stanley paused. I thought you said that you couldn’t make any food or drinks?

“Hmm. I did say that before, didn’t I?” 

Stanley felt a devious little smile creep onto his lips, quickly changing to a scowl to reflect his own emotions, not the Narrator’s. 

“I suppose you’ve found me out. Yes, Stanley, I can make food and drinks. But there really isn’t any reason to. You don’t need it. You cannot ever grow hungry or thirsty, so I really see no point in fabricating any consumables.”

A flicker of irritation crossed their face, and Stanley crossed his arms.

It doesn’t matter if I need it or not. Food isn’t just something to eat, it’s something to enjoy. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had… I dunno, like, a cheeseburger? Pizza? Ice cream, even? 

“I believe it’s been about 972 resets, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how much time that is. You know how cyclical time can be, and-”

You’re avoiding the subject. And then, he added bluntly. I want food.  

The Narrator let an exasperated sigh course through them, followed by a particularly dramatic eye roll, wringing their hands as he spoke. That was another thing that made Stanley smile, reminding him of just how much he loved (no, don’t think about it Stanley, don’t let him know!), er, appreciated the other man. The Narrator was surprisingly expressive with his hands, waving them about with every little inflection in his voice. 

“But you don’t need it. I’ve ensured you won’t ever need it. Do you have any idea how much work that would be, keeping up with all of your bodily needs? And then if you grew bored of certain foods, I’m certain you would complain and demand something more, something different! Constantly planning for all of your reactions, likes and dislikes- doesn’t that sound like a massive headache to you? It does to me. So I’ve eliminated the problem at the source, nipped it in the bud, if you will. Don’t you see how much easier this is?”

Most of the Narrator’s words went through one ear and out the other. Stanley only really heard that it wasn’t the parable that was responsible for his lack of hunger or thirst (and maybe even sleep!), but the Narrator himself. He wanted to be upset with the Narrator, for toying around with his basic needs like they could be switched on and off. He did see the Narrator’s point though, and it did make sense…

But that didn’t matter! No, Stanley didn’t care if the reasoning was sound, he wanted food. He wanted to feel hungry , he wanted a fucking sandwich and now that he knew the Narrator could give him that, he was determined to pester him until he got what he desired. 

“You are insufferable, did you know that? Intolerable, impossible, irrational- I can’t think of any more adjectives to describe your behavior that start with the letter “I”, but I believe my point is quite clear.”

French fries.

“No.”

Tacos.

A hiss. “Repeatedly asking will get you nowhere.”

Chicken nuggets.

“You could at least ask for something healthy. If you’re going to shovel something into our body, I’d rather it be a salad than some processed garbage.”

Cake.

“A brat, that’s what you are. B r a t. Yes, I’ve decided. You’re an absolute menace. A scourge upon my-”

Their conversation continued as such, round and round for hours, days, or perhaps it was only minutes. Stanley, the unstoppable force who refused to give up, and the Narrator, the immovable object who refused to listen. 

But all things will come to an end, and eventually the argument did arrive at a conclusion, with the Narrator giving in. If you asked the Narrator, he would have said they had made a compromise; if you asked Stanley, he would have said that he won. 

Despite this small victory, Stanley couldn’t help but wonder what other limits he could push, what other things he could get the Narrator to do for him. He was very careful to keep these thoughts quiet, so as not to draw the Narrator’s attention. It didn’t matter though; the Narrator was much too focused on asking what the food he had summoned would taste like.

“-such a weird concept, don’t you think? And another thing, why is it shaped like that, and why-” 

Stanley interrupted his line of questioning, picking up the newly created dessert. It’s a cookie. I doubt it’ll taste bad.

“Yes but it looks so… crumbly.” He wrinkled their nose. “Flat. I don’t think I’ll like this.”

You’ll like it. Nobody hates cookies.

“Well, perhaps I will be the first.” A moment's pause. “Yes, I will not enjoy this. I’m sure of it.”

You haven’t even tried it yet! 

“I don’t need to try it. I know these things Stanley, and I am certain, without a doubt, that-”

Stanley shoved the cookie in his mouth before he could protest or stop him, which caused the Narrator to nearly spit it out. There was a lot of annoyance, some insults, but the Narrator gradually stopped objecting as the dessert melted in their mouth. 

A warm feeling spread through him, a sign that Stanley knew the Narrator liked it. Little thoughts pushed their way through to the forefront of Stanley’s mind, whispering in his ear. Part of him knew he shouldn’t listen in, but he also really liked this unfiltered side of the Narrator, where he could hear his genuine and honest feelings.

“It’s… enjoyable? I don’t like the way his- my- our throat swallowed but I can certainly put that aside for this… this taste. Is that what this is? Taste? I didn’t think this was at all necessary for the narrative but I… Oh, I can’t tell him. He’ll never let this go. What was this called again, a- a cookie? Maybe I can… give him, us, more later. He did seem quite happy and I do adore-”

The voice got louder and directed its attention towards Stanley, oblivious that he had been listening to his inner monologue. 

“Are you satisfied now? You got what you wanted; you forced me to eat-”

I didn’t force you to-

“-forced me, yes, after harassing me for hours-”

I wasn’t harass-

“-and now we’ve come to the great and completely unexpected conclusion that food is not only unnecessary, but also unpleasant.”

Stanley dragged a hand down their face, pulling at his skin as he suppressed a laugh. This sort of arguing would have upset him before. Knowing that the Narrator was wrong and him refusing to admit that Stanley was correct. But Stanley could hardly be bothered by it now. He enjoyed teasing the Narrator, and looked forward to these almost domestic moments in their life. It made him feel closer to the other man (though they really could not get any closer than they already were). 

Perhaps he would let the Narrator believe he won this argument. Just so that Stanley could relish in that pride and satisfaction the other man would feel inside of him.

- - -

It didn’t take very long for the Narrator to admit that he did like food. In fact, he already had a list of favorites, encouraging Stanley to have coffee during their downtime or a bag of chips (which the Narrator insisted on calling ‘crisps’, which prompted a discussion on the Narrator’s accent. Why, if Stanley was American (or at least, he thought he was American), was the Narrator British? And if the Narrator wasn’t human, how did he learn english, let alone with an accent? This discussion ultimately led to a giant headache for the both of them with more questions than answers). 

He was especially partial to sweet things, despite his earlier opinion that desserts were ‘sugary garbage’. Stanley found it endearing to listen to him talk about how “wonderful chocolate is” and how “anyone who has a half a mind would love cake”. It was very difficult not to laugh or smile about it, because the Narrator took his own opinions quite seriously. Stanley would usually agree with him, if only to keep the peace. 

They were in the lounge now, draped across the couch cushions and spacing out as they stared up at the ceiling. The Narrator was going off on another one of his spiels and Stanley let his mind wander as he halfheartedly listened to the soothing sound of that baritone voice. 

God, that voice, that beautiful voice. The way his consonants rolled over Stanley’s shoulders and made him shudder, that charming intonation making Stanley’s breath hitch, and oh, how his syllables curled up into Stanley’s gut and made it their home. He could listen to him talk about anything and everything until the end of time and Stanley still felt that he’d want to hear more. He had no doubts about his love for the Narrator now, certain that he needed the Narrator as much as he needed air. It was more than a necessity, it was what controlled his every waking moment, controlled his very existence. 

Fuck. He had it down bad.

He just wished… he wished that he could tell the Narrator without any fear of rejection. It was still difficult to understand what the Narrator really felt at times, and the rare look into his thoughts never revealed anything about his feelings on Stanley. Clearly he liked him to some extent, to have put up with Stanley’s antics for so long. And they were sharing a body, which definitely meant that their relationship had evolved beyond being just a narrator and a protagonist. 

…Right? 

It had been a while now since Stanley discovered the Narrator was in control of his basic needs and functions. He wanted to ask the Narrator to allow him to feel tired, to be able to sleep (as no amount of laying down and staying still let his mind drift off), but he dreaded the amount of pestering it would take. He could already hear the Narrator’s answer. It would be something along the lines of “I’m right and you’re wrong Stanley, you don’t know what you’re talking about, blah blah blah”. 

Apparently, he hadn’t been concealing his emotions as well as his thoughts, as the Narrator picked up on Stanley’s annoyance. 

“-and that’s why I firmly believe that sugar is- Stanley?” He stopped his latest discussion, focusing in on Stanley’s feelings. There was a strange sensation of being watched, despite being physically alone, and Stanley knew it was the Narrator trying to pry further into his thoughts.

“Are you… are you upset? It isn’t that serious, you know. I’m well aware that you can have a different opinion than me, even if it’s wrong.”

Stanley brushed aside the Narrator’s concern, shaking his head. 

No, no it’s not you. Well, it is you, kinda, but not about… whatever it was you were saying.

The Narrator sounded slightly miffed now, hurt that Stanley didn’t even care to listen to his rousing conversation on the relationship between the different types of sugars and their uses. 

“It’s not me but it’s me? You might as well say nothing if you’re going to spout such contradictory nonsense.”

Stanley didn’t bother to come up with some sort of retort, letting out a huge sigh instead. 

I was just thinking about how nice taking a nap would be... I know, I know, you’ll say that I don’t need to sleep and that it’s stupid and-

“I don’t think it’s ‘stupid’.”

Stanley was caught off guard by the sincerity in the Narrator’s reply. 

What?

“I said, I don’t think it’s stupid.” The Narrator hesitated for a moment, before elaborating. “You’ve been thinking about it quite often. Sleeping, I mean. And I don’t think it would be right for me to deny you this when I can feel how much you want it. But…”

The voice sounded nervous, tense. Like he was working up the courage to say something more.

But?

“I don’t want you to sleep.” Stanley felt his cheeks growing warmer as the Narrator fidgeted inside of him anxiously. 

“I know it’s terribly selfish of me, but I cannot stand the thought of you being somewhere that I cannot follow.”

Stanley’s heart fluttered at the words and he struggled to keep his thoughts together. His immediate response was to agree to never sleep, just so that the Narrator would be happy. But he did want to sleep, he missed the feeling of being in his bed, of waking up to a warm and safe environment that wasn’t his office chair. The wheels in Stanley’s head turned as he immediately thought of a solution for the both of them.

Why don’t you sleep with me?

The following silence was extremely loud while Stanley processed exactly what he had just said.

I-! I mean stay with me while I sleep. In my body. Not. Not sleep with me but-

The Narrator chuckled at Stanley’s feeble attempts to make himself clear. “I know what you meant.”

Relief hit him squarely in the chest and he let out a sigh. Good job Stanley. You’re definitely the smoothest and least awkward man around.

“I suppose I could try but… Willingly shutting down your body and leaving yourself vulnerable like that? How do you find any appeal in this?”

Stanley thought about what the Narrator said. It made sense, he supposed, for the Narrator to be afraid. To sleep was to give up what control you had and let your inhibitions down, to be unaware of your surroundings and of the passing of time. For someone (something?) like the Narrator, who always had control over everything, it must sound awful.

I promise it’s not as bad as it sounds. And it’s not like you would be alone. I mean, if you’re here with me, shouldn’t you be able to dream with me as well?  

“Your logic follows, but…” The sentence trailed off and ended there.

Dreams are a huge part of the human experience, yeah? You should try at least once.

The Narrator made an odd sort of sound in their throat, like he wanted to disagree. It took another moment of quiet contemplation before he spoke again.

“You’ll… stay with me, right?”

He sounded so small, so muted compared to how he usually did. Stanley wished he could give him more reassurance than just his words, that he could hold his hand or give him a hug. God how he wished he could just touch or feel the Narrator more than he did now. To actually see him, to actually be with him-

Focus Stanley. The Narrator needs support.

Where else would I go?

A weak smile played at his lips, tugging at the corners. Whether it was Stanley’s or the Narrator’s, it didn’t matter. It comforted the Narrator nonetheless, and Stanley felt something change inside of him, like a switch had been flipped. 

His eyelids lowered, a heaviness seeping into his limbs. The Narrator made a surprised sort of “oh!” at the feeling of exhaustion, but Stanley was much too drained to dive further into the Narrator’s thoughts. Being tired was usually something to dread, something that held you back. But Stanley welcomed the sensation, sinking further and further into the couch until they were both completely out.

- - -

“Stanley?”

Stanley hummed in response, doodling on the whiteboard of the meeting room. The Narrator had been otherwise occupied with analyzing his body internally- manually controlling the beat of his heart, the contraction of his lungs, the pressure of his blood. It disturbed Stanley at first, frightened him a little to know the Narrator was literally controlling whether he lived or died but since it seemed to cause no harm, he allowed the Narrator to continue. He tried asking why the Narrator wanted to control his otherwise autonomous functions (because really, how was that going to help him understand Stanley’s human experience?), but the Narrator was extremely vague.

Whatever. The Narrator could do anything and everything he could ever want and Stanley would accept it. God help Stanley if the Narrator ever realized that.

What’s up?

“I wanted to say thank you. For putting up with me.”

The marker in Stanley’s hand drooped, causing a wavy line to go through his drawing of a dog (though it looked much more like an ugly snake with five legs coming off of it. Stanley wasn’t an artist in the slightest, but boredom always pushed him to try new things).

Where had the Narrator gotten the idea that Stanley ‘put up’ with him? He genuinely enjoyed the Narrator’s company, and despite their shortcomings in the beginning of their time at the parable, he felt that they had really grown as people. He dared not think of the word relationship, even though he knew it had more meanings than just romance, but he was fairly certain they were friends now. Or at least something like that.

I don’t ‘put up’ with you. I like you. I- I mean, I like being with you- around you. Being near you. Not too close to you, I mean, but like, er, your company and uh- 

An exasperated sigh as Stanley shut himself up and ended with a mumbled you know what I mean.

“I enjoy your company too Stanley. Quite a lot.” A tingling sensation bloomed in his gut as the Narrator continued. “I just… I know how strange all of this is. How violating it must be.”

Stanley’s eyes flicked downwards towards the floor, different thoughts bubbling up inside of him. Yes, it was violating sometimes, but no, it wasn’t strange. Maybe in the beginning he had wanted to put some sort of space between the two of them, more boundaries, but those thoughts had long since passed. It was something that seemed so natural to him now, so comfortable. Was it wrong to want to stay like this forever? It must be. Maybe it was selfish of him to wish for the Narrator to always stay with him. Maybe-

The Narrator laughed, a high and clear sound that made the hairs on the back of Stanley’s neck stand up, shivering at the absolute delight that came from the other man. Had he heard those thoughts? Had Stanley not kept them quiet enough, tucked away and hidden? Oh, what the Narrator must think of him now. He’s laughing at Stanley for how ridiculous he is, how pathetic he must sound. He's sure of it.

“What? No, no Stanley, I don’t think you’re pathetic at all! I was laughing because-” Another little chuckle interrupted the sentence. “-well, because I feel very much the same.”

Stanley eased up, relaxing at his words. He feels… the same? Heat rushed to his cheeks and he convinced himself the Narrator meant that he also enjoyed Stanley’s company, nothing more, nothing less.

The Narrator continued, oblivious to Stanley’s plight. 

“I never thought, even in my most wildest fantasies, that I would ever enjoy being human. For someone like me, to confine myself to some sort of fleshy prison, to indulge in these sensations that only serve to confuse and distract from the greater narrative purpose at hand… It’s completely illogical. By all accounts, it makes no sense.”

The Narrator turned Stanley’s hands up, gazing at his palms. He could feel him studying the lines, the curvature of his muscles and the ridges in his skin. The Narrator closed them and then opened them again, before continuing his thoughts. His voice was softer now, the words whispered like a quiet confession that he was afraid to admit. 

“But here I am. Here we are.”

Their heart fluttered at the sound of “we”, though neither were sure who made it skip a beat. Was it the Narrator, with his admission of vulnerability to Stanley, to finally acknowledge his own limitations and shortcomings? Or was it Stanley, who fought to keep the idea of something more with the Narrator hidden away?

“I mentioned before, quite a while ago, that there were no other assets in the game like you, Stanley. That the only way for me to obtain some sort of corporeal form was to share it with you. But I’ve been… playing around with some of the leftover parts of the system recently.”

The Narrator fiddled with their hands and picked at some of the paperclips on the table. He started to unfold them, straightening them out before trying to bend them back into their original shape. The anxiety building up in their chest squirmed and writhed inside of them, threatening to burn a hole right through their very being. 

“It’s why I’ve been trying so very hard to understand your physical functions rather than your experiences. Studying every little nerve, every electric pulse that runs through you, every pull of your ligaments. You’re so beautifully intricate in ways that I could never have imagined.”

The sincerity and adoration in his tone sent Stanley’s thoughts into a whirlwind. He thought Stanley was beautiful. Stanley struggled to remind himself that he was a grown adult man, and not some lovesick schoolgirl (but oh, how the Narrator made him feel that way).

“I’m… I’m going to tell you something now, and you must promise not to laugh at me.”

Laugh? Stanley wouldn’t do that to the Narrator, not when they were being so honest and open with each other. 

“Good.” The Narrator took a shaky breath.

“I’ve been… I’ve been trying to make myself a body.”

Chapter Text

The words echoed and bounced around his head a few times. 

“I’ve been trying to make myself a body. ”

Did this mean what Stanley thought it did? Did this mean he wouldn’t be alone anymore? He supposed he was never really alone (now more than ever), but physically, all he ever had was himself. Prior to being stuck in the parable, Stanley had never realized how important it was to just touch someone. Whether it was a hug, or something as simple as a handshake, he had taken it all for granted. Now, the mere idea of being in the same room as someone else sent his heart into a nervous flutter, and the thought of just seeing the Narrator nearly brought him to tears. 

It shouldn’t matter this much to him, it really shouldn’t. But god, how lonely he had been, even after all this extra time he spent with the Narrator. Sharing a body with him had done wonders for his emotional state, let alone his mental health. He couldn’t even begin to imagine a life in the parable where he could walk alongside the Narrator. Nevermind walking, just breathing the same air as him would be an experience that left Stanley’s knees weak even thinking about it. 

The rush of emotions flooding Stanley left the Narrator speechless. There was a warmth inside of them, spreading outward from his chest and leaving them with a feeling of weightlessness, of a boundless joy. It felt similar to the pleasure the Narrator had experienced before, but this was different. Lighter, but still all consuming. He had felt this emotion in passing, in moments where Stanley had laughed or smiled, when he complimented him or gave him new things to try or do, but never so intensely. 

Yet it wasn’t overwhelming, despite how quickly it spread through their limbs and tingling in the tips of their fingers. The Narrator wanted to hold onto it, bury this feeling close to his heart, and never let go.

And before either of them knew it, the sound of a soft plip hit the back of Stanley’s hand. It was small, wet, and… Oh. It’s a tear. He’s crying, isn’t he? 

Stanley couldn’t keep away the stupid smile on his face, nor the tears from falling faster as his mind went into overdrive, imagining all the possibilities of being with the Narrator rather than a part of the Narrator. 

“Stanley? Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t realize how upsetting this must be, please forgive my-”

He shook his head quickly, interrupting the Narrator. His thoughts were too jumbled up to make coherent sentences at the moment. All he could focus on was how he wasn’t going to be alone. He would be able to see the Narrator, touch the Narrator! 

“Hold on now, you’re thinking too quickly. I’m not sure that I-“

What would he be like? Would he be warm? Would he be shorter or taller than Stanley? Would he have his hair styled or unkempt? Or would he have no hair at all? What about his eyes, what color were they? Did he wear glasses? Stanley always imagined him with glasses, but he wouldn’t mind if he didn’t! How far had he gotten in this ‘making a body’ process? Could Stanley see it? Could they go now?

“Stanley, please!”

That shook Stanley out of it, now directing his attention fully on the Narrator’s words again. Perhaps he had gotten too carried away with all the possibilities of what could be and not what is.

“You know I can’t understand what you’re saying when you’re all…” He narrowed their eyes. “...abstract.”

Stanley flashed a sheepish smile at the floor, but he didn’t really feel sorry for his own thoughts. It was difficult to maintain an orderly sense of words and emotions in his mind, and he felt that the Narrator should know that by now. He really couldn’t help how excited he was, but he made a conscious effort to not let his mind race off on its own again.

“Though I can presume you’re… not upset?” His pitch raised at the end, conveying the uncertainty of his statement. 

Of course I’m not upset. I-

“But you’re crying.” The reply was swift and blunt. 

Stanley wiped some of the tears off of his cheek, chuckling quietly. 

Yeah. I can’t help it, I’m just excited. 

More confusion came from the Narrator’s end, and Stanley answered him before the question even came.

Crying doesn’t always mean you’re upset. It’s like… when you feel too much, it sort of… all comes out. 

The Narrator made a noise of confirmation, fiddling with Stanley’s tie as he mulled over the words. Stanley could feel that he really didn’t understand but was trying to, which only served to make his smile brighter.

The lapse in conversation stretched onward, a little too long for Stanley’s liking. He was itching to see the Narrator’s body- er, it’s not like he meant anything sexual by that, he only meant that he wanted to touch him. No, no that sounded bad too. No, he just, well, he did want to be with the Narrator physically, but not that kind of physically. Oh, but he did want that kind of physically too and- okay now, this isn’t the time to be thinking about the Narrator like that. Focus Stanley, focus!

Stanley reigned in those wayward and indulgent thoughts, wrestling them back into his heart and away from the Narrator’s gaze before speaking (well, thinking) again.

…So can I see it?

“See what?”

Stanley paused, surprised he would even have to elaborate. Afterall, he was still crying over the mere idea of being near the Narrator, so he was certain the Narrator would have caught on by now that Stanley wanted to do so as soon as possible.

You! I want to see you!

Their cheeks flushed with warmth as the Narrator heard Stanley’s words, and Stanley could feel genuine surprise coming from the other man. 

“Ah, well, while I do appreciate your enthusiasm, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I said that I was trying to make myself a body. Unfortunately, I have not succeeded.”

Stanley’s face dropped, but only for a moment as his mind raced to find a solution. What did the Narrator need to make it work? What could Stanley do to help? Would he let Stanley help? Please, if there’s anything he can do, anything at all-

“Slow down! Goodness Stanley, did I not just express how difficult it is to understand you when you don't form proper sentences for me?”

Proper sentences? Stanley could do that. 

Let me help let me help letmehelpletmehelpletmehelp-

The Narrator rolled their eyes and said “Yes yes, I hear you now, the message is quite clear! Just- okay, you can stop now.”

helpyouhelpyouhelpyouhelphelphelphelp

“Stanley, if you don’t knock it off, you won’t be helping with anything.”

Stanley forced down a smile at the Narrator’s annoyance towards him, knowing it was only an empty threat. He still stopped though, knowing both his enthusiasm and his point were made clear. 

“Alright then. Let me show you what I have so far.”

- - -

They were situated in the serious room now (which Stanley still felt could have a better name), going over notes and ideas the two had come up with, all written down by hand from the both of them. It was rather interesting, Stanley thought, that two extremely different sets of handwriting could come from the very same hand. The Narrator’s words were cursive and refined, written in straight lines across the page with extra flourishes attached to many of the letters, looping and connecting everything together. Stanley, on the other hand, had big bold letters that slanted to the right, not exceptionally messy but still put to shame next to the Narrator’s font. 

He found it rather sweet to watch the extra care the Narrator would put into all of his writing, carefully choosing what to say, even though it was nothing more than bullet points and discordant notes. He hesitated and constantly rewrote the words, doubting himself. The Narrator also refused to use words such as “good”, “bad”, and “thing”, stating that they were too vague and improper. Stanley would stress the point that again, they were taking notes, not writing a novel, but the Narrator refused to listen. 

Sometimes he would even scratch out what Stanley had written if he deemed it too disorganized or groundless, to which Stanley would respond in kind by making his notes even more messy and contradicting, even daring to mess up the Narrator’s papers. Numerous times they ended up in control of one hand each, trying to wrestle the pen out of the other’s grip. To anyone watching, it would have appeared absolutely absurd and maybe even unsettling to watch Stanley argue with his right hand, pinning it to the table and prying his own fingers off of the pen, one by one. 

Despite these disagreements, both knew it was only in playful jest. Had they done this hundreds of resets ago, it would have ended in hurt feelings and more misunderstandings. But they both knew each other well enough now to know what truly made the other upset, and what could be done teasingly without crossing any lines. Stanley knew the Narrator was only mildly bothered by Stanley’s scribbles and the Narrator knew Stanley was not offended at all by his attempts to organize and refine their work. 

It had been several… hours? Days? Stanley didn’t know, but he knew it felt long. When they had started, the Narrator explained in depth what he had done so far and some of the limitations of his power. Stanley knew there were things the Narrator couldn’t do, but it was still surprising to hear the Narrator was unable to just conjure up a body from thin air. 

Their progress so far was dismal. All they had to show for their work was several broken mannequins on the ground. Some were hard and plastic and others had a strange… squishiness to it. It wasn’t flesh, even if it imitated it, and ended up giving more of an uncanny valley feeling than anything else. They both agreed that they hated it.

The newest attempt (and what they were currently working on) had been to try more of a mechanical route, given that it was easier for Stanley to assist with building and operating computer parts. Just because he pushed buttons for a living didn’t mean he was entirely incompetent. He had the basic skills to assemble and fix various electronics, though he couldn’t remember how or why he knew that. 

However, that didn’t mean he understood how to build a fully functioning android, nor where to even begin. And unfortunately, the Narrator didn’t either. So their work required a lot of trial and error, which was not only time consuming, but frustrating. 

Stanley was sitting on the floor with a screwdriver, holding a piece of metal and some wires that would eventually be an arm. While the Narrator was able to shape the material into the correct form, requiring little to no welding on Stanley’s end, he was unable to put the electrical components together. Which meant that it was up to Stanley to figure out how to make the arm move and respond to basic commands. 

As he worked, he found his mind wandering and drifting onto other thoughts than the machinery. What would the Narrator want to look like in the end? He could choose any physical characteristics that he pleased, something that most people could only achieve with plastic surgery. Would he even want to look humanoid? What if he gave himself six arms or a tail or-

“I don’t think I’ll be going for characteristics that extreme Stanley.”

Stanley gave a sheepish little smile. Sorry. He didn’t mean for the Narrator to catch any of that. He was just wondering and that wonder turned into hypotheticals and ideas that were very unlikely. But it would be cool to have another pair of arms, wouldn’t it? You could multitask a lot easier with a second set of hands. 

“Well, I’d rather not be multitasking in this new body. I do enough work as it is. And if I was, I’d rather use my own form than something as confined as you are.”

A pause.

“No offense, Stanley.”

None taken. Stanley was used to these comments from the Narrator by now, and knew that it wasn’t meant as an insult or derogatory in any way. Though it did make him wonder what the Narrator’s “form” was. Wasn’t he only a disembodied voice, who had some sort of weird power over this parable and could give him cool bucket stickers?

That got an audible laugh out of the Narrator, leaving Stanley with the surprisingly nice sensation of laughing along with him. 

“Yes, they are rather nice stickers, aren’t they? Well, to answer your question, I do exist as more than “just a voice”. How else would you expect me to interact with your environment or create as much as I do?”

Now that simply raises more questions. If he had a physical form, then why had he not experienced touch before being with Stanley? Why were they even doing this at all? Wasn’t the whole point to give new sensations to the Narrator?

“This is new to me. It’s rather closed minded of you to believe everyone experiences stimuli in the same way you do, don’t you think?.”

But that didn’t make any sense! How could the Narrator have a physical form already and yet claim that he doesn’t have a body at the same time? It’s contradictory and to be honest, only got more confusing with each word the Narrator said.

“Alright then, let me try to explain in a way you can understand. Let’s see…” He hummed a little tune from Stanley’s throat as he thought, drumming Stanley’s fingers along the side of their leg.

“Okay. I have it. In simpler terms, you can imagine this space around us as… hmm, as a one dimensional room. You do know what one dimensional means, right Stanley?”

Of course he knew what one dimensional meant. It was… like a line, right? No shapes or depth, just lines?

“Yes, good. And in this one dimensional room exists the both of us. You, as a line, and myself as more of a… fourth dimensional object. Perhaps a tesseract, though I’m much closer to a hypercube in this analogy, so picture a fifth dimensional shape, if you will.”

…So Stanley is a line? Like the Adventure Line™?

“No.” His eyebrows scrunched up as he thought for a moment. “Well, for the analogy, yes, but that’s not what we’re focusing on. My point is that you cannot perceive me because I simply cannot be seen in this plane of reality. Just as a fifth dimensional shape cannot be seen in a one dimensional room.”

The Narrator said it so matter of factly, as if anyone could understand that. But Stanley didn’t know what the hell a fifth dimensional shape even looked like. What was it the Narrator said? A hypercube? Was that like a really excited cube or something? It sounded stupid if you asked him.

Stanley put the screwdriver down, as he had lost all concentration on the robotic arm they were putting together. The Narrator, sensing Stanley’s building confusion with their conversation, elaborated.

“Essentially, I reside in a different plane of existence from you. My very being cannot be viewed by you, no matter how hard either of us try. You, the line, are unable to observe me, the hypercube.”

Stanley understood the “not seeing” part well enough. The Narrator had always been, and still is, invisible to him. But how did any of this answer his question about a body? Why the weird analogy and not straight up say he’s some sort of god or other worldly being?

The Narrator sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose in mild annoyance. “Because I’m not a god. I’ll admit that it’s very flattering to hear you think that, but it couldn’t be further from the truth.”

So you’re more like an alien?  

“What? No. No, that implies that I am some sort of extraterrestrial life, which I am not, because I have just as much of a right to occupy this space as you do, or any other human for that matter. It’s…”

He trailed off and Stanley felt him struggling to pick the correct words. “It’s complicated. This is why I never bothered to explain it before. There’s no direct term for what I am. I… I’m the Narrator. That’s the simplest way I can put it.”

And whilst Stanley still didn’t completely understand, he could feel the Narrator’s frustration in being unable to explain more than he already had. He didn’t mind dropping this for now, especially if it would only make the Narrator more upset. They had plenty of other things to talk about. 

Or rather, the Narrator would talk and Stanley would listen. 

- - -

After an indeterminable amount of coffee breaks, naps, and rousing conversations on literary tropes from the Narrator, they finally made some progress. Each of the pieces they needed were able to function and respond to basic computer commands on their own. It didn’t look like a body in the slightest; just some arms, legs, and a torso-like casing, all disconnected and metallic. While Stanley thought that they still had a long way to go, the Narrator was overjoyed with the work they had done.

He explained to Stanley that the next part would be something he needed to do on his own. Something about transmutation and other big words that Stanley struggled to keep up with. The simplified version was that the Narrator was going to leave Stanley for a bit to finish the final steps of the body, as it was something that needed the Narrator’s full concentration and abilities. 

And that was how Stanley found himself alone for the first time in a very long time. He didn’t realize just how much he had come to depend on the Narrator always being there with him. 

It hurt a surprising amount, to just exist in this quiet room. Nevermind the loss of someone inside of him, but the loss of sound, of those never ending ramblings the Narrator had… it frightened him. 

He knew that the Narrator was somewhere close and that he hadn’t left Stanley permanently, but the silence was really starting to get to him. How long had he been here now, isolated in this room? It must have only been minutes but it felt like centuries. 

Stanley clenched his fists and let his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palm. It stung, but he needed to ground himself, to remind himself that this is temporary. The Narrator promised it wouldn’t be long, he said he would be back s-

“Stanley?”

Any distressing thoughts that still remained in Stanley’s mind were instantly shattered at the sound of the Narrator’s voice. He stood up, casting a quick glance around the room to see if the Narrator was with him physically, but found it crushingly empty.

Where the hell was he?

“Ah.” The Narrator’s tone was off, like he was hiding something from Stanley. “Well, you see, while the body is operational, I um, I feel that perhaps we may need a little bit of time before I am… properly adjusted.”

What the fuck did that mean? More time? If it was working, then Stanley wanted to see it! He didn’t care if there were some kinks or minor problems with it- they could figure that out later!

“No no no, you don’t understand. There are no problems regarding functionality. We’ve succeeded quite well there. No, it’s just…”

What? What was wrong?

“I…” A very deep sigh came from the Narrator and he muttered something unintelligible. 

Stanley let out a strangled sort of whine, still combing over the walls to see if there was an exit for him. His thoughts replied before he even had a chance to process them.

Narry, please.

The Narrator sputtered at the sound of the nickname, words failing him. Stanley hadn’t even realized he had said it until the Narrator reacted. It sort of slipped out and now- well, now that he said it outloud it sounded rather silly. But that didn’t matter right now. They could address the new nickname later. What was so upsetting that the Narrator didn’t want to share it with Stanley?

Maybe Stanley was the problem. Maybe Stanley messed up somewhere along the line while they were building it, and now the Narrator was mad at him.

“No Stanley, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is all me, I’m afraid. I just… Oh bugger.”

A pause.

“I don’t look… right. I don’t look the way that you’ve imagined me to be.”

…What? That was the problem? If the Narrator seriously believed that Stanley cared that deeply about appearances, then he was sorely mistaken. 

“I know, I know, but I don’t want to upset you. You’ve pictured me as this grandiose figure and I don’t want you to see me and feel… disappointed.”

I don’t care what you look like! You could be a worm for all I care and I would still be happy to see you. Please, please let me see you. 

Stanley was pacing now, his hands picking at anything they could reach; his shirt, his tie, his nails, his hair. They were so close, so close to being together and it didn’t register until now that it actually hurt to be away from the Narrator for so long. It didn’t matter if the Narrator was inside him or outside but physically there. He just needed to feel him, feel those emotions and thoughts and hold him and breathe him and taste him and see him. He was part of the Narrator and the Narrator was part of him. Didn’t the Narrator understand that? Didn’t he feel the same way?

But the Narrator wasn’t hearing him. Or at least, he didn’t acknowledge Stanley’s response, still focusing on every little fault that he felt his new body had.

“I wanted to look perfect, be perfect for y- us. I didn’t get to adjust this form to my own preferences and it’s not letting me change anything. I- my hair is wrong and my eyes aren’t green like you’ve wanted them to be and I’m not even remotely muscular and I-”

The Narrator kept going, without stopping or taking a breath. So Stanley grabbed the only chair in the room, picked it up, and threw it at the wall as hard as he could. The Narrator stopped mid sentence, his full attention diverted to Stanley now.

Please.

The Narrator mumbled something and Stanley could imagine the feeling in his chest; of the Narrator twisting in his guts, making his heart flutter and squirm. Fuck, why did he feel so empty? Why did he need the Narrator so badly? He loved him, of course he loved him, but he didn’t realize love would make him so dependent on the Narrator. He needed the Narrator like his very life depended on it, as though he would die if he was away from him any longer.

There was a strange sound that came from behind Stanley, and he immediately whirled around to find a door had materialized behind him. He grasped the doorknob (fuck, his palms were sweaty, why were they so sweaty) and practically ripped it open, sprinting down the open hall that he knew would lead to the Narrator. 

It twisted and turned, door after door after door, and he was so caught up in trying to reach his destination that he wasn’t really watching where he was going, just running, moving forward, keep going because he’s here, he’s somewhere here, and-

Stanley slammed full force into something solid, something soft and definitely not a wall because both he and the object went crashing down onto the floor. Limbs tangled on limbs that caught on clothes that knotted into one big bundle of Stanley and whatever he had collapsed onto.

He laid there, for a moment, catching his breath and moving one hand out from the mess to try and stand up when his hand brushed against something warm. Something delicate but solid, something firm but quivering underneath his touch. His eyes slowly grasped what exactly he was touching, as though his brain was a thousand miles behind his sensations. 

Yellow eyes stared up at him in shock, unmoving and careful, studying every feature on Stanley’s face as though seeing it for the very first time. Stanley was dimly aware that their faces were inches from each other, noses almost touching, but neither made any attempt to move or adjust their positions. It was quiet, so very quiet, and Stanley was afraid that if he made any motions, the man beneath him would disappear.

…Narrator?

The other man blinked and Stanley knew he could hear his thoughts. Suddenly, he felt his chest heaving with laughter, unable to stop himself from smiling and bringing his hands up to cup the Narrator’s cheeks, still processing that he was here, they were here, they were together. 

Stanley’s laugh must have been infectious, because soon the Narrator was laughing too, eyes sparkling with the same adoration and excitement that Stanley felt. Nothing else existed or mattered right now, and Stanley’s world closed in around him to see the voice he had longed for whisper out his name.

“Hello Stanley.”

Chapter Text

Stanley could not, for the life of him, stop staring at the Narrator. Even after the other man’s cheeks started to turn yellow (which confused Stanley until he remembered that this body was robotic after all; of course it wouldn’t have blood), Stanley still couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was so difficult to breathe, though he wasn’t sure if it was because he was still laughing or if it was because the Narrator was so goddamn breathtaking.  

If Stanley hadn’t helped to build the body, then he would never have known that it was mechanical in nature. The only visible signs were his eyes and the blush spreading across his face. When the Narrator had taken the pile of metal limbs and wiring from Stanley, he had assumed that the Narrator would look like some sort of discount C3PO, all shiny and stiff. An imitation of the human form that Stanley would love nonetheless.

But this? This was far from an imitation. Somehow, the Narrator was able to make realistic skin, hair, eyes, maybe even bones. He could see the Narrator’s pulse on his neck, could hear his lungs rise and fall, could actually feel his heart pounding away inside his chest. He didn’t know what the inside looked like, if the human likeness extended to actual organs or muscles, but quite frankly, Stanley didn’t care. It didn’t matter what the Narrator was made of, because he would always be stunning in Stanley’s eyes. 

Every detail was perfect to Stanley, from the crinkles around his eyes to the tip of his nose, as though every attractive feature he could think of was put together into one person. Or maybe the reason why the Narrator’s physical body was so alluring wasn’t due to his external qualities but because Stanley knew this was the Narrator that made him so handsome. His fingers tingled with electricity, nerves screaming that he’s touching another person, he’s touching his cheek, he’s touching his surprisingly sharp jawline, he’s touching the Narrator and the room was so warm, so hot, it’s spinning so fast and he’s touching and-

He took a deep breath in and brought himself back down to earth, praying the Narrator hadn’t heard any of this. But he seemed just as distracted with Stanley, yellow eyes flicking back and forth over his features and carefully raising a hand up to hover near Stanley’s cheek, but not to touch, as though he were afraid or nervous. Stanley could feel the heat radiating from his palm. Was the Narrator unnaturally warm or had Stanley been deprived of touch for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to feel another person? It didn’t matter. 

He bridged the gap between them and leaned into the Narrator’s hand, closing his eyes as he savored the feeling. His palm was surprisingly soft and Stanley melted at the connection, certain that he was going to fall apart into a puddle at any moment. He couldn’t feel anything else but the warmth that radiated from the Narrator’s hand on his cheek, from his chest against Stanley’s, from his face that Stanley still held with his palms. The laughter finally died down and Stanley focused his thoughts as best as he could into a coherent sentence, gazing down at the Narrator again.

You’re warm.

The Narrator’s lips split into a wide smile, beaming with pride. “Is that so? I had hoped- well, I wasn’t sure if I had gotten the temperature quite right.” 

Stanley watched as the Narrator’s eyes darted to one side and hesitated, as though steeling his nerves to say more. It only lasted for a moment before he continued. 

“You’re… warm too.”

Stanley’s cheeks burned and he couldn’t help but smile (had he ever really stopped?). He had no response to that, only staring further into the Narrator’s eyes before realizing that he was staring into the Narrator’s eyes and he forced himself to look away, to keep every little feeling under control.

“Stanley?”

Stanley hummed a response, subconsciously rubbing a thumb against the Narrator’s smooth cheeks, still cupping his face. 

“While it is very nice to see you, I must point out that you are on top of me.” He paused as if waiting for Stanley to do something. Stanley made no motions.

“And please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re making it very difficult to breathe.”

Breathe? But- oh. OH. He was still on top of the Narrator, he was laying on top of the Narrator, fuck, had he made him upset, had he made him uncomfortable? He must be uncomfortable, who wouldn’t be? Anyone would be uncomfortable if you had just been tackled to the ground and pinned down. Pinned down. He had the Narrator pinned down- stop it Stanley, STOP IT- just get off of the poor man!

Reluctantly, he drew his hands away from the Narrator’s face and pushed himself upright, effectively straddling the Narrator now. More blood rushed to his cheeks and he tried to keep his eyes away, looking anywhere as he struggled to think of anything but the position they were in and what Stanley wanted to do with it. Pulling himself away from the Narrator was arguably the most difficult thing he had ever done.

He hauled himself upright and staggered to his feet, holding a hand out to help the Narrator up. The Narrator took it and Stanley prayed that he couldn’t feel how sweaty his hand was getting. In one swift motion, they now stood face to face; or rather, Stanley’s face to the Narrator’s chest. The Narrator was taller than him, by at least two or three inches. It was funny; Stanley had always imagined the Narrator would be shorter than him. He didn’t know why he thought that. Perhaps it was because he thought it would be funny to see a short man with such a large personality (and ego).

The Narrator moved back a step, creating space between them as he glanced down. It was clear that he was uncomfortable with himself, hands smoothing out the front of his suit (of course he was wearing a fucking suit, how had Stanley not noticed that earlier?) and fiddling with his yellow tie, even though it was already straightened and well put together. Stanley wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed it before, but he was also wearing glasses. The very same square glasses that Stanley always imagined he’d have. The attention to detail made his heart flutter, leaving Stanley more breathless than he had been before. 

Stanley fought the urge to move closer, as though every molecule inside of him was screaming to be a part of the Narrator again, and if not, then at least be as close as physically possible. Another part of him scrambled to make coherent sentences, and when that failed, he raised his hands up to sign.

You look… 

(Handsome. Gorgeous. Hot. Sexy. Stunning. Beautiful. Irresistible.)

…nice.

The Narrator was caught off guard by the compliment, stiffening as more yellow spread across his cheeks. “Really? Which features look nice? Is it the suit? It’s the suit, isn’t it? I’m certain it is, yes. I wanted to look professional, you see. I know that we already know each other quite well but first impressions still apply here.”

He chuckled nervously and finally stopped readjusting his tie (but his hands continued to wander, dusting off nonexistent dust or whatever else he could occupy himself with. Stanley knew from experience that the Narrator was very expressive with his hands, but he never thought it would be so interesting to see it in person, rather than as an extension of himself.)

The suit is good, yeah. But I meant you. Not your clothing.

The Narrator, master of words, stammered out. “Oh! Oh, um, well, that’s…”

He refused to look at Stanley, finding sudden interest with the floor and the walls, trying to look anywhere else but at his eyes. Had Stanley said too much? Did he make the Narrator upset? No. No, he couldn’t have; he had only said the Narrator looked nice. Nothing more, nothing less. And he was certain the Narrator hadn’t heard any of his thoughts because Stanley himself could barely hold onto them and understand what he himself was thinking. His mind was racing between so many ideas and words that he was struggling to focus on the world around him. A part of him wanted to pin the Narrator up against the wall and kiss him until neither of them could breath, until the Narrator couldn’t find any more words to speak, until he had explored every bit of the Narrator’s mouth as he could, every molar, every gum, until-

He pressed his nails into the flesh of his palms, just hard enough to shake himself out of it. The stinging in his hands allowed the last of his fantasies to die off and drift away. Stanley brought himself back to reality and to the Narrator who was still flustered over the smallest of compliments. 

“Right! Yes, well.” The Narrator cleared his throat and changed subjects, still keeping his eyes anywhere but at Stanley’s. “You know, now that I do have my own body, there are some things that I was hoping the two of us could try out.”

Stanley notched an eyebrow, pushing down more of those awful (wonderful) nasty (delightful) fantasies inside of himself. His hands moved in response, much more casually and relaxed than his mind would ever be.

What do you mean?

“I have several ideas, all of which I’d like for us to try eventually. But um, perhaps a change of scenery, first.”

Alright, maybe his imagination wasn’t too far off from reality. If the Narrator was anyone else, Stanley would have assumed that he was flirting with him in a very vague and convoluted manner. But this was the Narrator, and Stanley had learned from experience that while he was very good with words, it didn’t necessarily mean he was good at expressing the true intent behind those words. This reasoning, while sound, did nothing to stop his heart from jumping and bouncing around in his chest. 

With only a wave of his hand, the Narrator took the both of them to the employee lounge. The sudden change of environment caught Stanley off guard. Thankfully it wasn’t nearly as jarring as a reset usually was, but it still left that weightless feeling in his gut, as though he had just missed a step and had to catch himself from falling. 

The Narrator was still standing in front of him, as perfect as ever, when suddenly he frowned. Before Stanley could even ask what was wrong, the Narrator held a hand up as if to stop him. “One moment Stanley. I just need to fix something in the code.”

Stanley dutifully waited for the Narrator, watching his expression closely. He went perfectly still, save for those golden eyes that flicked back and forth rapidly, inhumanly, as though he was reading over something that Stanley couldn’t see. To test this theory, he waved his hand in front of the Narrator’s face, to which he gave no response. Interesting.

He moved a little closer, still resisting the urge to just fling himself onto the Narrator and never let go. Stanley was significantly calmer than he was just a moment ago, and since the Narrator seemingly wasn’t paying attention, he took the time to observe more details and features about him that he hadn’t noticed before. The one that stood out the most to him was how utterly soft the Narrator’s hair looked. Silky gray waves cascaded over his forehead, once clearly having been styled neatly, but left an absolute mess after Stanley barreled straight into him and knocked him to the floor earlier. Was it really as soft as it appeared? Surely the Narrator wouldn’t mind if he just… just reached out and…

The Narrator caught his hand inches away from those soft gray locks, mingled concern and shock on his face. “What are you doing?”

Stanley was, quite literally, caught red-handed, and had no plausible excuse for his actions. With his free hand, he signed simply the word soft, hoping the Narrator would understand why Stanley was invading his personal space (again).

The Narrator scrunched his eyebrows up in confusion (god, who knew that eyebrows could be cute??), still holding onto Stanley's wrist. “Soft? What’s soft? You think I’m soft? Is that it? While I’m aware that I’m a bit squishy in the middle, I must say it’s rather rude to point that out.”

What? No no, that’s not what he meant. Stanley pulled his wrist away and signed more clearly. Your hair looks soft. I wanted to touch it.  

And then he hastily added, Sorry.

The Narrator seemed surprised, and once again embarrassed and flustered, refusing to meet Stanley’s eyes. “Oh. Oh, yes I um, I suppose it does look that way. Er, it is that way, at least it should be.” 

He paused before jumping into a spiel about hair and interesting things he had learned about it when trying to understand how to fabricate it for himself. It was painfully clear to Stanley that he was anxious and, especially after the earlier compliment, unsure of what to do with any sort of praise. 

“D-Did you know that the average person has approximately 100,000 hairs on their head? It’s made mostly of a protein called keratin, which, I’m not sure if you know this Stanley, but it is also used to create-”

The Narrator kept rambling and Stanley took that as an opportunity to reach out and touch the top of the Narrator’s head. He burrowed his fingers in through the strands, twirling around one or two just for the hell of it. The Narrator’s voice stammered to a stop, glancing up as Stanley gently combed his fingers through the silky gray. Stanley was right; his hair is just as soft as it looks.

The Narrator stood very still, clearly nervous and unsure of what to do in such a situation, but Stanley could feel him gradually relaxing at his touch. 

“Now Stanley this- this is quite strange, yes? Or do people normally reach out and pet another person’s hair? To my knowledge, this is not normal behavior and-”

Stanley gave the hair one last tousle and retreated his hand back to his side, well aware that this was indeed not normal behavior, but Stanley honestly didn’t care. His thoughts must have been clear enough to read now, or perhaps the Narrator simply hadn’t been reading them earlier, as the Narrator grumbled in response to his thinking. Stanley hadn’t quite caught what he was saying, but he picked out the words “confusing” and “felt rather nice”.

The Narrator huffed and combated the furiously yellow blush on his cheeks from this whole event with a rather miffed response. “Have you got everything out of your system? Or are you going to start poking and pinching every part of me?”

No poking, no pinching. Though it did sound like fun, Stanley swears that he’s done. (For now).

“Hmph.” The Narrator tried to fix the mess that Stanley had made of his hair and failed with little to no success. “Now, if you would please give me a moment to look through the system-”

Why are you looking through the system? 

“There’s something wrong with my body.” He said it rather matter of factly, as if Stanley had nothing to worry about. However, his tone only made Stanley more concerned. 

What did he mean by wrong? If it was his appearance, Stanley had already told him he looked fine the way he was (more than fine, almost delectable- fuck, shut up Stanley!). Or was it something else? Was he in pain? Was he hurting? Stanley looked him up and down, glancing over to see if any part of him looked abnormal or if he was uncomfortable somewhere.

“No no no, stop it. I’m fine.” The Narrator paused and thought for a moment before he added, “I think. Probably.”

The expression on Stanley’s face must have said more than enough as the Narrator opted to explain in further detail. 

“There are…  strange reactions that the body is having. I’ve come to the conclusion that there is something that went wrong with my coding. You needn’t worry however, as this should only take a moment to fix… so long as I’m not interrupted again.”

A pointed look in Stanley’s direction, to which, yes, Stanley knew that he may have overstepped a few boundaries by touching the Narrator. Now that he knew there could be a potential problem, he wasn’t going to play around or tease. No, the Narrator can do whatever it is he needs to do. Stanley didn’t want their first few moments physically together to be ruined by whatever it was that was wrong with the Narrator. 

“Good.” The Narrator relaxed again, unfocusing his gaze from the world around him and resuming that strange state of awareness that he had before. Stanley wondered what it was that the Narrator was looking at; could it really be some sort of code? The Narrator did constantly refer to their state of being as a “game” in which Stanley was a “character”. To be honest, Stanley never took it seriously, as really, that was beyond illogical. It would make much more sense if he was dead or in some sort of purgatory or maybe an alternate reality or some other science fiction term, because a video game was just… well, it sounded stupid to him. Besides, who would ever want to play a game centered around Stanley and the Narrator? There has to be other, more interesting games to play, and what would their game even be about? The Narrator’s story? How would someone even play it? And-

The Narrator interrupted his train of thought. “Bad news, Stanley. My model is in perfect condition.”

Stanley wasn’t sure how that could possibly be considered “bad”. 

“Because I am still stuck with the same problem and no obvious solution. If there isn’t something wrong with the code, then there must be something else I’m overlooking. Perhaps…”

He trailed off and put his hand to his chin, thinking to himself. Stanley couldn’t help but adore the way the Narrator’s brow furrowed, how he bit his lip slightly in concentration. With every passing moment, he was certain he could not fall in love with the Narrator any more deeply than he already was, and yet, as each second ticked on, he could not be proven more wrong. At this rate, Stanley’s heart, no, Stanley himself was going to explode. 

“Yes, I have it. I have come to only one possible conclusion. You see, this body must be more human than I realized, and subsequently, must have fallen victim to one of your many human weaknesses.”

Stanley didn’t understand where this was going.

The Narrator wrung his hands and sighed. “I believe that I am sick.”

…What?

The Narrator looked very serious now, solemnly nodding his head. “Yes, all of the failings I’ve noticed within my body align with the symptoms of a rather severe cold. I will admit, it’s very strange for it to have happened so quickly and suddenly, but I see no other possible explanation.”

Stanley really hoped the Narrator was joking because… really? Sick? If the Narrator was sick, Stanley would be the first to know. He would be absolutely insufferable and over dramatic and- alright, he has to quiet those thoughts because he knew the Narrator was listening. But Stanley didn’t think that the Narrator’s problems, whatever they were, occurred because he was sick. Besides, what symptoms did he even have? He looked perfectly fine. There was no way that he contracted some sort of illness in the ten or so minutes he had been human. 

The Narrator scoffed. “Well I’m glad to hear you’re so concerned for me, Stanley, I really am.”

Fine. Let’s entertain the notion that the Narrator really is sick. What were his symptoms? Did he have a fever? Was it his stomach, his head?

“For your information, I have been feeling extremely…” He wrinkled his nose. “…warm. My temperature remains at a stable level according to my readings, but I still feel much too hot and sweaty over the simplest of things. There’s also this… squirming in my gut. Awful feeling, really. It doesn’t happen all the time but when it does I don’t know how to stop it. And then of course, my heart is moving at a tremendous speed, much faster than the average human heart rate. It’s as though it’s trying to throw itself out of my chest! Do you see now, why I am definitely, most assuredly, sick?”

Stanley let this new information sink in, going over what the Narrator had said. He was fairly sure he knew what was happening, but in the chance that he was wrong, he didn’t want to embarass himself or the Narrator. It made sense, these “symptoms” in the context he was thinking of, but if he was wrong-

“You know what’s happening to me?”

No. Yes. Maybe.

The Narrator scowled at the response and Stanley worked up the courage to tell the Narrator his thoughts. He took a deep breath and asked, Does it come and go, depending on what you’re doing? 

The Narrator seemed surprised, eyes widening. His mouth made a little “oh” shape (his lips looked so soft, so pretty. God, he wanted to press his own against them, to- stop it, Stanley!). “Yes. Yes, how did you-”

Does it get worse when you’re looking at me?

The Narrator’s cheeks flushed ever darker, lighting up the tips of his ears as well. He cast his gaze away and mumbled. “Yes.”

Stanley’s hands had never been sweatier, his mouth never drier. Prior times that he had been nervous or anxious didn’t even compare to how he felt now because now- now, he was going to actually act on those feelings. He knew what he wanted to do, how to explain and show the Narrator exactly what was happening. What was happening to both of them. One more question. One more, and he would do it.

Do you trust me?

The Narrator brought his eyes back up to Stanley, shock written all over his face, as if he couldn’t believe Stanley would ask him that. The surprise settled down into sincerity, nodding his head ever so slightly as he said, “Absolutely.”

Good. He took a step closer, up against the Narrator’s chest now. The Narrator wasn’t overexaggerating about his symptoms earlier; it really did sound like his heart was trying to throw itself from his chest, as Stanley could feel how quickly his pulse spiked and raced now that they were against each other again. Funny, how his own did the very same.

He took a deep breath in. Out. No going back now.

Stanley leaned up and reached one hand out to gently tip the Narrator’s face down. Recognition, understanding flashed in the Narrator’s eyes. But he said nothing, nor did he move away. The part of Stanley that had been begging, dying to act on his impulses since he first set his eyes on the Narrator finally won out. 

And Stanley kissed him.

Chapter Text

Time ground to a complete and utter halt as their lips met. A jolt of electricity surged through him, starting from his lips and traveling down his spine, pooling deep his gut and leaving every part of him numb and gasping for more. It was a sensation he had never experienced before, because if he had, he certainly would have remembered it. Whatever love he had experienced in his past couldn’t even begin to compare to the Narrator, and they hadn’t even done anything beyond a chaste little kiss. He wanted more, he wanted to devour him whole but he couldn’t do that, not yet. This was spontaneous, this was sudden, this was- 

fuck

he hadn’t even asked, he assumed but

no, that’s not good enough, he- 

what was he doing, what had he done-  

Stanley pulled himself away just as quickly as he had begun, their connection lasting less than half a second in total. Blood rushed to his face and he could feel his heart pounding, screaming at him for doing something so stupid, so rash, so moronically reckless without consulting the Narrator first. Every fiber of his being sung with a chorus of self doubt and regret that drowned out any rational thought. How could he have acted so hastily, so selfishly, to not consider the Narrator’s feelings?

What if the Narrator hated him now? What if he was mad, offended? Disgusted? Yes, he definitely was angry about this, he must be! He probably despises Stanley now, having thrown himself at the Narrator and indulging in these base, primal desires with someone who is so beyond human, someone who had clearly expressed discomfort with physical sensations in the past and he’s so stupid, so fucking stupid and-

“You… You kissed me.”

The words rang out in Stanley’s ears, impossibly loud despite not being raised above a whisper. He couldn’t look at the Narrator, he knew what he did was wrong, impulsive, and dare he say, selfish. Here he was, kissing the Narrator after he had clearly expressed that he was “sick”, and while Stanley was fairly sure that meant the Narrator was attracted to him, it was a very big leap to assume that those feelings were of infatuation and not of some sort of anxiety. Oh god, what if the Narrator was just feeling anxious about everything and Stanley only made it worse? He threw himself onto the Narrator, he’s projecting his own thoughts and desires onto him (how could he ever think the Narrator would reciprocate those feelings) and-

“You kissed me.”

The voice was louder now, demanding Stanley’s attention. At least he didn’t sound angry, just… shocked. As if he only repeated the statement to confirm what happened, to ensure he wasn’t looking at this the wrong way. And Stanley had the opportunity here to correct it, so maybe… maybe he could play it off as another “human experience” sort of thing. Maybe he could lie and say he was joking, just being silly, just introducing the Narrator to a new sort of touch and feeling. Yes, he could play it off casually. (There’s nothing casual about any of this, but if he could convince himself, perhaps he could convince the Narrator). Now he had to say something or think something or do anything besides stand here in this uncomfortable silence. 

But he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t think, couldn’t move his hands. He was rooted firmly in place, as though his whole body had been replaced with lead and was threatening to make his knees buckle and fall to the floor. He wanted to crush inward on himself and become nothing more than a spot on the floor, crumpled up and despondent, anything but what he currently was. 

He couldn’t even look at the Narrator, no matter how hard he tried to raise his eyes up from those shoes (those obnoxiously fancy and shiny dress shoes, he was so dorky, god he loved him so much-).

“Did you… mean to do that?”

Stanley finally raised his head, fingers trembling as he attempted to sign, desperate to convey his thoughts and feelings. But those shaking hands betrayed him, unable to do anything other than extend the silence that fell between them. His brows furrowed in frustration, struggling to say something, anything, but froze completely as he gazed at the Narrator.

His entire face was flushed in the same vibrant yellow of a sunflower, literally glowing with the intensity of it. It was a captivating sight, as if a burst of sunlight had been trapped within the contours of his face, casting gentle warmth between the two of them. One of his hands was touching his lower lip, like he was trying to grasp onto the feeling and understand it, just as he had done so many times with Stanley’s body. And he looked… 

Well, for once, Stanley couldn’t figure out what exactly the Narrator was feeling. Clearly he was blushing, so he was either embarrassed or happy or ashamed or some combination of the three. But his tone implied that he was scared, nervous, afraid of what Stanley had done or perhaps of what would follow this. And the look in his eyes, those stunning golden pools screamed a different emotion entirely, the tenderness and adoration unmistakably identifiable as… fondness? Friendship? No, this wasn’t friendship, Stanley knew that, but what could possibly define what they had? 

Finally, the Narrator’s words broke through to him, as he had heard them, but not properly processed any of it until now. His brain had a response ready, to explain that he was just showing the Narrator something new and different and it meant nothing, this was nothing, he was nothing-

But his body moved of its own accord and he found himself nodding instead. A simple confirmation, that yes, this was intentional. It was a small motion, yet it carried the weight of a thousand confessions, confirming what his words failed to express- this kiss had not been a fleeting accident, but a deliberate act.

“Oh.” 

Stanley didn't think the Narrator could blush any harder, but the gold shined even brighter on his face than before. He dumbly thought about how silly the Narrator would look in the dark like this, like his own personal glowstick. 

The Narrator’s hands twitched, his fingers curling into tight fists before slowly releasing, repeating the motion over and over. Stanley’s heart clenched at the familiar sight, recognizing the nervous habit immediately from when they had been together. It was a sign that he was anxious, and trying to ground himself and stop from overthinking. Despite the mental anguish of forming coherent words, Stanley found the effort to speak (or rather sign) to the Narrator, only so that he could pull the Narrator out of his own headspace and back to reality.

I’m sorry. I… 

(Needed this. Wanted this. Dreamed of this, longed for this, was absolutely desperate for this to the point where every waking thought, every conscious action was driven by the unbearable yearning to be as close to the Narrator as physically possible. No, beyond physical. He couldn’t- he needed-)

…should have asked.

The Narrator watched Stanley’s hands slowly form the words before his eyes (those hypnotizing yellow eyes), which flicked upward to meet his own. His voice was a quiet, mumbled sound. “Don’t apologize. I… think I rather liked it.”

He… 

What? 

Had he heard that correctly? No, no he couldn’t possibly- but-

Awareness dawned on him, realizing that he had been rather stupid for overthinking this in the first place. This was the Narrator, no, his Narrator after all. And it sounded like the Narrator wasn’t exactly opposed to anything and maybe, maybe he stood a chance. Maybe this could work, he could work, they could work! Worst case scenario, they could never speak of this again, but it sounded like Stanley hadn’t ruined their relationship after all. 

His heart was certainly going to burst out of his chest now, that rhythmic thumping threatening to break through his ribs at any moment. Sweaty fingers gestured to his head, signing out the words.

You ‘think’?

The Narrator stammered out some sort of amalgamation of words and sounds upon being asked for clarification. He paused, and Stanley could practically see that gorgeous mind of his racing. 

“Well, perhaps we should um, we should try it a few more times.” He cleared his throat, finally breaking eye contact. “Just to see if I really enjoy it.” 

Stanley couldn’t stop his mouth from hanging open in surprise. The disbelief lasted long enough for the Narrator to sense his hesitancy and assume it was discomfort, immediately backtracking and changing his words. 

“I- that is of course, if you wanted to. And I would like to clarify, I’m not saying we have to, I was just suggesting that maybe we should do it again. Not that I’m insisting that, no, that would be absurd. Unless, it’s not absurd? I um, I’m merely proposing that mmhph!-”

Stanley couldn’t take it any longer and saved the Narrator from fumbling through another few awkward sentences by reaching up and pulling the Narrator in again. It was different this time, especially considering Stanley’s nerves had gone down significantly, and the Narrator was prepared for it. He tilted his head ever so slightly as they made contact, savoring the sensation of the Narrator on his lips and pressing his body into the other man. The Narrator responded in kind, wrapping his arms around Stanley and allowed his hands to drift down his back and rest near his waist. 

It was awkward of course, given that the Narrator had never kissed anything or anyone before, and that Stanley had little to no recollection of doing it himself. But there was something endearing about the clumsy way they smashed their lips together and tentatively adjusted their positioning, forgetting for a moment about who they were and only indulging in the sensations and desire to feel.

Just as Stanley started to pull away to breathe, the Narrator brought himself in closer, fingers digging into Stanley’s back and squeezing. A muffled sound of surprise left Stanley’s mouth, swallowed up by the Narrator in turn. God, he just wanted to melt into the other man, to be with him so deeply that the thought of breaking this kiss hurt. Or… no, actually, that pain was because he wasn’t breathing. 

Stanley gasped and finally broke their connection, smiling dopily and flushing ever darker at the whine that left the Narrator’s throat. Maybe he should stop breathing altogether, just so that he never had to stop kissing the Narrator. Not only would he be happy with that, but the Narrator would probably like it too. Yeah, that sounded reasonable. Who needed to breathe anyways? Rather bothersome if you were to ask Stanley right now.

“Oh! I- terribly sorry, forgot um, forgot you needed to breathe.”

Stanley laughed and pressed his forehead to the Narrator’s, leaning up against him as he caught his breath. God he loved this man. Maybe love couldn’t even describe it. No, it was much too simple of a word. What he felt was overwhelming, threatening to burst from his chest and consume him entirely. He never thought that he would equate an explosion to positive feelings, but it truly felt as though he was burning from the inside out, as if his entire existence hinged on the Narrator’s presence. The sheer intensity of the Narrator’s warmth against him left his mind begging for more, pleading with his body to never stop, never ever stop, because if he did, he-

The Narrator pulled back sharply, hands moving up to Stanley’s shoulders and holding him back. He stared at him, perplexed, with his eyebrows raised and mouth agape. 

“You love me?”

The swirl of dopamine and oxytocin in his brain made everything feel fuzzy, but those words pierced through his thoughts. The Narrator shouldn’t be reading his mind right now, he shouldn’t be able to! Stanley wasn’t thinking in clear sentences and he knew how difficult it was for the Narrator to really hone in on what exactly Stanley was thinking or feeling. Why was he- how did he- 

Distress must have been written all over Stanley’s face, as the Narrator started to speak before Stanley could even respond.

“I’m not upset, really, I’m not! I adore you too, Stanley.”

…

Stanley pulled himself out of the Narrator’s grasp, trying not to feel hurt. Was this his way of gently letting Stanley down? Or was he not grasping the absolute sincerity and depth of Stanley’s emotions? He really hoped it was the latter. 

He focused his hands as best as he could, even though they were much too shaky to sign clearly right now. The Narrator had already heard Stanley’s true feelings, so it’s not exactly like he could take the words back. It was only a matter of clarifying exactly what Stanley meant, and hoping that the Narrator would understand. Deep breath now, just- just say it. 

No, not ‘adore’. I love you.

The Narrator smiled, letting a good natured laugh slip past him. “Yes, I heard you. And I like you too Stanley, you’re very-”

No.

Stanley cut him off mid sentence, bringing two fingers and his thumb together sharply.

“Wha- no? What do you mean, no?”

What part of this was the Narrator not understanding? This wasn’t a simple platonic or familial feeling; this was real and it hurt, cutting deep into Stanley’s chest with a throbbing ache. It was loud and it was painful, it was thrashing and it was screaming. Stanley loved him. He loved him and it was the most wonderful kind of pain he had ever felt, and he couldn’t understand how to explain the real depth of his emotions with mere words.

You don’t understand. I… 

He let out a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes. Why did words have to be so difficult?

He needed the Narrator to understand, fully and completely, the exact intensity of his emotions, but wasn’t sure how. It would be so much easier if he could just show the Narrator, but- 

Oh! He could show the Narrator, he needed only ask.

I want to show you what I mean.

The Narrator notched an eyebrow, showing a mixture between both confusion and playfulness. “Show me how? With more kisses? I’m certainly not opposed to that but I’m not sure how-”

Stanley shook his head and then pointed to himself. 

I need you here. With me.

Thankfully the Narrator understood what he was getting at, nodding his head and disappearing instantly. Stanley welcomed the feeling of light pressure on his mind, of the tingling in his limbs and of the added weight lingering near his heart. Carefully, he tried to relax and let his thoughts and feelings come through unfiltered, opening himself up completely to the Narrator. No restraints, no holding back. This was Stanley in his entirety, because if he wanted the Narrator to understand the true depth of his emotions, then he needed to see everything.

A choked gasp immediately came from the Narrator, and Stanley briefly felt what the Narrator was seeing (how strange, to have Stanley to feel what the Narrator was feeling as he was going through Stanley’s feelings. Then again, nothing about them was ever normal or straightforward). 

The Narrator was drowning, overwhelmed with the rush of emotions and memories that Stanley thrust towards him. He felt every bit of love, longing, and devotion that Stanley kept deep within himself, swirling together and washing over him in waves that left him choking, gasping for air. He used Stanley’s hands to clutch at their chest, crying and laughing and struggling to keep himself afloat through all of it.

“You- How long have you-” He struggled, barely forming any words before giving up on the sentence entirely. 

Stanley didn’t speak more so than he showed the Narrator, pressing forth a torrent of memories. It was quick, rapidly switching through different times of their relationship as Stanley tried to focus on the exact moment something changed. They saw moments of Stanley absolutely loathing the Narrator, using every available opportunity to spite and fight back against him. Another flash, and now they were amicable, speaking to one another but not understanding, never understanding. The next memory showed something more promising, of Stanley and the Narrator simply existing together in the lounge, one of the rare times that the Narrator ever allowed him to take a break before all of this. It wasn’t quite the love that Stanley had now, but it was the beginning of something more.

More memories, mostly of the times when they spoke earnestly with one another or shared their genuine feelings, began to flash by. One of Stanley dancing along as the Narrator hummed, another of the Narrator reading old projects and works he had scrapped as Stanley listened contently. There was a spark that resided in all of those memories, smoldering in Stanley’s core, just waiting for the right conditions to ignite. And it was the revelation that the Narrator wasn’t keeping him trapped here, that he too was a prisoner, that the flames began to rise. They found common ground and Stanley was finally willing to be vulnerable to the Narrator, in the most intimate way he could be; by sharing his body with him. 

The Narrator tried to wipe away the tears from their face, but it was pointless as they choked back another sob. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have… I could have… Oh Stanley.”

New images flashed by, this time directed by Stanley’s self-doubt and fear, terrified of both his own feelings and that of the Narrator’s reaction to them. The amount of lying Stanley did to both himself and the Narrator was absolutely monumental. Memories of convincing himself that he couldn’t, he shouldn’t love the Narrator because that would ruin everything. Spending an eternity with someone you love would be wonderful, but not at the risk of confessing those feelings and facing rejection. He was frightened of spending the rest of their lives knowing that he ruined everything, changed everything, just because he wanted something more.

Stanley felt a sudden emptiness inside of him, coupled with the suffocating pressure of someone wrapping their arms around him and squeezing tightly. His eyes fluttered open, blinking back the tears the Narrator had shed, to see the physical form of the Narrator clinging to him.

“I didn’t… Stanley, I would never push you away. How could I ever reject someone like you? Goodness, I-” He started to laugh, holding onto Stanley even tighter. “Earlier, I- I wasn’t sick, was I? That was- it was- and you knew before I-”

Stanley gave a gentle squeeze in return, resting his chin over the Narrator’s shoulder.

“I think that I need to… yes. Here. Let me show you now.” 

Stanley’s vision faded out and could no longer see the room around him, nor the Narrator. Mild panic swept through him before he began to see again, but this time, it was through the Narrator’s eyes. More specifically, the Narrator’s memories.

It was disorienting, to say the least. The Narrator didn’t have eyes in the same way that Stanley did, and so his memories weren’t projected in a way that Stanley could understand easily. It was a kaleidoscope of strange sensations, unlike anything Stanley had ever seen. He could feel everything, see anything, and yet there was nothing at all. A mesmerizing display of vibrant colors and sounds emanated from the entire office, the very floor shifting and rippling between what Stanley assumed was different dimensions. A dull throb started up in his head but the Narrator’s presence quickly put a stop to that, honing in on exactly what he wanted Stanley to see. 

It was Stanley himself. The memories were quick, but they didn’t contain anything that Stanley thought was remarkable. It was him laughing, smiling, running down the hall or tilting his head up at the Narrator and simply existing. It showed times when he was angry and defiant, when he was hopeless and depressed, even when he wasn’t doing anything at all. Everything that involved Stanley was coated with a layer of warmth and fuzziness that made their chest want to cave in, to hold on tightly to the images and never let go. 

More pictures, more memories, and he could feel something inside of the Narrator that was squirming, bubbling up and threatening to spill over. It was a potent mixture of longing and ache, a desire to see more of Stanley, to experience him on a deeper level. The Narrator’s form was nothing like Stanley’s, but Stanley could feel this sort of painful yearning in his core, wishing he could reach out and be with Stanley.

They stumbled across another moment where the Narrator was ripping up a piece of paper, shredding it and throwing it to the ground with several others that had met the same fate. Stanley didn’t need to read the paper to know what it was; they were stories, ideas, fantasies the Narrator had written in which he was human. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this, to crave such things and harbor true desires. So why then, why was he imagining a life where he could be the person that Stanley always imagined him to be?

He had seen it before in Stanley’s thoughts. The image was blurry and vague, but the Narrator could tell that the human in Stanley’s mind was supposed to be him. And god, how he wanted to be. He wanted to be closer to Stanley, but he didn’t understand why. Maybe he needed more insight, more experience. Perhaps his time with Stanley had started to rub off on him, exposing him to more human emotions. And so he proposed they share a body.

Yet, even with this new connection, he still wished for a greater relationship between them. It made no sense to him—none whatsoever! He wanted to share everything with Stanley, to talk with him and be with him every moment of every second of every day. But it felt physically impossible to be more intimately entwined than they already were. Once again, the Narrator felt lost and confused, only further hurt by the feelings and thoughts that he knew Stanley was keeping secret from him.

And the more time he spent with Stanley, as Stanley, the more confusing and convoluted these feelings became. The emotions he thought he knew, of pain and of joy, of fear and of desire- they were nothing at all like what Stanley experienced. Pain was the first he became acquainted with and it was one he strongly disliked. It burned and coiled throughout their shared body, demanding attention and setting every nerve ablaze, as though hot coals were embedded in their very muscles. He couldn’t focus on anything but the aching inside of them, something that Stanley dismissed as a mere bruise. If that was a minor sensation, something Stanley was used to, then the Narrator couldn’t even fathom what something painful to Stanley would be.

The other sensations were much more desirable, but still vastly different from the ones he had felt on his own before. Happiness was wonderful, spreading warmth and shivers through every cell of their body, leaving him bathed in a feeling of utmost bliss. Anger left them shaking, burning from the inside out and threatening to swallow the Narrator whole. Sadness, a feeling he had rarely encountered with Stanley, loomed like a heavy storm cloud, casting shadows that chilled deep into their bones. Somehow, it was even worse than pain.

And then there was pleasure. Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure. It was more intense than anger, burning brighter but in a way that didn’t make them upset. And it certainly ran deeper than happiness, leaving him unable to do anything but smile and plead for Stanley to never make it stop.  

This was the closest to that feeling of intimacy the Narrator wanted. 

This was love.

He loved Stanley. He didn’t know why or for how long, but he did and it terrified him, much in the same way that it scared Stanley. Stanley had given him access to a whole new world of sensations he had never felt before and now he knew that the connection he dreamed of before was love. 

The memories came by much more quickly now, rapidly flashing before his eyes. Moments of vulnerability where he desperately wanted to tell Stanley but was terrified of his reaction. How could Stanley ever love something like him? He wasn’t even human. And he had tormented Stanley for so long, played with him like a toy because he didn’t believe that Stanley had the same level of consciousness that he did. Stanley would never forgive him for what he had done; the Narrator was sure of it.  

And then they were here. In this moment, in this room.

The Narrator believed he was sick because he had never felt such an intense pull of physical attraction before. And then there was Stanley, wonderful Stanley, with his kiss and his confession. He was absolutely elated that they were on the same page but then something went wrong. Stanley was upset. The Narrator didn’t understand why Stanley was so distraught over a change of word, of saying “adore” or “like”, rather than “love” itself. Because he did love Stanley, and it was so very clear to him that he never thought Stanley would doubt it. 

Stanley’s vision gradually returned and when it did, he found the Narrator cupping his face and brushing his thumb along his cheek slowly. He stared deeply into Stanley’s eyes, searching for forgiveness.

“I love you too Stanley. I really do. I’m so sorry that I ever made you think otherwise.”

Stanley smiled, blinking away more tears and pressing his forehead to the Narrator’s, just basking in his warmth.

So this whole time… we…

He began to laugh, starting with a small giggle until he was almost crying, leaning in further and squeezing the Narrator gently. The Narrator chuckled softly, hands drifting to trace little circles into his back.

“Yes, it seems we’ve acted rather foolish, haven’t we?”

We’re idiots.

Another laugh, and Stanley relished the way the Narrator’s chest hummed against his own. “A bit harsh. But yes, I suppose so.”

The silence dragged on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable by any means. They both clung to the other, murmuring sweet affections and feeling every part of their partner, both still stunned to even be here. Stanley lazily peppered the Narrator with a flurry of kisses to his cheeks, nose, forehead, neck; anywhere he could reach was attacked. And the Narrator was gentle, hesitant in every movement because he had no idea what to do. A touch here, a kiss there. He was so careful that Stanley wanted to fall apart and melt against him right then and there.

When the Narrator suggested sharing a body with Stanley, neither of them could have ever expected it to end this way. There was no script, no story to follow that would tell them where to go or what to expect. They made their own path, their own special ending, that would last beyond any simple reset.

Of course, their relationship will inevitably have its own ups and downs. Disagreements are bound to happen, and there’s no doubt that they will bicker over every little thing. But they’ll also be honest, and trust in one another. They can finally be vulnerable and truly expose every part of themselves, their fears, dreams, and hopes alike. All either ever really wanted was to love and be loved. 

And now, they were.