Chapter Text
Marvin always gets the things he wants.
But is this what he wanted? Is this the life that he always dreamed of?
He had always imagined himself to live a life of glory, praised by random people he met along the street, recognizing him for the great man he was. He’d come home to his dog, who would tackle him and slobber all over him. His wife, who would fill the house with the smell of some fattening baked goods, would greet him at the door. His son, who would bound to the door, would beg to play ball with him instead of doing his homework, to which he would ruffle his son’s hair and just laugh.
The reality of his world hit him hard. There he was, sitting alone in the middle of his living room, a chess board knocked aside, a singular black king rolling across the hardwood in circles, making a grating scraping sound, a bitter remnant of what happened two, three, maybe even four hours ago.
No dog. No wife. No son.
What had happened?
Oh, right.
Whizzer had won the chess game. He’d won, shoved it in Marvin’s face, and taunted him, waving that stupid black king around. Made him look like a fool or some idiot.
But he wasn’t. Marvin was smart. He breezed through elementary school, idled by middle school, wasted away in high school, and still got straight As. As a result, Marvin was rich. He’d own the latest gadgets, like that mobile phone while other people had to give up three paychecks for it. To complete the package, Marvin was handsome. He had been touched in uncomfortable places all throughout high school to prove it.
And so Marvin gave and gave and gave, but Whizzer still wanted more. He wanted his power, his pride, and his dignity as well. Whizzer wanted his full attention and robbed Marvin of his wife and son just for it. And he still wanted more.
Check.
Marvin knew better; he’d never fall for Whizzer’s silly tricks: his soft smile, his strong arms, his deep laugh. Take his wife away? Fine, Whizzer could be Marvin’s new wife. Take his son away? Whizzer better entertain him. Take his money? Marvin had more than enough. But take his pride, one of the few things he had left? Marvin wouldn’t stand for it.
Ah yes. That was it.
Marvin had suggested for Whizzer to leave. And Whizzer, who clearly saw no use for him after draining all of Marvin’s possessions, left without batting an eye. He took everything from Marvin and then left.
Check. Mate.
Marvin’s head spun, and he nearly falls to the floor. Was he drunk? Possibly. Maybe that awful Whizzer added something to his food that night that made him woozy. Yes. That was it. Selfish Whizzer wanted more, so he made Marvin lose. Thank God he’s gone. Maybe that’s why he can’t remember anything. Can’t remember why his hand ached. Can’t remember why his throat was hoarse. Can’t remember why his chest ached. Can’t remember why… his face was dried with tears.
When was the last time he cried?
He thought back to his early years. “Real men don’t cry,” one of the few words his mother had said to him.
Marvin was a real man.
Is a real man. A real man who dominates the household and lives with his wife and son.
…
Marvin wasn’t a real man.
Perhaps that’s why he cried so often.
He cried out of loneliness when no one paid attention to him, whether it was his birthday or Christmas or his birthday. He didn’t need anyone else anyway. He was his own best friend, so why did he cry?
He cried out of fear when he was alone with Ms. Goldberg. Poor Ms. Goldberg, who had to deal with Marvin– it was such a shame that he had forced her to be with him. He had begged and begged for attention, and Ms. Golberg gave it to him. He had asked for it, so why did he cry?
He cried out of despair on his wedding night, begging for death, even though his wife clearly gave him life with a purpose. His wife brought him his beautiful son, so why did he cry?
He cried out of shame, alone in the bathroom, when his wife was satisfied and asleep, wondering why he despised her every touch, or why she insisted so much on touching him at all. This is what everyone in the world did, and the shame was just nerves, so why did he cry?
He cried out of joy when he was with sweet, horrible Whizzer. When he was with him, he nearly sobbed at Whizzer’s gentle touch; it was like getting everything he always wanted: all the attention, all the love, all the closure he needed in his life. He felt sinful, so why did he cry?
He is not a real man and never was.
Marvin’s been standing here for five hours now. His feet hurt and his face is numb. Was it always light outside? No, no, it was just the city lights now that it was night. He sits down on the floor and drops himself right onto the sharp chess piece his now ex-lover had gloated about.
The pain of the wooden toy breaks him out of his spiral of self pity and apathy and pulled into reality to face his actions.
He feels his gut lurch. He should move, but he doesn’t, he can’t. Marvin barely leans his body just enough to cough up the spaghetti from tonight away from his lap. His throat burns, reminding him of the peppers Whizz– his lover had added to the spaghetti sauce, knowing that Marvin couldn’t handle the heat.
They had a good thing going: Marvin would work nearly 60 hours a week at a mind-numbing job, and the very least his lover could do was care for Marvin when he crawled home, cooking and cleaning. No matter how exhausted Marvin was from handling messy clients and angry bosses all day, he would always light up when he thought of Whizzer waiting at home, the only source of his joy. He appreciated every bit of comfort Whizzer would provide, but Whizzer would complain about needing Marvin to return that same affection. Marvin hated those cries for attention; Whizzer didn’t need love and support more than Marvin did, and besides, he was too tired and could sometimes barely find the energy to shower.
Then suddenly, his lover began doing things to purposefully tick Marvin off: make the spaghetti spicy only for Marvin, pester Marvin incessantly to pick up his suit, especially on days Marvin’s bad days, and push Marvin away when he needed affection the most.
But sometimes, just sometimes, when Marvin would scrunch up his face just enough, make this awful, primal sound that he couldn’t describe nor control, and nearly curl into a ball from exhaustion, Whizzer would care. He’d shower Marvin with kisses, pick him up, and gently tuck him into bed, calling him sickly sweet names like “baby.”
But even that came to an end. Eventually, Whizzer instead just left him on the couch, apparently “sick of your dramatics, Marvin.” Marvin wasn’t the dramatic one though, Whizzer was. How dare he expect his full attention at his most vulnerable time?
Marvin couldn’t care less about the sex or the passion; he just wanted Whizzer by his side, even now.
So, almost instinctively, Marvin scrunches up his face. Eyebrows, eyes, nose. He begins making that horrible noise. Somehow that was the easiest. He curls up into a ball, his face touching the cool floor. He returns to this position often; it reminds him that he only has himself as support at the end. He’s almost consumed by his complete self-destruction, clearly begging for help and attention.
But no one was there.
No one would shower him with kisses, no one would pick him up, and no one would gently tuck him into bed. Not even a single person would turn off those blinding fluorescent lights above which Marvin worked so hard to keep running.
Marvin was utterly alone.
Maybe this was what Marvin always wanted.