Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanley stared straight ahead, contemplating whether he should enter the room with the two doors. Okay, that was a lie. Maybe, just maybe, he was actually thinking about what would happen if he decided to hell with it all, and stood here, endlessly, for the rest of however long he was going to live for.

Would the Narrator eventually try to prompt him into action? Would there be new lines, deviating from the usual sentences that spilled from his companion's lips? And, more importantly, would he gain a new perspective over his life, changing the ruminations of decision-making he went through each day, causing him to become one with the consequences?

Stanley blinked.

What a load of shit. What utter drivel was his mind coming up with?

There was no way on Earth he could stay still for thirty minutes, let alone for an eternity. The mere thought of it was dreadfully boring. Blowing out a deep sigh, his thumb and finger fumbled with the bottom of his shirt for a moment. Shaking his head to clear his brain of those ridiculous ideas, Stanley took a step forwards.

As it always did, the action signalled to the Narrator that his part was next.

"When Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his—"

Whatever the last word should have been — left, of course, Stanley's mind supplied unhelpfully — was cut off by a rather abrupt sneeze. The booming noise shot through the room, startling him. Feeling his entire body jolt, Stanley swore that his heart stopped momentarily.

Wide eyes glanced up at the ceiling as his mouth opened in pure, instinctive response.

"Bless you."

It was out of his mouth before he could even comprehend what was happening. A tiny sniff was all the reply he received until the Narrator cleared his throat. Stanley tilted his head, waiting.

"Erm, thank you," the Narrator said in a rush, practically mushing the words together in his haste to get them out.

Stanley nodded, trying to imagine what the man would look like when embarrassed. Flushed, perhaps? Did he duck his head, trying to hide his gaze? Stanley would probably never know, but the thought of it made him want to smile.

"You're welcome," he replied, again not pausing to think of what he was doing.

The Narrator cleared his throat once more, and Stanley heard the tell-tale signs of papers being bustled about. As he continued to look up at the dull paint of the ceiling above him, Stanley felt a weird sense of foreboding begin to seep into him. A tingle touched the tips of his fingers, making them itch.

Something wasn't right.

Why did he feel like he'd done something wrong?

Why . . .

And then Stanley realised exactly what had just transpired. If it were possible, his eyes widened even more than previously. Mouth parting in horror, Stanley's gaze flicked to the doors quickly, before darting back up to the ceiling. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. He had not just gone and fucked up. There was no way he'd made such a mistake, and over a sneeze, of all things?

A trickle of sweat began making a trail down the side of his head, passing his ear, and curling under his jaw. The thudding of his heart was frantic, banging violently against his chest, and his breaths were coming out in shallow pants.

Shit.

Maybe he'd be lucky, and the Narrator wouldn't notice his screw-up. The voice hadn't mentioned it yet, so there was still the possibility. If the Narrator was too focused on his own shame to realise that Stanley had revealed a secret, then he would get away with it. All he needed was for the Narrator to redo the last line, without the interruption, and Stanley could continue as if nothing had happened.

Could he have this? Would he be permitted to have this one thing?

A peculiar sound echoed around the room after another second passed, breaking Stanley from his wishful thinking. It was a sharp, strangled gasp, and its pitch was surprisingly high, almost as if the person creating it had not made the noise purposefully. Stanley's jaw clenched.

Well, damn, there went any hope he had of pretending it wasn't real.

"You can speak?!" the Narrator screeched in accusation.

Stanley winced. He hadn't heard that level of disbelief and anger in the Narrator's voice, ever. The tone was harsh and cold, piercing his ears with its clear fury. But there was something else, too — something more. Tiny and barely noticeable, the words held a certain fragility, almost like they were about to shatter into a million pieces. It was wrong, hearing that kind of vulnerability in the usually controlled voice.

What had he done?

Stanley couldn't deny it — that would be worthless, adding nothing more than another reason for the Narrator to be upset with him — but outright accepting and acknowledging that he'd been discovered was terrifying.

Navigating this conversation, especially knowing that the Narrator was more than likely hurt by the realisation that Stanley was able to talk, was going to be awkward and uncomfortable and a whole plethora of other negative words that he couldn't come up with right now.

Grimacing, Stanley felt like an insurmountable weight was piling on his shoulders and around his neck, choking him, and actively trying to prevent a verbal reply from leaving his lips. Fighting through the disgusting sensation, Stanley's dry throat was scratchy and painful when he forced air through it.

"Yes, I can," he said, loudly and clearly. Mumbling would not help the situation.

What sounded like a hysterical laugh followed his statement, and Stanley had to stop himself from reacting. Cowering away would not be fair, for this was his fault. He needed to stand his ground and at least explain himself.

"How long?" the Narrator asked, each word a vicious bark.

Stanley frowned, confused.

A scoff punctured the air. "Use your words, Stanley, considering I am now aware that you are capable. How long have you been able to speak?" Laced with venom, the question was followed by the slam of a hand on a desk.

Unable to stop his body from jerking in shock at the bang, Stanley's shoulders tensed up, his posture becoming stiff with a paralysing fear. His legs were trembling. Curling his hands into fists, he tried to calm his breathing. There was no way of putting his next answer lightly; he had to come out with it, bluntly and without tact, because the Narrator deserved the truth. Stanley could offer him that, if nothing else.

"I've always been able to."

The silence that followed his statement was somehow more deafening than any other response the Narrator could have made. It filled the room, the space between him and the walls, enveloping everything in its icy hellscape. Completely unwanted, the quiet only added to Stanley's anxiety, flooding his mind with a horrible apprehension. He swallowed thickly.

This was astonishingly fucked up, wasn't it? He'd just made the largest blunder of his given life, and there was no taking it back. No reset. No do-over. This was it, here and now, and nothing could change the events leading up to this moment.

"Y-You— I—"

The Narrator pulled in a fierce breath, trying to come to terms with the reality of Stanley's confession.

"W-Why—"

Every false start the Narrator created in an attempt to form a coherent reply was punctuated with a deep, audible inhale. Stanley felt his breath hitch. He didn't want to acknowledge the reason for the Narrator's pauses, for the failed grasps at words that should have turned into full-on sentences. Admitting that he knew why the Narrator was struggling would make it real, and he wasn't prepared to deal with the fact that he'd managed to upset someone that much.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, his voice catching. He cringed. That wasn't good enough; he'd need to do way better than that pathetic apology.

"Sorry? You're sorry, Stanley?" the Narrator shouted, apparently finding the ability to speak now that his mood had shifted to absolute rage again. "Oh, well, I guess that makes everything better, doesn't it? It fixes everything! Well done, Stanley, you found the solution. The lie, the pretending, the acting. It's all okay, because you're sorry!"

Stanley very visibly flinched, as every word felt like a physical slap to his very being. He had to try again, to make this right. He needed to correct the wrong he'd done.

"Was this all simply a game to you? Let's make the Narrator look like a fool in his own creation, because it would be funny! This is all merely a giant, cosmic joke at my expense, isn't it, Stanley?" Accusations poured from the ceiling and walls, seemingly coming from all directions at once.

Stanley shook his head abruptly in denial. That was not true. Nothing about this matter was funny. Laughing was the last thing on his mind right now.

"No! No, no, that's not it! No!" he cried, horrified that, that was the conclusion the Narrator had come to. It hadn't been his intention, at all. He could never do something that cruel. Nothing about this was amusing — exactly the opposite, was how he'd describe it.

How could he make the Narrator understand?

"I don't believe you," the Narrator said, his volume dangerously low all of a sudden. "What other explanation could there possibly be? We could have been talking together, conversing this entire time. Every second that we've spent with each other in this endless loop of stories, I could have had someone to have an actual, real conversation with. But you chose to keep that from me. From us. Why, Stanley? If this isn't your way of making fun of me and my story, then what? Were you . . . Were you just buying time, perhaps?"

The Narrator made an odd sort of hum, apparently mulling over whatever idea he'd come up with. Then, without warning, he let out another laugh, this one much darker than the last one Stanley had heard. It was almost haunting, holding not an ounce of humour within.

"You don't even need me, do you?" the Narrator said, and Stanley felt his breath stop in shock. No! What was he talking about?!

"You can narrate this entire thing yourself, I'm assuming. We've done each ending a number of times — plenty enough for you to have memorised every script by now." The Narrator let out a tiny sigh. "Is that it? You wanted to wait, to remember the dialogue, so you could rid yourself of me and carry on alone?"

Stanley couldn't even fathom how very wrong that was. How bizarrely far away it was from the truth. His mind couldn't even contemplate what it would be like in this place without the Narrator to guide him, to keep him company. The thought alone was too dark, too depressing to imagine.

Unable to form a reaction, Stanley could only listen on, his terror growing into something large and uncontrollable. He was too stunned by the Narrator's words to do anything, even though he knew he needed to act.

'Say something!' his mind was screaming at him, over and over and over again. Of all the times in his existence that he'd required his vocal cords, why were they choosing this moment to rebel? Why was his voice failing him now, when he needed it the most?

What the hell was wrong with him?

Another sigh floated throughout the room. Different from the last, it was so very tiny, so very hushed. It was the sound of a defeated man.

"Congratulations, Stanley, you win. You get that wish of yours. You won't have to follow my script anymore — not that you ever did so, anyway." The last part was muttered with a deep bitterness. The loathing seeping into the tone was probably unintentional, yet it hurt Stanley all the same.

Shaking his head, Stanley felt the deep panic he'd experienced earlier settle neatly back into him. Engulfing him in its horrible embrace, it caused a distraught gasp to escape his currently useless mouth.

This couldn't be happening. He was dreaming. It had to be a nightmare. Any moment now, he'd jolt awake in his office to the Narrator's laugh drifting softly through the walls. He'd get a light reprimand, maybe a cheeky line teasing him about snoring like a banshee, and everything would go back to normal.

"I can't do this anymore."

The Narrator's whisper brought him out of his hopeful fantasy, and Stanley's eyes widened in alarm as he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening. Bringing his hands up high above his head, he made what he thought was the most obvious gesture of surrender he could — arms high, palms up, fingers splayed — and waved his limbs aggressively.

"Wait!" he begged, desperate. "Don't go, don't leave! I didn't mean to keep it a secret. I didn't." With his voice breaking on the last couple of syllables, Stanley didn't even bother to cover up the tears that began to fall. "Please, don't go!"

But it was too late. He knew it, could feel it, deep down inside in the pit of his stomach. Wherever the room was that the Narrator resided in to watch over him was now void of life, empty of its sole occupant. Arms dropping back down to his sides, Stanley's body was wracked by another, painful sob.

What had he done?

Chapter Text

Where was he going?

The walls and floors and doors all looked exactly the same in this part of the building. No deviations existed, no detours were applicable, no choices were available. Every inch of reality was identical to all the others, combining to form what appeared to be an endless hallway of beige, white, and orange.

It would be disorientating, if not for the fact that he'd walked this path an innumerous amount of times. He knew there was an exit waiting, a finish line to cross that would enable him access to the rooms and offices that Stanley was privy to exploring.

Eventually, he would arrive at the plain, inconspicuous door leading out onto a grated walkway. It was the last object standing in the way, acting as a locked barrier between him and the protagonist of the story.

An absent thought beckoned his focus, pulling at a thread in his mind, bringing attention to the reasoning behind this course of action. For what purpose was he here, in this predicament, abandoning his post as lookout and guide for the script? Why was the story being neglected? Why did the hero require the absence of support?

What was his goal?

Oh, right.

He was fleeing.

Running away from his chair, his desk, his monitors. By God, had he needed to get away from the monitors. Never before had they seemed too large, so overbearing in their presence as his perception of them changed in this tremendous display of dramatic overreaction. He'd also run from the mic, hadn't he? Forgoing his duty, in an attempt to conceal his embarrassing outburst of feelings.

Almost stumbling in his haste, the Narrator let out a choked gasp as he realised something in his process of listing the items causing his disdain.

His room, his workstation, had speakers.

Speakers.

The pathetic bits of plastic and wires had always been a chore to deal with; they got in the way more often than not. Tangling together with other bits and bobs, the silly things had never received a favourable opinion from him. Clicks, rattles, bumps, and thuds — the only noises ever created on any of Stanley's runs — had never added any depth to the experience of watching and narrating the story.

Having thought of them as pointless objects, the Narrator had dismissed them as having zero purpose.

In reality, that was not the truth.

Now that Stanley had spoken up, it was the complete opposite.

Admittedly, the rational part of him still trying to conform to logic and reason was aware that he was being a tad emotional over what was, perhaps, merely a misunderstanding. Stanley's confession, brought on by a stupendously idiotic mishap, hadn't been strung up with glee or cheek. The man had seemed genuinely distraught, if the Narrator looked at it from the view of an observer rather than an active participant.

And yet, he still couldn't bring himself to accept that Stanley's true reaction was important, because all he could think about was a single question, scratching away at his consciousness, causing frustration and a dark rage that was remarkably distracting.

How long would Stanley have kept up the charade if not for that blasted sneeze?

The Narrator humphed, barging through the final door when he at last came upon it. Shoving through the white wood, he raced out and onto the walkway, continuing along it without hesitation. The metal below his feet clanged with every step, but he paid no heed to the useless clogging of his aural sense.

Not bothering to give the cargo lift any of his prized attention, the Narrator practically sprinted through the next couple of areas, his breaths becoming more ragged with each passing moment. When his steps brought him to a very familiar set of doors, he finally ceased the incessant jogging.

Red and blue.

His gaze flickered to the left door, a burning desire crushing his ability to breathe for a second. A peculiar pang of regret stabbed at his heart. He didn't want to do this — the running away, this cowardly act of retreat — but all sensible solutions had been thrown into a pit he held no access to at the present time.

Stanley went through this path the least often; if he wanted to keep himself hidden, without having to remain in the room with the monitors and that damn set of speakers, then one of these options was the key. Which door should he choose, was the question.

The laugh that escaped his mouth was broken and humourless. He knew which door would lead to the greatest chance of not being found; the answer was frighteningly simple to figure out. Stanley only ever went to the zen room for two separate reasons: When he wanted to apologise, and when he wanted to punish.

His next breath was shaky, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Pushing out a sigh, the Narrator attempted to pull himself together and regain some of his lost composure, before proceeding through the red door.

If Stanley were being truly honest with himself, he would have said that the epiphany of where he'd probably be able to find the Narrator had come . . . more slowly than it should have. They'd been traversing these corridors and rooms together for a long time now — months, years? — and Stanley could recite almost every comment the Narrator had ever made about each location.

His knowledge of this place and the Narrator's preferences was like the back of his hand — known, familiar, with very few changes that only came over extended periods of time. So, the idea of going to the zen room, the Narrator's favourite room, should have been an instant thought. Right?

Except it hadn't been, and Stanley had found himself panicking, rushing through each door, frantic in his desire to find a way to make the voice — his companion — come back. No single piece of floor triggered any of the usual dialogue. Going left, going right . . . Neither direction made any difference, because both paths were met with an eerie silence that lingered in the atmosphere around Stanley's person.

He had been too afraid to try and finish any of the endings in their entirety. In all honesty, he didn't know which he feared more: The idea that he'd automatically restart and still have no Narrator guiding him, or the thought that no restart would occur, leaving him stranded in whatever piece of shit ending he'd chosen to go down.

Luckily enough, every single pathway was open to him. Back-pedalling through the rooms had felt excruciatingly wrong at first, but he'd quickly got over it. He'd been eternally grateful that he hadn't encountered a single door that was locked. Every option was available to him, meaning he could explore to his heart's content.

As he ran through the doors now, his revelation having come far too late, Stanley made a beeline for the maintenance room. Silently berating himself for his stupidity wouldn't help the situation, but he found his brain choosing that option regardless. Because really, he was a fucking moron. Sure, maybe he could use his kind-of-but-not-actual-hysteria as an excuse for his idiocy, but that only went so far.

Could he truly say he was even remotely intelligent when he'd missed the obvious answer flashing neon signs throughout his head?

Well, he hoped it was the answer; that he was correct in his assumption that, were the Narrator to leave his own space and enter the rest of the office building, he'd instinctively venture towards the spot that always seemed to improve his mood. If it weren't the case, and the Narrator had tucked himself inside one of the rooms that Stanley normally didn't have access to, then it was possible he'd be searching for hours.

Stanley tried not to dwell on it too much. What ifs were never a fun concept to acknowledge, so he locked the thoughts up in a tightly wrapped box at the back of his mind. For now, he'd allow himself to cling on to the slither of hope, the thought telling him that he would find the man and that he could make this situation right.

Bolting through the maintenance section and running through to the loading bay, Stanley decreased his momentum when he came to the edge of the cargo lift. Its large, black and yellow shape stared back at him, imposing. He swallowed back the fear suddenly rising within him. What if it didn't work, now that the Narrator wasn't at the controls? Did it activate by sheer proximity?

Shaking his head, Stanley decided it best not to consider such thoughts. Taking action would give him his answer, anyway. Fighting the quivering in his legs, Stanley took a step forwards onto the cargo lift. It rumbled, springing into motion immediately. Balancing himself out so he wouldn't fall, Stanley moved over to the right side of the platform and waited. His relief was palpable, but short-lived.

Ignoring the notion that the cursed thing was intentionally moving slower than normal, Stanley's hands were also shaking by the time he could make the leap to the walkway below.

He jumped. Landing with his usual, hard thud, Stanley straightened himself out and instantly headed for the next door. He deliberately chose to disregard the numbness tingling his fingertips. Trampling down the stairs and through the next area, he made quick work of the final set of steps and paused.

Wiping a hand across his mouth, he instinctively glanced up at the ceiling, subconsciously waiting for the sentence that he knew wasn't coming. And it didn't, of course. Silence filled the area, suffocating him with its emptiness. Closing his eyes, Stanley lifted his head and made a decision.

"Now, listen carefully," he whispered, voice trembling, "this is important."

Opening his eyes, his gaze snapped to the left door. It was going to be okay. The Narrator would be right through that door, probably sitting and watching the pretty lights he loved so much. Stanley could fix this. All it would take was a long, probably overdue conversation. He licked his lips, wishing he could have a drink to soothe his dry throat.

Making sure to raise the volume of his voice, his next words sounded far more confident.

"Stanley walked through the red door."

His diction was all wrong, his accent ruined the delivery, and his emphasis was far from perfect. But it would have to do. Besides, there was no way he'd be able to say it correctly. He was no narrator, and never would be; that job belonged to another.

Nodding his head at nothing in particular, Stanley walked through the red door; he was utterly relieved when he was instantly met with another solid barrier. Thankful that he wouldn't have to go through the weird, square corridor that seemed to loop endlessly, Stanley grabbed the handle and tugged open the next door. The satisfaction that poured through him when it opened was instantaneous — he'd been worried it wouldn't allow him access, for whatever reason.

Stepping through, he walked silently along the black corridor and towards the light emitting from the room ahead. He blinked, his mind taking a moment to catch up with what he was seeing. When it did, he stopped moving.

The lights he could see were just those little white spots on the floor, showing the edge of the large, round platform that consisted of the zen room's standing area. There were no glows, no yellows or blues or reds shining through the opening to the large area.

That meant . . .

Stanley felt the blood drain from his face. Please, no. No. This couldn't be happening. He was so sure he would be right, and that he'd find the Narrator here. But the room wasn't active. It was dull and shut down, just like it always was before Stanley stepped into its centre.

Lifeless.

Attempting to hold back on the sudden desire to let out a cry, Stanley gritted his teeth together and forced his body forwards. Maybe . . . Maybe the Narrator had skipped through, and was hiding away in the room with the staircase? The mere thought was absurd, ridiculous. That staircase was the Narrator's least favourite thing in the entire complex; there was no way in hell he'd go there voluntarily.

Regardless, Stanley needed to check, to put his mind at ease. Continuing on, he hesitated for a single, agonising moment, before stepping over the threshold and into the zen room. It took a second, but the starry walls slowly jumped to life, shimmering brightly as they floated around the sphere-shaped space. Taking a moment to glance at them, Stanley's attention was quickly caught by the larger, brighter lights that started up at the bottom of the room.

Sparkling blues lit up the giant area as they began their slow ascent to converge at the top of the room.

"What?"

The voice was unexpected, and Stanley jerked in surprise. Pulse racing and body tensing up, his focus was instantly pulled from the lights and to the person who had asked the question. He'd recognise that voice anywhere. With his eyes going wide when he spotted a figure tucked away at the other side of the room, next to the stairs leading to that place, Stanley felt his heart stop.

He had been right; the Narrator was here.

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed was the fact that his assumption — the one he'd come to over the months and years spent in this godawful place — could now be confirmed as correct: The Narrator was human. Although the figure on the far side of the room was sitting down and facing away from him, Stanley could tell that he was an actual, real person.

The display of hues surrounding the outer area illuminated the figure just enough for Stanley to recognise certain physical features. The person was male — Stanley had already guessed this — he had short hair, and he appeared to be wearing glasses.

If this had been happening under different circumstances, Stanley would have smiled. Of course the Narrator wore glasses. Stanley had always pictured him with them, for some reason, and it was nice to know some of his fantasies had been completely on point.

The second thing he noticed — the troubling one — became apparent after a moment or two. The Narrator had his back to Stanley, and though his head was turned in Stanley's general direction, his gaze was fixed firmly on the ceiling and walls of the room.

Stanley held back a groan, trying to think of how best to approach this. He didn't want to scare the Narrator — not while he was already upset, in any case — but how else could he announce his presence? It was clear to Stanley that the room had not activated when the Narrator had stepped foot inside earlier.

Perhaps he'd get lucky, and it triggering now would cause the Narrator to come to the conclusion that he was no longer alone?

The hope of that becoming reality quickly deteriorated, turning into nothing more than what it was — a dream that was not going to materialise into existence. As Stanley watched in anticipation, the Narrator's shoulders slumped somewhat, as though the alertness drawn out of him from the lights coming to life was slowly evaporating from his body.

Stanley felt a wave of concern hit him. What? Why wasn't the Narrator searching for answers? Why had he just accepted the room switching on, without the desire to find out what had caused it to? It wasn't like him. Was it? No, no it most certainly was not.

Biting his tongue to prevent a curse from escaping, Stanley began fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He was going to have to let the Narrator know he was there by actually calling for his attention. Be it by speaking up, or going over there so he was in the man's line of sight, Stanley was going to have to physically do something.

The truth of that matter was not pleasant, because he didn't want to accidentally startle the other man.

Stanley grimaced. Everything was becoming more overwhelming with each ticking second. This was going to be their first, genuine meeting, face-to-face. And it had been caused by Stanley's silly secret being revealed in the most moronic way imaginable. If he were being honest with himself, Stanley was rather nervous about the whole ordeal. He licked his lips, trying to wet them. Why was this so hard?

He scoffed mentally, scolding himself for how stupid he was being. Wishing the circumstances leading up to this moment had been different wasn't going to magically change anything. Contemplating the scenarios in his head was nothing but a distraction, holding him back from what he knew he needed to do.

Wringing his hands together, Stanley pushed away his reluctance and took a step forwards.

Opening his mouth, he tried to keep his voice soft and stable as he called, "Hello?"

The Narrator jumped, unsurprisingly, as the word drifted through the once-silent room. Snapping his body and head around, he gawped at Stanley in what appeared to be complete astonishment.

Without missing a beat, Stanley lifted a hand in a mollifying gesture, making sure to keep his posture low and his expression neutral. Remaining careful was crucial.

Treating it as though he was attempting to appease a caged animal, Stanley knew that this situation was far from the usual happenstances that normally occurred within these walls. Surreal, was how he would describe it; not that it mattered. Coming across as non-threatening was his goal, if that were achievable.

He took one more step, then froze. The Narrator moved suddenly in an inelegant mess of limbs, pushing himself up into a standing position and turning around fully so they were facing each other. When the Narrator was fully up, he staggered a tiny bit as he tried to gain his bearings. Letting the man have a moment, Stanley offered a small smile.

"I just want to talk."

It was supposed to be friendly, the tone reassuring. He had no clue how the Narrator would act in person, under observation, and he knew that he needed to tread lightly here. Stanley didn't want to cause any more fuss than what had already been established, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to slip into a panic.

His own heart was racing in a frantic beat, his palms clammy due to the uncomfortable heat of the room, and his breaths shallow. If he allowed it, his body would be shivering just the tiniest of amounts.

The Narrator's mouth twitched, almost as if he wanted to say something, yet no sound came out. He was staring at Stanley's outstretched hand with wide eyes, his body taut and ready to spring into action; that was the last thing Stanley wanted because he knew that, if it came to it, that action would be retreat.

Stanley bit the inside of his cheek, wondering what the next best step was. Would talking some more work? Considering that was what had caused all this ruckus in the first place, it probably wasn't the greatest idea; Stanley dismissed it immediately. That left one option: Proximity. He'd need to get closer, whilst attempting to keep the Narrator from choosing to flee.

Nodding to himself in his head, Stanley made his choice. Making sure to keep the movement slow, he stepped forwards again.

"Why did you come—" the Narrator started, finding his voice, but cut himself off from finishing the question. Clamping his mouth shut, the Narrator shifted his weight slightly, almost like he was fighting off an urge. Catching it when the Narrator's gaze flicked to the stairs momentarily, Stanley's eyes widened.

No!

He was prepared for it when the Narrator turned and bolted. Breaking into a run instantly, Stanley made a rapid pursuit, his pulse fast and his footfalls heavy as they thudded on the ground below. He knew what was beyond this room; there was no other way out of the staircase area except doubling back, or—

Stanley angrily forced those thoughts from his head. There was no fucking way he would even allow that possibility to enter his mind.

Jumping the stairs easily, Stanley sprinted through the small passageway, not bothering to care what was ahead. Turning the last corner in a blurred rush, his frenzied haste to catch the Narrator was cut short by the doorway being blocked by said man. Momentum coming to a sudden halt, Stanley went crashing into the Narrator before he could stop himself.

They collided at full force. Exclamations of shock — one much higher pitched than the other — were torn from both their throats when contact was made. Fighting hard to keep himself upright, Stanley wobbled gracelessly for a second or so, only vaguely aware of the Narrator stumbling to the floor in a heap.

Managing to gain control of his balance, he planted his feet firmly on the solid ground beneath him, thankful that he hadn't toppled over.

As his mind began to catch up with the events of what had just happened, Stanley blinked in surprise. He glanced down at the Narrator and winced. The poor man was still sprawled on the floor, and the low groan emitting from him was indicator enough that he hadn't been as lucky as Stanley in their little scuffle.

Waiting, not knowing how to help, Stanley reached out to . . . What? He couldn't really think of anything. So, he watched.

The Narrator grumbled something unintelligible, lifting himself up until he was supporting his body on his hands and knees. He coughed, bringing his head up.

Stanley took the opportunity to look over his form. The lighting in here was much brighter than the zen room, enough so that he could actually see the Narrator properly. Stanley's eyes did a quick scan, noting that the short hair he'd noticed earlier was a pale grey in colour. He marvelled at its fluffiness, absently wondering if it was as soft as it looked.

He shook that thought from his mind, focusing instead on the man's attire — a thin, woolly top, and . . . jeans? Huh, those he hadn't predicted. He'd always assumed the Narrator would prefer a suit over casual dress.

Something was wrong, though. Switching his attention back to what was important, Stanley realised that the Narrator hadn't moved since raising his head. Gaze stuck on what was ahead of them both, the Narrator's focus had been captured entirely, removing any and all distractions.

Stanley glanced up and grimaced.

Removing his gaze from the staircase immediately, he turned his scrutiny back to the frozen form of the man kneeling in front of him. A strange desire to comfort swept over him, and Stanley bent down to grab the Narrator's shoulder before he could think better of it.

The Narrator didn't hesitate to let him know he'd just made a mistake.

Flinching under Stanley's touch, the Narrator gasped and scrambled forwards to create distance between them. Hand recoiling in horror, Stanley's brain seemed to short-circuit for a moment on what to do, before kicking back into action upon realising that he needed to move.

Stanley leapt into action, lurching forwards and grabbing at the Narrator before he could push himself up and out of reach. Stanley was not letting him run off again. Wrapping his arms tightly around the other man's stomach, effectively pinning the Narrator's arms in place, Stanley linked his hands together in a strong grip.

And then he pulled, forcing them both backwards.

"What!?"

Ignoring the shout, Stanley's teeth gritted together as he tried to hold on when the Narrator began struggling. Grunting in pain when an elbow hit his side, Stanley continued on, tightening his grip even more. A desperate squeal tore out the Narrator's mouth as he thrashed about in Stanley's arms, but Stanley refused to give in.

He didn't know what the Narrator's plan was — running, obviously, but to where? It didn't appear that the Narrator wanted to truly test his luck with jumping to see if he could trigger that ending. If the zen room hadn't worked for him, then it made sense that triggering restarts through actions wouldn't either.

No, it wasn't that at all. This was sheer terror on the Narrator's part; he was at the limit of what could be considered as flight mode, and Stanley needed to try and bring him from it, to try and calm him down somehow.

"Let me go!" the Narrator screamed, tone all over the place with rage and fear and so many things Stanley didn't want to acknowledge. He knew this wasn't in response to his presence — not outright, at least. He just needed to regain control of the situation.

Dragging in a deep breath, Stanley was glad that, although it was tedious, he was making progress in bringing his captive back towards the zen room. Even if he couldn't make it all the way, he could at least get them away from those damn stairs. This odd, badly decorated hallway was good enough if it meant neither of them had to look at that room.

"St-Stop!"

The man in his arms was losing the battle to remain in fighting shape. Breaths coming out in rushed, shallow pants, the Narrator was grasping for every molecule of air he could, sucking the oxygen in as his body rapidly began its decline into fatigue. Stanley allowed sympathy to grace his thoughts; he knew what it felt like to have his body betray the desires of his mind.

Relief quickly won over any other emotion inside of him, however. 'Thank fuck,' was all he could think, because his own body was beginning to tire out, and he'd only managed to drag the Narrator a few metres. All the kicking and hitting had taken its toll, but it was decreasing, disappearing with every passing second.

"Please."

The whispered cry almost made him let go. Almost. It was so full of desperation — for what, he didn't think even the Narrator knew. Grateful that he had enough willpower to hold on, Stanley huffed. Perhaps this hadn't been the correct course, after all. Maybe he should have tried talking, because this was a disaster.

Pulling the Narrator back a couple more steps, Stanley decided that they were far enough away for him to ease up a bit. His own exhaustion also played a part in the decision. He wasn't used to this kind of exertion, and neither was the Narrator, thankfully. Loosening his grip a minuscule amount, Stanley sighed, revelling in the cool air passing over his lips.

He was too hot, too sweaty. But discomfort was, by nature, what occurred when doing an activity he wasn't used to.

"Let's talk," he said, quietly but firmly. "Can we talk?"

They were both just standing there, now, with Stanley still holding the Narrator. The Narrator was still breathing far too heavily and quickly for Stanley's liking. The last thing he wanted was for the man to go into a full-blown panic attack; Stanley had zero experience with them, and he knew for a fact that he wouldn't be of any help if it came down to that.

They stood like that for a minute, both silent, save for the sounds of their breaths filling the void. Stanley adjusted his hold, trying for a more comfortable position. Refusing to release the Narrator for now, he mulled over his next words. He needed to be specific, needed the Narrator to listen.

"Sit down with me," he whispered, choosing the safest option. "Not here, though. Let's go somewhere nicer."

The Narrator lowered his head, clearly not happy with the suggestion.

Too bad.

Finally removing his hold, Stanley stepped to the side, deliberately not creating too much space between the two of them. Not waiting for a reaction, he reached down to grab one of the Narrator's hands. He chose to ignore the Narrator's shudder when their skin touched. Curling his fingers through the Narrator's, Stanley was surprised by how cold the other man's hand was. Stanley turned towards the zen room, consciously deciding not to give that discovery any attention.

He tugged lightly on the hand he was holding. "I don't want to stay here."

When he gained no reaction, Stanley had to hold back a sigh. Why was he the one having to be in charge, right now? He wasn't used to this . . . responsibility. Sure, he was the one technically calling the shots when they walked through the story — he made the choices on where to go — but that was different. The story was scripted, with specific outcomes that never deviated.

Stanley had no clue how this was going to end, and it terrified him.

The voice, the person he'd grown accustomed to, the Narrator — all confidence, sarcasm, and snarky commentary — was so very different from the man standing next to him. Deep down, he knew those qualities were there, hiding beneath a barricade of confusion and fear. But that didn't matter, because it wasn't fair.

He needed the Narrator to go back to his regular self. Even if they didn't go back to exactly what they had before — how could they, now that they'd met? — he still wanted some form of normality.

All that would take time, though. He needed to be patient, to be the one still making the choices. He was good at that. And right now, his choice was to make them both comfortable, and to get them past this weird obstacle of terror.

"Come with me," Stanley said, giving the Narrator's hand another tug. He gestured to the zen room's entrance with a tilt of his head.

Finally, finally, the Narrator lifted his head and glanced at him. Brows furrowed and lips turned down in an open display of unease, the Narrator actually looked at him for the first time. And, much to Stanley's utter relief, the Narrator gave a small nod.

Stanley couldn't help the smile that formed when their gazes locked. He could take the time to treasure that they were meeting each other, properly and formerly, later on. More pressing issues were at hand.

That didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the little things, however. Like how he could now name the exact shade that made up the Narrator's hair. And, on top of that, he didn't need to guess anymore; he could now confidently state, with complete accuracy, the colour of his companion's eyes.

They were brown.

Wonderful.

Chapter Text

The trip back through the zen room had been quick and simple. Clutching at the Narrator's hand in what could only be described as a death grip, Stanley had guided them straight out of the unfinished hallway, through the room of lights, and back up the steps towards the loading bay.

Only when they arrived at the metal walkway did he pause his stride. Neither of them spoke as he stopped, the Narrator falling into place beside him. Blinking foolishly for a moment, Stanley's brows furrowed as he took in the area surrounding them.

Where the hell did they go now? He hadn't thought this far ahead.

A groan rumbled down his throat. Thanking the stars that he'd been correct about where the Narrator would be located, Stanley felt a pang of worry crawl up his spine. He could have got stuck down here, alone, if he'd been wrong. But dwelling on those what-ifs was pointless. His current reality was perfectly fine, and he was satisfied with the direction he'd taken. For now, at least.

There were a couple of doors that were accessible — they'd gone by a few, coming back up this way — but Stanley had never ventured through any of them before. That meant he'd be taking a blind guess, directing them both through a possibly endless maze of hallways and corridors. That could only end in disaster. Causing grief and confusion over getting them lost was not on Stanley's agenda.

He frowned up at the ceiling. Why did it have to be so difficult? He wasn't good at this whole being in charge thing, and he'd only been at it for a minute!

Unable to come up with a solution on his own, Stanley found his gaze roaming over to the Narrator. The man was standing perfectly still, his focus locked on something above them. Stanley bit his lip. With half-lidded, dull eyes, the Narrator didn't appear to be looking at the cargo lift; it was more like he was staring right through it, his mind completely elsewhere.

Feeling cold all of a sudden, Stanley glanced down at their still-linked hands. Except, they weren't truly entwined, were they? The Narrator's fingers were loose, relaxed; if Stanley wasn't holding on for dear life, his own fingers curled tight and secure, then they wouldn't be maintaining a connection at all. The Narrator's hand would slip out of his grasp, oh so easily.

Stanley pulled in a stammered breath. It didn't matter. It wasn't important. As long as he kept telling himself that, it would be okay. They could get through this, because he was strong enough to haul them both through to the end, even if his companion was a reluctant attendant on this ride.

Figuring that their best option was to get somewhere familiar to the both of them, Stanley shifted from foot to foot slightly, trying to come up with the best place to go. Fighting the urge to fiddle with his shirt, he gulped, ignoring the scratching in his throat.

"How do we get back to the lounge?" he asked, cringing inwardly when the words came out croaked and raspy. He needed to soothe his poor throat, and soon. Too dry, too worn, it was being used in a way that it hadn't been needed for in years.

The Narrator blinked a couple of times, returning his focus to the present. Raising his free hand, he pointed back from where they'd come from. Stanley huffed out a sigh. Then, tugging at the Narrator to prompt him to follow once more, Stanley began making his way back into the hallway they'd just come from.

Coming to a halt outside the first door they came to — 2B1, Stanley noted — he turned his attention to the Narrator with a raised eyebrow. When it became clear that the Narrator wasn't going to acknowledge the unspoken question, Stanley rolled his eyes. Trust the man to become difficult now, of all times. Stanley's luck really was trash, wasn't it?

"This door?"

Stanley required clarification; he didn't want to accidentally lead them astray. All he got in reply was a tiny nod.

Feeling his features lowering into a scowl, Stanley considered keeping a tally of how many times he was going to get a physical response, rather than a verbal one. Was it necessary to begin a count? He couldn't quite come up with a reason not to, because the Narrator refusing to use his voice for communication was the total opposite of normal for him.

Filing away his anger for now, Stanley simply let it be and proceeded through the door.

They continued like that for a short while, with the Narrator pointing the way, and Stanley dragging him along for the journey. He wasn't truly taking in their surroundings as they went through the hallways until they came out into an area that he recognised.

Stanley felt a wave of relief flood him when they came to an extremely familiar corridor — the one containing the door to the maintenance section — and he blew out a long breath, trying to calm his heart. The warmth clinging to his body was ever-growing, and the tiny bout of exercise had not helped. Well, if going on a brisk walk for a few minutes could be considered exercise, in any case.

When his light panting dissipated into steady breathing, Stanley sniffed the air. As usual, there wasn't much of an aroma surrounding the area, but the dust that flew into his nose made him grumble. Snorting out the offending substance before it could produce a sneeze, Stanley turned towards his target destination.

"We can sit in the lounge and talk," he said, making a beeline for said room. "Just talk."

Giving a minute nod, reassuring himself that this was the best course of action, Stanley continued into the lounge, pulling the Narrator along behind him. Now that he didn't have the uncomfortable presence of an unknown location sliding through his thoughts, his nerves had seemed to settle into a cool, manageable speck. Rather than encompassing any sense of confidence he had in its entirety, it was now much more gentle in its touch.

'I can do this,' he thought, finally believing it.

As they made it over the threshold into the blue and white of the lounge, Stanley let go of his hold on the Narrator. He didn't think the other man would try running off — not at this present moment, anyhow.

Placing his hands on his hips, Stanley glanced around. Taking the time to fully let his body release all the tension that had built up, he kept his breaths even and his stance relaxed. Though his legs wanted to keep moving, he fixed them in place, instead opting to tap a finger against his side to quell the desire to fidget.

After a few seconds, when it became apparent that the Narrator wasn't going to make a move, Stanley gestured towards the sofa with a nod.

"You want to sit?"

When no reply came, Stanley found his gaze switching to the Narrator. He repeated the question, increasing the volume of his voice just a smidgen.

The Narrator was staring at the seat, his features set in a scowl. A shrug was all Stanley got in response to his query.

Resisting the growl that wanted to tear out his throat, Stanley lifted his chin. If he'd been keeping tabs on a strike system, they would have hit number three before even arriving here. But he'd allowed the silence, the passive replies, because they were both out of their comfort zones right now. His patience had been exemplary, if he did say so himself.

This was the final straw, though. Stanley could only permit a certain amount of leeway before his resolve broke.

Why was the Narrator even being this quiet? Why the fuck wasn't he chatting away, commenting on the absurdity of their meeting, making quips about the situation in a rambled display of annoyance like he was supposed to? The Narrator was the chatterbox in their relationship.

Hell, Stanley would take nervous, hysterical rants over this total absence of speech. Seriously, what was the guy's deal? The Narrator had been vocal enough to shout and scream his displeasure at being manhandled mere minutes ago. And now he was refusing to answer simple yes or no questions. The stubborn bastard had no right.

Lips drawing into a thin line, and pulse becoming an aggressive nuisance under his skin, Stanley decided that he'd had enough. Without warning, he snatched the Narrator's hand back into his own and wrenched the man harshly towards the sofa. He didn't bother with trying to be gentle; he was done with courtesy.

A tiny flicker of glee sprang into him when the Narrator stumbled somewhat, unable to catch his balance before Stanley forced him over to the aforementioned seat. Twisting the Narrator around, Stanley shoved him, hard. Relishing in the stunned heave that escaped the Narrator's mouth, he watched with satisfaction as the man landed on the cushions rather unceremoniously.

He gave the Narrator a moment to readjust, to regain some sense of composure after being handled so violently.

Making sure to stand at his full height — intimidation was key — Stanley stared down at the Narrator with the ugliest glare of disapproval he could muster. The fire in his heart was burning bright, and it felt as though every nerve in his body was tingling in anticipation. It was a peculiar feeling; one that he hadn't experienced before.

Deciding he liked it, Stanley kept himself rigid, waiting for the Narrator to settle in. Showing obvious disgust at Stanley's actions, the Narrator's expression was lowered in a glower, his mouth set in a tight, thin line. Despite this, his eyes were ablaze with confusion and . . . was that fear?

Stanley swallowed. The Narrator had pressed himself into the sofa, essentially leaning as far away from Stanley as physically possible. His arms were crossed over his chest, his hands clutching tightly around his elbows in a defensive posture. With his gaze fixed firmly on the wall off to their side, the aura coming off of him was one of discomfort and unease.

It made Stanley want to retreat, to give up on this whole ordeal and concede. Let the man have his silence. Let him have his tantrum. They'd go back to how things were. Eventually.

Mentally scolding himself for letting those thoughts manifest, Stanley let his expression reflect his rage.

"I know you're angry, but the silent treatment's a bit childish. Even for you," he said, biting out the words with malice. He needed to maintain a stance of control and fury, to keep his attitude on the correct side of hostile. Relinquishing any of the power he held would do nothing to fix this.

The Narrator's eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting into a sneer. The man was clearly listening to what Stanley had to say. And from the looks of things, the insult landed. Still, no sound came from him. Stanley seethed, his hands curling into fists.

"I'm not the one that's supposed to be talking!"

Louder than he'd intended, the statement cut through the air like a knife. This time, Stanley didn't bother to stop the growl. His frustrated cry was punctuated by a scoff, and he tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling. Bringing a hand up to scrub over his hot face, Stanley groaned at the unfairness of it all. He was not in the mood to spend the next few hours in the company of an uncommunicative child.

Gritting his teeth together, he forced his head back down. He sighed. Rage clearly wasn't going to sort the problem. He could be here forever, shouting and screaming until he turned blue, and it would probably result in no change. If taunts and reprimands weren't going to work, however, then what could he do? A change of tactics was in order.

Shifting his attention to the far door, Stanley pondered his options. Maybe coming at it from a different angle would suffice? He wanted them to be able to talk it out — with both of them speaking — and that required the Narrator to use his voice voluntarily.

Yelling at him obviously wasn't helping. What else was there? Attacking something the Narrator cared about, rather than just striking out at the man directly, perhaps? The only thing that came to mind was . . .

Stanley's eyes widened. The story. It was the perfect solution. What was the most important thing in the Narrator's view? What did he cherish above all else? Of course, it had to be that. There was no other way. How hadn't he thought of it before now?

It was wonderful; on top of everything, it was something that Stanley was confident in, something he could easily play through and use to his advantage. He was a natural at running through the story. And, more importantly, he was an expert at completely and utterly derailing it. The idea was grand, magnificent in its simplicity.

Playing through the story to its true ending wasn't the way forward; Stanley was convinced about that being fact. No, if he wanted the Narrator to react correctly, then he'd need to break the hell out of it. He'd need to play the part of both protagonist and narrator, and mangle the latter role so badly that his companion would have no choice but to intervene.

That was the issue, wasn't it? The Narrator was scared, terrified of becoming obsolete. Hadn't he said that he believed Stanley could recite the entire script without assistance? Without fault? If Stanley could prove that point wrong, mocking the idea enough to cause an outburst of verbal rage, then he'd be killing two birds with one stone.

Nodding to himself at the sheer brilliance of his plan, Stanley's lips lifted into a smile. He was going to get the Narrator to talk again, whether the man liked it or not.

Chapter Text

Stanley would not stop touching him.

Over and over again, it was always with the touch.

With a shove or a tap, a grab or a snatch, Stanley kept pressing him, tearing at his resolve, always making contact, contact, contact.

What was the incessant need? What possessed the man?

The Narrator couldn't squash down the confusion strangling his thoughts. Bewildered by Stanley's actions — the constant flip-flop of push and pull, of needlessly switching his attitude in rapid succession — the Narrator's mind was unable to confront the moves head-on, to keep up.

The driving force behind Stanley's actions was something he didn't have a grasp on.

Stanley should never have gone to the zen room.

Why had he? Why?

There was a puzzle piece missing, leaving a gap in the Narrator's knowledge. He could normally slot Stanley's reactions together, creating an overall picture of his desires and motivations. This, though, was incomprehensible. Stanley's insistence on them interacting at this level, on having a conversation about it all, was so disastrously average and ordinary.

Most humans — people — would want to fix the conflict, the stress and anxiety staining the atmosphere.

But they weren't normal. How could they be? They were trapped, caught in a loop of stories that only one of them had any real power to influence. The Narrator was many things — could change outcomes based on where Stanley decided to go — but he couldn't make the decisions, the choices that mattered. Picking a door was not his job.

His mind was a rush of conflicting emotions, swirling together, fighting for dominance. If he read the situation correctly, Stanley had apparently been in search of him. The idiot had deliberately sought him out, to find him, to talk about the issue.

What issue?

Stanley's betrayal.

No, no, no, no, no. It wasn't that; he couldn't describe it like that.

The Narrator had overreacted, hadn't he? Yes. Yes, he most assuredly had. A crumb of his logical side knew that to be fact, and it was attempting to persuade the irrational pieces of his mind that it was true. And failing. How unfortunate.

He wanted to go back to earlier, before the whole fiasco, to begin a run with this entire thing scrumpled up and pushed to the back of their minds.

Except, that was . . . Childish, was how Stanley had described him, right? Though he was loath to admit it, the Narrator couldn't fault the insult. He'd never been good at handling his more volatile emotions. He always tried hard to lock them up and cage them behind bars inside himself, but that was futile. Instinct and feelings came to him just as easily as they came to Stanley, regardless of how much he tried to deny it.

Something grabbed at his hand once more. Clenching his jaw, the Narrator held back on the complaint that wished to surface. The noise would be undignified, and he didn't want to give Stanley even more to fret over.

Stalling on his desires, on his body's want to act out and bat the offending grabby fingers away, the Narrator managed to keep himself calm.

Stanley was doing it again.

Touching him. Creating skin-on-skin contact. Why?

Why?

Could he not just stop? Stanley's hands were hot, clammy, and so very sticky. Vile was a harsh word, but it leapt to the forefront of his mind. Did Stanley not understand? Holding hands wasn't necessary; the Narrator would follow him, albeit warily, because he had no real reason not to. Now that they were together, running off again seemed rather pointless. Especially considering Stanley had already proven he could catch him.

He didn't require the assistance. Stanley wasn't designed to be an escort, a babysitter. What a silly concept that would be.

Yet he kept on, tugging away, all hands and fingers, tight grips and sweaty palms. Hadn't Stanley stated that he only wanted to have a conversation?

'Just talk,' he'd said.

The absolute liar. This wasn't talking; it wasn't anything close to it.

Where were they going now? Stanley was pulling him up off the sofa, out of the lounge, and back towards the start of the game. He was going the wrong way. Absurd!

The Narrator's mouth was uncharacteristically dry; his throat caught on a sigh that didn't quite make it out. Staggering as Stanley hauled him onward, his feet stumbled over each other, and he fought to maintain his balance. He wasn't used to this kind of prolonged action, and Stanley seemed determined to be unkind by refusing to give him time to match the high speed.

The Narrator didn't bother to hide the glare his features had lowered into.

Where was the target destination? The Narrator allowed himself a moment — just one — to observe Stanley, to try and determine the man's thought process. Problems were accumulating, pouring in, adding to an ever-growing pile of irritations betwixt them. Stanley obviously wanted all their grievances gone; wrapped up in a neat little bow and tossed out the window, to forever be forgotten.

But what was his plan to achieve such a feat?

The lines around Stanley's eyes and the slumped look of his posture were indicators of a growing tiredness. Although he'd expressed clear anger in the lounge, it didn't seem as though that was the driving force behind his actions.

Snapping from his thoughts when they arrived at the room with the two doors, the Narrator was only mildly surprised when his hand was released. Biting his tongue to stop the grumble that wished to escape, the Narrator tried not to wipe his palm on his trousers. Fidgeting now would be pointless; inappropriate.

As Stanley stepped up to the centre of the room, the Narrator kept back a foot or so. Maintaining distance wasn't necessary, but it did allow the option of him being able to protest if Stanley tried to grab at him once more. Plus, he was capable of better observations from afar, as it guaranteed a larger view of Stanley's overall form. Body language could be read, mulled over, scrutinised, revealing hints that ordinarily wouldn't be obtainable.

Watching as Stanley straightened himself out before rubbing his hands together, it seemed as though he were contemplating something. What that something was, the Narrator couldn't determine. He grouched, the frustration of that making him yearn to be back at his controls, at his desk. Stanley was so much easier to read through the monitors, where the Narrator wasn't physically present to influence his every move.

After a moment, Stanley appeared to come to a decision. Drawing in a deep breath, he lifted his head and opened his mouth to speak.

"When Stanley came to a set of two open doors . . ."

The Narrator felt his heart suddenly stop.

What?

No. No, no, no. What was he doing?

". . . He entered the door on his left."

It was very nearly perfect. If not for the slight shift in pitch — Stanley's voice was naturally higher than his, by a minute amount — then the imitation would have been flawless.

The Narrator swallowed, his throat constricting, closing in on itself. Feeling a wave of nausea fill his stomach, threatening to rise and torture his oesophagus, the Narrator took an involuntary step back. He cursed the reaction as it caught Stanley's attention. He didn't need Stanley's focus on him right now.

Eyebrows scrunching up, the Narrator couldn't help it when his gaze locked onto Stanley's eyes when the man turned to look at him. There was undoubtedly something within his expression that Stanley would recognise. Despite being a silent, simple protagonist, Stanley was far from stupid. Detecting emotions would come naturally, and the Narrator wasn't being particularly subtle in his displays.

Stanley let out a shaky sigh, before nodding. He licked his lips. What could he possibly be seeing now, when he looked at the Narrator? Despair? Disdain? The Narrator wasn't fully aware of which feeling was more prominent right now. All he knew, all he could determine, was that he was not happy with this development.

The direction Stanley had decided to go with, the journey he seemingly wanted to take, was not one that the Narrator wanted to be a part of. His features were almost certainly conveying some semblance of disapproval, considering the open stare Stanley was giving him.

Blowing out a puff of air, Stanley frowned. The man wanted co-operation, didn't he?

"Come on." The words were spoken with a careful urgency, as though he was in a hurry to get somewhere, but couldn't quite bring himself to shout out the demand for fear of causing negative backlash.

Finding himself shaking his head in response, the Narrator swallowed thickly, trying his hardest to keep his voice from erupting into the space between them. He didn't want to speak — not yet — because he wasn't entirely sure what words would spill out.

His pulse was deafening in its violent thud, thud, thudding under his skin. With his mind wanting him to hold his ground, but his body wanting to back up and retreat once more, the Narrator was torn, fighting an internal battle that didn't make sense. He wasn't used to this . . . this . . . What even was it? A lack of control? An emotional breakdown? It didn't add up.

A chill ran down his spine, making him shudder. Stanley was watching him still, with those soft, concerned eyes. Always with the apparent worry. Stanley licked his lips again; he kept doing that. Why did he keep doing that?

The Narrator frowned, taking note of how cracked Stanley's lips appeared to be. They were dry, lacking moisture, and there was only one reason for it: The man required a restart so his body would reset back to its default status. How long had they been running this instance, now?

Had it been a few hours? The Narrator hadn't kept track — that should have been troublesome, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Stanley would be getting hungry and thirsty, though, if it had truly been that long. Refreshments existed to quench any needs Stanley could possibly develop, and the Narrator had provided them before when Stanley had requested breaks from the game. But that required the Narrator to be back in his room so he could access the necessary controls.

He scolded himself. That was yet another thing he was neglecting. Stanley's health was not something to play with. Of course, a reset would fix everything if something went wrong, but a lack of water should never have become a problem in the first place.

"If you're not going to talk to me, then we're doing this instead," Stanley said, breaking the Narrator from his thoughts. He blinked, trying to refocus. Stanley had moved towards him slightly. It was obvious he was trying to coax a favourable reaction, to goad the Narrator into following him yet again.

Should he be happy about that? Wasn't that what the Narrator had wanted? For Stanley to let him have free rein to move on his own? And yet, when it was given, he'd settled back into his new habit of resistance. What was wrong with him?

Stanley clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing with a shade of anger. That was not a good sign — every time the man had devolved into rage, his choice of action had been to manhandle the Narrator into action. And the Narrator did not want a repeat of earlier.

Breaths becoming laboured, the Narrator lowered his head a touch, sending a glare Stanley's way as he did so. His heart was racing, beating so very noisily against his chest. It felt as though his fingers had gone cold, almost numb, and any warmth coating his body had evaporated, leaving his limbs trembling.

Something in his demeanor must have triggered a change, because Stanley pulled back, if only a little. After a second, he tentatively brought an arm up, seemingly to reach out to touch the Narrator's shoulder. Unable to stop his very visceral reaction, the Narrator flinched back; he wasn't in the least bit surprised when Stanley froze, his hand waving in the air awkwardly.

Dropping his arm when a moment had passed, Stanley bit his lip, before deciding to change tactics. Bringing a hand out again, this time he let it stay low, palm up, and left it hovering halfway between the two of them.

The Narrator's eyes darted down towards the obvious invitation.

"Can we carry on with the story, please?" Stanley asked, wiggling his fingers.

In other circumstances, this would have been funny. In an alternate universe, where the Narrator wasn't reeling from his hysterics and Stanley wasn't playing mediator, the fact that their roles had been reversed would have elicited some level of amusement.

All the Narrator could think about, however, was that Stanley was asking him to touch him. Again. How dare he request such an action, when he'd forced it upon the Narrator so many times already. Why did he think that would make a difference? Seeking consent. Wanting permission. It didn't change a thing.

It didn't.

Unable to look at the proffered hand any longer, the Narrator squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. Teeth gritting together, his own fingers had curled into tight fists. He still couldn't quite feel the tips properly, and he knew that if he were to glance down at them, they'd be pale, white. Too white.

"Narrator?"

Eyes snapping back open abruptly, the Narrator's attention flicked back to Stanley immediately. Stanley nodded down towards his still open, waiting hand. Allowing disbelief to enter his mind, the Narrator choked out a scoff. The audacity of this man!

Regardless, he found his gaze glancing down to Stanley's hand almost of its own accord.

Would . . . Would it hurt to take the offer? To accept? It was better than being dragged — at least, he assumed it would be. The comfort level would be considerably higher, would it not?

Sniffing, the Narrator cleared his throat, pointedly ignoring the dryness of it. Giving a stiff nod, he unfurled his fingers and hesitantly reached out to take hold of Stanley's hand. When they made contact, Stanley laced their fingers together, linking them securely. The Narrator's brows furrowed in bewilderment as he stared down at their joined hands.

He had to admit, it didn't feel as bad as it had earlier. Stanley was still far too hot for his liking, but it wasn't stifling, and somehow didn't make him want to pull back immediately. Perhaps Stanley was on to something with this whole 'seeking permission' thing.

Glancing back up, he was met with a blinding smile. Mouth parting in surprise, the Narrator stared blankly at Stanley's face as a strange heat rose into his cheeks. Stanley's eyes were sparkling, his lips lifted in a bright, magnificent grin.

Confusion swelled within the Narrator, but he chose to pay it no focus. For now, anyway. He could investigate the cause of Stanley's moods later, when he was in a better frame to probe and study him meticulously.

"Thank you," Stanley said, his tone a flurry of joy, before turning to the left door.

The Narrator followed his gaze, shocked to find his trepidation and disgust at having to go through it all but gone. What was this? Was Stanley doing something to manipulate his feelings? Something had replaced the nausea and dread; it curled around his throat, slowly but surely encompassing it in a startlingly rough embrace.

As Stanley took his first step forwards, the Narrator made sure to follow suit. It would do no good to change his mind now, even if there was a strange feeling taking hold, choking him. He'd try to work out what the problem was later, when he wasn't so aware of the skin on his hand burning with an unfamiliar, pleasant warmth.

Chapter Text

There was a peculiar mantra repeating itself inside Stanley's head. Throbbing away, it was beating in a rhythm of warmth and comfort, circling his mind and heart, engulfing them in its loving embrace. The phrase was like a dance, its shallow tempo guiding the way of his thoughts, and it carried on without any sign of disappearing.

'The Narrator is co-operating with you,' it whispered, delicate in its presence.

It was such a minute detail, entrapping his thoughts in a bustle of joy and exhilaration. Why did something so small mean so much to him? Stanley couldn't wrap his head around it; not that he cared enough to try any harder than required.

His nerves were singing as the pressure around his fingers from the Narrator's hand continued, strong and consistent and so very real.

Stanley couldn't get over it.

The Narrator had taken his hand voluntarily.

Yes, admittedly it had taken some persuasion. But that was beside the point, wasn't it? When he was making progress in this journey they'd embarked on, Stanley wouldn't hesitate to count successes wherever he could.

And — this was the part he couldn't quite comprehend — he couldn't deny the other thing that was swirling around his mind, making itself bigger and more important than necessary. Unfortunately, he hadn't missed the smattering of pink that had coated the Narrator's cheeks when they'd joined hands. That left him with questions, ideas, and an odd feeling he couldn't quite understand.

Perhaps he was paying a little too much attention to the details of the man's physical appearance. Could anyone blame him, though? This was all new, exciting. Plus, he got to entertain himself in ways that had never been available to him before.

The fun part — if he let himself enjoy it — was trying to figure out exactly what had triggered the blush. Stanley wasn't entirely convinced that it had been from them touching, because they'd been doing that a lot over the last half an hour or so. What else could it have formed from?

He pushed any attempts at guessing aside, though not without regret. He was busy right now, and he needed to stay focused on the matter at hand.

As the two men walked through the corridor towards the meeting room, Stanley silently reprimanded himself. He'd almost forgotten the reason they were doing this in the first place. Getting distracted by such silly things was immature. This was supposed to be serious, something to solve the drama of their growing dilemmas.

He needed to mess up, to be incompetent enough to cause upset and rage in the Narrator. Except this, right now? With the Narrator walking beside him, keeping pace, and their fingers linked together, forming a solid bond? It was nearly enough to make Stanley want to reconsider his plan.

The Narrator's cool skin was a relief from the stifling heat that had been suffocating him since their initial falling out. He liked having the Narrator here, by his side, acting as his partner rather than some kind of hostage.

When they came to the opening of the meeting room, Stanley's brows furrowed. Did he screw it up and do what he'd set out to do, or did he say the correct lines? The Narrator's reaction to his earlier recitation hadn't been . . . favourable, to say the least.

Stanley paused in the doorway; he was unable to squash the tingle of glee that prickled his skin when the Narrator immediately came to a stop next to him. There was barely any distance between the two of them now; if he concentrated, he could hear the soft breaths coming from the Narrator over the hum of the lights above them.

Stanley gave the Narrator's hand a quick squeeze — mostly to reassure himself that this wasn't some kind of weird dream — and then let out an unsteady exhale. The hot air passed out his mouth in a lazy, drawn-out breath.

He wanted this moment to last, but this was no fairy tale. They needed to push onward, to move the story along. Closing his eyes momentarily, Stanley rolled his shoulders, stretching them out. The pull on his muscles was tight, close to painful, but that didn't deter him from dragging out the action for a second longer than necessary. As he relaxed his frame, a tension he didn't even know he'd been holding onto seemed to ooze from his body.

Reopening his eyes, Stanley took a step forwards.

When his foot made contact with the blue floor covering the meeting room, Stanley used that as his cue to begin speaking.

His mouth opened, and the words that spilt from it were high in volume, bold. Boisterous, almost.

"Yet there wasn't a single person here, either."

He gulped. Keeping his eyes on the table and chairs in front of him, Stanley was acutely aware of the Narrator's hand twitching in his own.

One mistake; that was all he'd done. A contraction rather than two whole words. His starting point was tiny, something that no one would notice. No one except the Narrator, of course. And the pause between the lines, which was completely unintentional — Stanley hadn't spoken the next words yet, even though he should have already — was another thing the Narrator was most definitely taking note of.

Stanley stiffened. He needed to get a grip on the underlying anxiety wrapping itself around his throat.

All he could think about was whether or not he needed to be more obvious. Stanley swallowed down the desire to groan in frustration. Forcing himself to take another step further into the room, he felt a sting of betrayal tear into him when the Narrator didn't imitate the move. Now a good inch behind him, the Narrator stood motionless.

At least their hands remained connected. For now.

Again, Stanley opened his mouth to say the next part.

"Feeling a wash of disbelief, Stanley decided to go up to his boss's office."

The grip around his fingers loosened considerably.

An incorrect word was far less obscure, and it showed. Blatant in how incorrect it was, the word had apparently caused an instant reaction in Stanley's companion. That . . . wasn't good, was it?

If the Narrator caught on to what he was doing too early, then he might decide to retreat even further into himself. A lack of speech was one thing, but a lack of presence was another entirely. And the Narrator could very easily attempt to run off and hide if he got too savvy, too quickly.

Stanley shook his head. He needed to keep those thoughts locked up at the back of his head. Concentrating only on his end goal, on what he wanted to happen at the end of all this, Stanley pressed on.

"He hoping—"

Stanley spluttered out a cough. What the fuck was that?! Choking on his own saliva, he felt his cheeks flare with an unmistakable flush. A fire rose up his neck, along his jaw, encircling his ears and reddening them.

That was not what he'd wanted to say. Maybe he was concentrating a little too hard. Tunnel vision was making him look a bigger fool than he wanted. Clearing his throat in an attempt to scrub away the embarrassment, Stanley cringed.

Deliberately opting to look at anything and everything that wasn't the Narrator, Stanley fought the urge to scratch at the burning flames winding around his tongue. He tried again.

"He hoped he might find an answer there."

Biting the inside of his cheek, there was an undeniable, almost uncontrollable desire surfing through his thoughts, telling him to smack himself. Hard. He ignored it.

Realising after a moment that he'd managed to somehow completely butcher the pronunciation of the second to last word — answer — Stanley yearned to sigh, but resisted for fear of giving himself away.

That was also unintentional. He wasn't trying to mock the Narrator's way of speaking — in all honestly, he adored the Narrator's accent — but the Narrator didn't know that, and Stanley had no intention of ever telling him. The problem was, that the only thing the Narrator heard was the broken attempt of a word, adding to all the other screw-ups Stanley had managed to concoct in the span of a few seconds.

Perhaps Stanley wasn't as cut out to read the script as he'd initially thought. Narrating was much more difficult than he'd anticipated. Knowing the words, how they were supposed to be spoken, and actually getting his vocals to co-operate correctly were two entirely different things.

Pursing his lips, Stanley finally chanced a glance towards his companion.

The Narrator was staring at him, a look of sheer disbelief present in his features. There was something else, something more if Stanley looked deeper. Hiding under the surface, he could see a glint of suspicion teetering on the edge of the Narrator's gaze, as if he wanted to spout accusations of what he believed Stanley to be doing, but couldn't quite convince himself to do so.

That confirmed it: The Narrator was definitely not buying whatever Stanley was bringing to the table.

Stanley forced his lips up into an auspicious smile. Pretending he hadn't just mangled those last few sentences was the key to success, right? That was his current goal. If he could give off an air of innocence, making the Narrator think that Stanley thought he'd spoken the correct dialogue, then this would go a lot more smoothly.

Sniffing noisily, he wrinkled his nose somewhat at the smell of stale coffee permeating the area. He'd never quite liked the meeting room for that reason — it was one of the few rooms in the building that had any kind of aroma surrounding it, and it wasn't a pleasant one.

He absently wondered what the Narrator smelt like. Hopefully not coffee, or tea, or any other type of drink available for consumption. Stanley blinked. Why . . . Why had that thought entered his mind?

Tutting, Stanley turned on the spot suddenly. Using the momentum of the action, he moved forwards; the Narrator's hand slipped from his own immediately. Startled, Stanley flipped back around to face the Narrator, his eyes wide and his mouth dropping open without his permission.

Okay, so he was being kind of obvious, but come on! The Narrator's mood swings were getting a tad out of hand. Couldn't the man give him a speck of trust? Just for a minute? A second, even?

"What's wrong?" he asked, hoping for a verbal answer. He wasn't crossing his fingers — the Narrator was stubborn, that much Stanley knew — but his heart wanted what his heart wanted. Maybe the absence of tact he'd been emitting had already pissed the Narrator off enough to speak up? It was far-fetched, but it wouldn't be too far out of character for him, would it?

When the Narrator's eyes narrowed, Stanley strained his limbs to prevent the flinch that wanted to occur. As he'd predicted, the Narrator didn't even attempt to form a vocal reply to his question. His gaze spoke volumes, however. Continuing to watch Stanley with a dark glare, his irises looked almost black in the dim light of the meeting room.

Deciding he didn't want the scrutiny — couldn't put up with it, more accurately — Stanley made a show of rolling his eyes.

"We were making good progress, Narrator. Let's carry on with the story."

Then, copying an earlier action, he held out his hand. Wiggling his fingers as he had done before, Stanley gestured down, letting an open, friendly smile light up his face. It had worked previously, so why not try it again?

He watched, waiting as the Narrator's gaze slowly but surely lowered until it was locked on his palm. The Narrator's expression seemed to deflate, breaking somewhat, and Stanley could have sworn he heard the unmistakable sound of a whine pass through the man's closed lips.

It took only a moment for the Narrator to reach out and reconnect their hands.

Feeling more elated than he probably should, Stanley let his features transform into a show of gratitude. He had a feeling that this was taking its toll on the Narrator emotionally — more so than it was Stanley — and he wanted to ease the man into this next part carefully. If that meant remaining patient, taking what little victories he could, then so be it.

Motioning towards the exit of the room with a rapid nod, Stanley turned around yet again. Beginning their journey once more, the two men were slow in their speed as they walked through the meeting room and out of the open doorway.

Finally, they were free of that miserable area.

Subconsciously, Stanley's gaze drifted to the door on his direct left. His legs came to a stop, freezing his body along with them. The broom closet. He had nothing but good memories of the place; there was just something terribly comforting about shutting himself in the small room, closing off the rest of the office.

He licked his lips. Unable to contain the lure of the room, Stanley felt an endless need to go within its domain. He was unaware that the Narrator hadn't noticed his change of focus; at least, not until his arm was pulled on. And quite forcibly, at that.

Jerking slightly due to not paying attention, Stanley wrenched his arm back instinctively.

At once, the Narrator was hurled back towards him. Gasping in shock, Stanley backed up quickly, making sure to create enough space so the man wouldn't come crashing into him. Again.

A yelp echoed through the air, making Stanley wince.

Couldn't he go five minutes without heaving the Narrator around? That had to have hurt in some way. Stanley was sick of causing unnecessary physical pain. A frown tainted his features as he came to the conclusion that he really needed to get out of the habit of using brute force against the man. Though, to be fair to himself, this instance had been wholly accidental.

As the Narrator took a moment to regain his composure, Stanley found his eyes shifting back towards the broom closet.

He shouldn't.

He really shouldn't.

But holy hell, did he crave it. The room was calling his name, purring a siren's song, urging him to go within its confines. Hadn't he said that he wanted to derail the story, just a bit? Sure, he knew that playing through the correct path would guarantee the least resistance from the Narrator, and keeping his plan of only disrupting the script was still his agenda.

And yet . . .

A tiny, minuscule detour wouldn't hurt, would it?

He felt a yank on his arm. Firm and not remotely gentle, the pull was clear in its intentions. Unable to stop his features from dropping into a sneer, Stanley's gaze darted to their joined hands. Was this how the Narrator had been feeling every time Stanley had tried to coax him along in a direction he had no desire to go in?

If that were the case, then Stanley couldn't really blame the Narrator for how he'd been responding. Being constantly tugged on was irritating, especially when the desires of the person doing it weren't on the same page as his own.

Choosing to ignore the Narrator's suggestion that they move on — because obviously, now the man wanted to continue on with the story — Stanley used his free hand to grab the handle of the door in front of them. Pushing down on the grubby metal, he pulled the door open easily. Stanley's lips lifted at the corners when a barely audible grumble came from next to him.

Walking inside the broom closet, Stanley grinned.

"Stanley stepped into the broom closet." His tone had no right to be as high and cheerful as it was, yet he couldn't bring himself to try and change it. Besides, he was going for inaccuracy in his reading, right? Meaning the delivery, by all accounts, was perfectly incorrect.

"But there was nothing here." Turning to give the Narrator a cheeky smirk, he waggled his eyebrows. "Regardless, the Narrator went inside too, joining Stanley in the amazing room."

The look he received in reply made him almost bark in laughter, but he managed to contain the outburst. Oh, if looks could kill, he'd be six feet under. Giving the Narrator's hand another squeeze, Stanley resisted the aching desire to just pull the other man inside with him. That would be pointless, achieving the opposite mood to which he wanted.

"Well, are you going to defy the narration?" he asked, his mirth making the question light and airy.

The Narrator grumbled something unintelligible — probably a curse muttered under his breath — but dragged himself over the threshold of the door, albeit reluctantly. Stanley didn't know whether it was because the Narrator probably didn't have the strength to force Stanley back out of it, or if there was another reason for the co-operation.

It wasn't important, because now they were both safely inside the broom closet. Making sure to close the door to seal the deal, Stanley decided to release the grip he had on the Narrator. Dropping gracelessly to the floor, he grunted as his ass made contact with the solid ground beneath him. Not letting that insignificant bout of pain dissuade him from his objective, Stanley smiled.

His dramatic display of defying the Narrator's wishes to continue with the story proper was both familiar and energising. This was what he was comfortable with.

His body sagged, settling into his seated position. He wanted to make it blatantly clear that he wasn't planning on moving any time soon.

Glancing up at the Narrator, Stanley couldn't stop the amused grin that adorned his features when he took note of the absolute rage pouring out of the man. Giving a large, toothy smile, Stanley giggled.

He then patted the floor beside him, and waited.

Chapter Text

An assortment of pointless objects littered the cramped room they were occupying: A few rolls of grey duct tape, some kind of humongous tool that probably weighed a tonne, a broom, a mop bucket with no mop—

Stanley blinked.

How many instances had he ventured into this little cubbyhole, only for him to have failed to notice that an essential piece of equipment was missing? Apparently, he needed to pay more attention to his environment.

Why was there no mop? What use did the bucket have, when no cleaning instrument was combined with it? Why would the Narrator — or whatever created this place — make something that lacked its required device to operate?

Stanley hummed audibly. Too many questions; too few answers. Feigning indifference to try and convince himself that he didn't care — he did, for some freakin' reason — Stanley idly wondered whether there was any water at the bottom of the yellow container. There wasn't much of a possibility of any liquid being present, given the absence of the mop, but he couldn't discount the idea completely.

There was always a chance, in this place, regardless of how little it made sense.

Allowing his eyes to roam over the other items in the room for the umpteenth time in a matter of minutes, Stanley contemplated what he was actually doing. He wasn't bored. No, that wasn't the case. If he were being honest, he could admit that he was enjoying being here very much, especially considering he had company for a change.

The problem — because there definitely was one — was how utterly quiet everything was. The Narrator, having finally sat down after an inordinate amount of groans and moans muttered under his breath, was cursing Stanley with silence once more. Even his breathing, which was controlled and calm, was somehow devoid of sound.

If Stanley were prone to paranoia, he would have believed he was fantasising, imagining the Narrator's presence rather than it being reality.

He released a puff of air, letting his frustration show. The hard floor beneath him wasn't comfortable, and his legs ached for movement, but he stubbornly refused to move them to give some sort of relief. Getting back up or fidgeting would be a waste of energy.

After some consideration, he'd decided against continuing with any of the dialogue that was supposed to accompany being inside the broom closet. Given that some — most, his mind corrected — of the script devolved into insults and strange rants about dead people, Stanley wasn't exactly eager to reproduce the lines.

The alternative option, however, was proving to be more trouble than it was worth. He didn't know how to broach the topic of conversation, of creating communication when his single audience member was plainly upset with him.

As he let his gaze lock onto the racking in front of him, everything began to blur as his eyes glazed over. What was he doing? What was the purpose? He was losing focus, and he needed to snap out of it.

Maybe an apology would work?

'You've already tried that, idiot,' his brain scolded, though there was no malice in the insult.

His features pulled into a frown. There was a peculiar feeling trailing along his veins, like he was full of fumes that wanted a trigger to ignite . . . something within him. Probably anger. Or an outburst of hysteria. If Stanley were a betting man, his money would be on one of those being the overall winner.

Thinking about it, did he truly have a reason to say sorry to the Narrator? Had he actually done anything to warrant speaking a word that would default his verdict to guilty?

Stanley shook his head softly, blinking in rapid succession to remove the fuzz from his sight. He'd hurt the Narrator's feelings; that was all he needed to understand, to convince himself that he owed an apology. Whether it was deserved or not didn't matter, because in the end, all Stanley wanted was to correct his mishap.

Eyebrows furrowing as ideas popped into his head, Stanley began picking at one of his fingernails. Perhaps he could trick the Narrator into performing a verbal response?

No.

He dismissed it before it could even evolve into a fully-fledged thought. That was literally what he'd set out to do with his attempt at narrating the story. And look where they were now, due to his negligence. Having managed to screw it up, having gone off track at the first opportunity, the distraction caused by this stupid room wasn't turning out to be beneficial.

This detour sucked, to be quite frank.

Pursing his lips, Stanley chanced a quick peep at his companion. The Narrator was indeed breathing incredibly slowly, with the fall and rise of his chest being the only indicator that he was still amongst the living. Behind his metal-framed glasses, his eyes were closed, and he had his head leant back against the room's door. With his hands folded neatly in his lap, Stanley would have assumed him to be sleeping, if he didn't know any better.

Stanley's focus shifted to the Narrator's hair. Previously, it had looked like it'd been swept over hurriedly with a comb in an attempt to achieve some sort of order. Now, it was much wilder, with strands misplaced here and there and everywhere. Completely unkempt, as if someone had been mussing it up with their hands.

Stanley smiled slightly. They were close to each other — nearly touching — and if he were to reach an arm out, he wouldn't even need to stretch to be able to run his fingers through the messy locks. He wondered what it would be like, how it would feel.

Having had zero contact with another human had not been kind to his sanity. Other than today, he hadn't felt the touch of another person in what felt like forever.

His smile withered, breaking away into an abyss of sorrow and concern. That was one of the reasons he wanted this to work so badly, wasn't it? Why he wanted the Narrator's forgiveness. Why he wanted co-operation, wanted communication, wanted contact. The hand-holding was just the start of it all. Acting as nothing more than a gateway to get the Narrator to obey, it had rapidly transformed into something more, something nice.

Something he craved.

And Stanley was a greedy man. He wanted more. A shoulder grab. A high five, perhaps.

A hug.

Oh, how beautiful would it be to hug another person.

Getting to that point — if it were even possible with the man sitting next to him — would be a challenge. It required better terms between them, and a stronger understanding of their relationship. Did the Narrator consider him a friend? Did the man even like Stanley? During some endings, it certainly seemed like the Narrator cherished his company.

But then again, there were the other endings . . .

Stanley shuddered, trying to ignore the memories of vicious verbal abuse that wanted to tear apart his mind. He couldn't deny that the Narrator could get antagonistic during some runs, to an extreme degree. Stanley had been blown up more times than he could count; had been on the receiving end of cruelty that had left him crying on more than one occasion.

Stanley wasn't off the hook, though; he had given as good as he got, and he'd done things in the heat of the moment that he regretted immensely.

Neither one of them was an innocent participant in their whole debacle of an existence.

Stanley cleared his throat, pushing those thoughts aside. They were of no aid to his predicament right now. Memories were harmful, nasty things that only elicited sadness in his life.

What could he do, then, if not trickery? Narrating was obviously out of the question, because what could he possibly say about the broom closet? It was kind of dull, without any proper wallpaper or paint to decorate it, and the most interesting fact about the room was the distinct omission of a damn mop.

Then there was anger. He shrunk into himself slightly. Anger was not something he was willing to retread. That tactic had failed, miserably, and his insufficient ability to keep his hands to himself in that emotional state was not acceptable.

What did that leave?

He stopped fidgeting with his nail and clicked his tongue. Could he get away with playing a game? There were different types he could think of that didn't require movement or physical exertion. Hell, there were plenty that didn't involve the need to even stand up.

Fighting the smirk that suddenly wanted to emerge when one particular game came to mind, Stanley straightened his back. He scanned the room hastily.

"I spy," he started, unable to stop his gaze from flicking back to the Narrator, "with my little eye . . ."

The Narrator's eyes snapped open. Whether it was due to the sudden noise, or Stanley's choice of words, Stanley didn't know. He didn't care, because he'd got a reaction, and that meant the Narrator was paying attention to him, regardless of the Narrator putting up a front of nonchalance and dismissal.

". . . something beginning with 'N'," he finished, not caring to hide the preposterously smug grin from displaying on his features.

He waited. Turning his head slowly to give Stanley a blank stare, the Narrator didn't say a thing. The edges of Stanley's mouth rose; he'd anticipated the mute response.

"Would you like a hint?" Humming in amusement when the Narrator's eyes narrowed just the tiniest of amounts, Stanley raised an eyebrow.

He nodded. "Okay, then. It's loud."

There was a pregnant pause. He nodded again.

"It likes being dramatic."

Attempting to mask his glee would be futile, but he did chew on the inside of his mouth to try and prevent himself from giggling like a child. Shifting his position on the floor a touch, Stanley twisted around until he was facing the Narrator directly. With his eyes going wide, he leant forwards slightly as though he were about to divulge a dark secret.

"It loves being an obnoxious ass when it doesn't get its way."

The glare he received in reply was positively stunning. Stanley's grin somehow managed to grow, becoming open and bright, lighting his face with its beauty. If it stretched any further, he was afraid that his mouth might rip off his face.

Shimmying his shoulders, he edged ever closer to the Narrator, waggling his eyebrows cheekily. Oh, this was far more fun than he'd first believed it would be. What a glorious plan. Stanley thanked his brain for being so incredibly smart.

Tilting his head, he gave the Narrator's body a quick once over with his eyes.

"It's much shorter than I thought it'd be," he commented, as his eyes locked back onto the Narrator's own. Stanley felt his heart begin to race. The man's cheeks were a blazing red, a stark contrast against the paleness of the rest of his skin, and there was a fiery rage burning beneath his irises. Stanley wouldn't be surprised if steam were to start spurting from the Narrator's ears in the next few moments.

His attention flickered to the Narrator's lips; he felt a strong satisfaction fill him when he realised the Narrator was biting down, actively preventing himself from opening his mouth and screaming at Stanley to shut the hell up.

Yes.

He was so close to getting what he wanted. Just a little more, a nudge, and he'd get to hear that wonderful voice again.

"Do you know what it is yet?" Stanley asked, his pitch surprisingly high as he tried to swallow back the guffaws that desperately wanted to escape. How could something this stupid be so devastatingly enjoyable? It was ridiculous.

The Narrator brought one hand up from his lap. Turning it until the palm was facing away from Stanley's form, he stuck up his index and middle fingers. The two-fingered salute was a hand signal Stanley knew of, being a different form of an unfriendly gesture that he'd used many times before.

The obvious 'fuck you' was enough to break Stanley's will, and he couldn't hold it in any longer; he doubled over in laughter. Clutching at his sides as his eyes clamped shut, the volume of the laughs filled the tight room, bouncing around the walls and ceiling, surrounding the two men.

A strange sensation, similar to pain, crawled into his stomach as his body continued to shake with the laughs. Gasping out to try and ease the stinging in his insides, Stanley found that he didn't quite mind the peculiar agony. He couldn't even recall the last time he'd laughed this hard, and it felt amazing.

Wiping harshly at the tears spilling from his eyes, Stanley attempted to pull in some deep breaths to calm himself down. Sucking in the air through his open mouth, the laughs eventually began to die, ebbing into involuntary chuckles every second or so. Lifting himself up, straightening out until he was more or less sitting upright again, Stanley opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling.

His neck and chest felt incredibly warm, and he sighed when his muscles began to relax. Ignoring the weird feeling of moisture on his cheeks, Stanley licked his lips, tasting salt. Content, Stanley tilted his head to the side to glance at the Narrator.

What he saw made his breath hitch. Gone was the nasty scowl; instead, there was a softness in the man's expression as he watched Stanley quietly. Was that fondness he saw in the man's eyes? Stanley swore it was. Startled by the change in attitude, Stanley could do nothing but stare, trying to understand what had caused the mood shift.

"Are you quite done?"

It took a moment, but Stanley's eyes widened when he realised that it wasn't him that had spoken. Swallowing back the gasp — he didn't want to appear more excited than necessary — Stanley found himself shaking his head. He continued to stare, slack-jawed, unable to form words.

The Narrator quirked an eyebrow and his lips twitched up at the corners. He hummed, before moving his attention away from Stanley and leaning his head back against the door. It was now the Narrator's turn to watch the ceiling above them.

Feeling the already too-hot burning in his chest spread, Stanley's hands curled into tight fists. Thankful that his nails were trimmed short — he'd be causing damage to his palms if they weren't — and grateful that he was already sitting down, Stanley's lips drew into a thin line as he moved his gaze away from the Narrator. Focusing on the first object that came into view — a random container on one of the shelves — Stanley tried to think of something to say.

This was what he'd wanted; now that he had it, he didn't know what to do. He hadn't planned this far ahead. Biting his lip, he shook his head slightly as he realised that he was probably thinking too hard. This didn't require a debate, or some rehearsed monologue. All he had to do was say the first thing that came to mind.

Satisfied with that, Stanley once again found his attention moving to the Narrator. Giving a small smile, he opened his mouth to speak.

"So," he said, feeling his smile widen, "have you figured out what the answer is yet?"

Chapter Text

Nuance was criminally underrated.

There was something so incredibly satisfying about how subtle it could be when breaking through the normality of brutal tact and crass human behaviour.

The more urgent screams for attention — those of ballistic fights, of arguments filled with wails and shrieks — showed how raw exhibitionism could be.

The less forbidden actions made to be seen, however, such as extravagant artworks or beautiful theatre plays, couldn't be described as evils, per se. They held purpose, had agency in their existence.

In the Narrator's opinion, being able to create the implication of suggestion, rather than outright stating the obvious, was so very delicate in its execution. Storytelling was one such activity that required both broad, well-executed leaps in anticipation and thrills, as well as quieter, nearly silent whispers of emotion woven throughout the writing and acting.

Nuance gave stories more than any exposition ever could. It was required, and the Narrator would never be convinced otherwise.

Stanley was more masterful of it than the Narrator had ever thought possible.

He admired the trait, of Stanley's ability to show appreciation for a simple, spoken sentence, without the need to gawp or shout in joyous celebration. Only a hint — Stanley's little misstep, where he failed to fully cover his shock — had been offered.

The Narrator was grateful for the lack of abrasiveness.

Drawing in a deep breath to calm his ever-present nerves, the Narrator's lips pulled down in distaste. The broom closet wasn't particularly interesting, especially in person, and he itched to remove himself from within its vicinity.

That choice was on Stanley, however.

He was the designated driver, the person in charge of this operation. Given the man's ability to make decisions on the fly, without prompting, it was only natural that he be given the reins in this little escapade of theirs.

Having thrown Stanley a bone, so to speak, the Narrator wasn't really in the mood to speak anything more right now. Keeping his composure during his single sentence had already taken a toll. He was eager to move forwards, to progress this course they were traipsing through, but without his voice, how would he encourage Stanley to leave this place?

"Do you want to get on with the story now?"

Yes. God, yes. If it meant getting out of this miserable closet, then the Narrator was more than willing to endure another round of Stanley's rendition of the narrative. He still wasn't entirely sure whether Stanley was intentionally messing the script up, but that wasn't a priority in his mind at the moment. Bludgeoning the lines could be forgiven, regardless of intent.

When he realised that Stanley was waiting for an answer, the Narrator glanced in his direction and gave a nod. Choosing to ignore the flash of disappointment that tore through Stanley's eyes when the non-verbal response registered, the Narrator's gaze darted to the floor. He wasn't used to being this close, of witnessing the impact of his choices without the luxury of a screen to hide behind. The bubble of unease settling in his stomach, the feeling of being watched and judged for his actions, was unwelcome.

How did Stanley put up with it so easily?

Not waiting a second longer, the Narrator pushed himself up until he was standing upright. Action would help keep his thoughts settled. Rolling his shoulders, he winced slightly at the sudden ache pulsing under his skin. The pain in his legs wasn't as shocking — the room was rather cramped, and he'd been sitting awkwardly — and he absently tapped each individual foot against the floor a couple of times to relieve some of the pins stabbing at them.

Blowing out a huff of air, he brushed his hands over the soft fabric of his jumper, sweeping away at imaginary dirt. He knew the clothing wouldn't be dusty, even from spending time in this shabby room, due to his own pristine upkeep of the game as a whole. Coffee stains and fallen paper were one thing — they added atmosphere — but actual filth? In his game? Never.

He straightened up and trilled softly.

Stanley had yet to move.

Oh.

Excellent. So, either that was a development he would need to deal with now, or Stanley was just taking a moment to catch up. He hoped for the latter. The Narrator waited a second. Then another. A silent sigh passed through his lips when Stanley continued sitting there, refusing to move.

An unpleasant urge, sharp and icy, shot through the Narrator's spine. It called for him to berate Stanley, to bark out orders, demanding why he was being a stubborn arsehole. When his hands curled into loose fists, the Narrator's eyes widened. Now that wasn't fair. Stanley wasn't deserving of a reprimand, even though he was neglecting to do the action that he had suggested. It would be uncouth to attack the man at this moment in time.

The Narrator let out a shaky breath. He wasn't sure he'd be able to contain himself if he allowed his vocal cords to be let loose and have their way. Any words being freed into the space between them would require absolute control.

Mouth thinning into a line, the Narrator lowered his head and crossed his arms. He wanted—No, he needed to keep his hands occupied somehow; unfortunately, there was nothing here to grab hold of. Normally he would have buttons to push, knobs to twist, some paper to shuffle through. Anything that would keep his fingers moving when Stanley was testing his patience helped to ground his feelings.

Tensing his fingers, he deliberately chose to resist the desire to grimace when the pressure on his arms became close on painful. He could tolerate it, for focusing on maintaining a neutral atmosphere was the goal here. Moistening his lips with his tongue, he brought his head back up and nodded to himself.

"Stanley." The first word was easy, but he faltered when the man in question immediately snapped his gaze around to stare at him. The Narrator cleared his throat, disgusted at his body's so very human attachment to anxiety.

"Will you be partaking in the activity you suggested?" he continued, every word scratching at the delicate flesh of his throat like sandpaper. "Or am I going to have to stay here in this — quite frankly — hideous abode, watching you sit there like an invalid?"

He punctuated the question with an eyebrow raise, hoping indifference would be conveyed in his attitude. There were far too many conflicting emotions swirling through his body, vying for attention, and he didn't want Stanley to realise that verbal input was requiring effort on his part right now. He was a narrator, for God's sake; speaking was his entire purpose. Struggling to talk was pathetic, but the chore of it was only adding to his increased stress levels.

And, in all honestly, he wasn't sure how much more it would take for the dam to break.

Best not to think about it too much.

As Stanley nodded vigorously to the question, before scrambling to his feet in a rather undignified tangle of limbs, the Narrator swallowed the bile rising up his throat. It burnt the back of his tongue, leaving a vile aftertaste in his mouth. Bringing a hand up to his lips, the Narrator coughed once, firmly, in some silly attempt to remove the discomfort.

It didn't work.

Gritting his teeth together, the Narrator felt a strong desire to groan come about; he forced it down, squashing the noise before it could spring into the world.

What he wouldn't give for a glass of water right now.

His body was, admittedly, not used to this level of activity — the running, the manhandling, the tears, the shouts — and he had a feeling that dehydration might become a factor that both he and Stanley would have to deal with in the near future. It wouldn't be a serious problem, of course — a reset would fix everything if it came down to it — but it would create frustration due to the trouble of it all.

Simply being thirsty was already causing irritation. And Stanley was probably worse off than him. How long had Stanley spent running around the facility before finding him in the zen room?

"Let's go, then."

The cheerful words broke the Narrator from his musings. Blinking, his eyes refocused on Stanley's form, before quickly shifting to that ever-present outstretched arm of his.

Damn him.

The Narrator didn't care to prevent his eyes from rolling as he reached out to grab Stanley's hand yet again. This was becoming a regular occurrence, wasn't it? After all this was said and done, he certainly needed to poke around Stanley's head to see if he could figure out what this new obsession with holding hands was.

For now, however, he could play along. The questions could come later.

Stanley led them up the stairs towards the boss's office, all whilst managing to recite the lines of the script correctly. He didn't feel the need to mess up at the moment considering how badly he'd mangled the parts in the meeting room. Plus, the detour to the broom closet had proven worthy of his time, giving him a precious gift in the process.

He felt revitalised, full of an energy that was lifting him high off the ground, making his steps feel airy and light. Almost like flying. Not that he knew what it felt like to fly. The strange floating he was subjected to in the looping ending was the closest he'd even been, and that mostly felt like walking on thin air more than anything else.

Blatantly ignoring the bathroom, and briskly ducking past the computer and desk, Stanley and the Narrator entered the large expanse of the boss's office without any unnecessary fuss. Stopping to take a peek at the ceiling towering above them, Stanley's lips rose into an easy smile. What a preposterous set-up. Why had this office been designed so . . . elaborately compared to all the other areas of the building?

Was it for the story? Did it add some kind of character trait to the missing boss that just went over Stanley's head? Whatever the case, the luscious reds and browns of this space were always a stark contrast against the rest of the complex. It was refreshing, in a way.

Moving his gaze back down, Stanley's focus shifted to the piano. Gently ushering the Narrator over to the grand instrument, Stanley pressed down on one of the white keys.

No sound was created.

Turning his head to look at the Narrator, Stanley gestured towards the piano with a side nod.

"Why doesn't this work?" he asked, attempting to appear curious.

In all honesty, he didn't care that the piano had never been able to produce music, due to not having an interest in playing any sort of instrument. But it was a conversation starter. On top of that, if he could get the Narrator to fix the pointless thing, then it would give him something new to play with for a while. It was a win-win.

The Narrator stared at him, shrugging one shoulder in reply.

Releasing his hold on the Narrator, Stanley frowned. "That's not an answer."

When he received nothing in return for his comment, Stanley was hit with an almost uncontrollable urge to scream in aggravation. Resisting the temptation to let the unholy screech claw its way out his mouth, Stanley humphed.

It was fine. Everything was just peachy. He'd gotten the Narrator to speak already, right? So, this setback wasn't all bad. He just needed to be patient.

Again.

Always with the patience.

Why was it on him to be the understanding one?

Shaking his head a touch to clear his mind, Stanley changed his focus to the script he'd been neglecting since arriving here. Already having missed the cue to begin the dialogue for this room, Stanley wasn't too concerned with being accurate. In fact, he could make a show of it. If the Narrator was going to be difficult, then Stanley was going to have some fun.

Walking to the centre of the office, Stanley did a quick spin, letting his arms spread wide.

"Stepping into the boss's office, I was once again stunned to discover that no one was here," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He clapped his hands to his cheeks, creating a loud slapping noise upon impact, and gasped.

"I was shocked! Unravelled!" he declared, removing his hands from his face so he could wave them dramatically above his head.

"Stanley—"

Oh no, he was not about to let the Narrator interrupt him now. Snapping his body around so he could throw a disapproving glare the Narrator's way, Stanley held up a finger in a stopping gesture. He tried to ignore the look of utter disbelief being thrown his way — he really did — but it was no use. Heat rushed to his cheeks, burning them. Stanley twisted on the spot so he was facing away from the Narrator once more. He didn't want to break character just yet.

"Who could have orchestrated this?!" Flailing his arms wildly, he made a show of glancing around the room in complete bafflement, before he caught sight of the keypad in the far corner.

"Oh, a keypad! Maybe that was hiding the terrible, evil, nasty, horrible—"

"Stanley."

"—dark secret. Yes, definitely. Couldn't be anything else."

He heard a sigh.

"I bet it has a super secret PIN number, huh?" Stanley asked, increasing the volume to drown out any more protests that might come his way. Not waiting for an answer, he stalked over to the keypad, stomping his feet with obnoxious determination. Halting in front of the device, Stanley turned to give the Narrator a smug grin.

The warmth in his cheeks had spread, undoubtedly covering his entire face in a smattering of red. Not that he cared. This was kind of cathartic, if he did say so himself. Lifting a hand, he hovered a finger over the numbered buttons.

"And I bet that number . . . is . . ."

He paused.

"Er . . ."

Uh oh. Shit, wait a minute, what was the code? Mind going blank for a second, Stanley stood there, hand up and outstretched, ready to press the first digit. Except, he didn't know what that number was. And the Narrator was watching him, his expression dangerously close to that of anger, as he waited for the finale of Stanley's outburst.

Stanley's eyes glazed over as he tried to think, to get his brain to work. What the hell was going on? Of all the things for him to momentarily forget, this was the memory his brain chose to trip over?

He squirmed under the scrutiny he knew he was still receiving.

The passageway to the elevator was already open. The fireplace was up, the doorway large and open and inviting. It was like it was mocking him, laughing in his face. Why hadn't he just gone through the entrance, bypassing the lines in the boss's office completely? He could have skipped this room, forsaken all dialogue — because it was a lot, given the correct amount of time — but no.

His dumb brain had gotten annoyed at the Narrator's constant back-and-forth, deciding instead that the best course of action would be to mock each story beat this room had. And now he'd gone and screwed up.

Standing there, pinned to the spot, Stanley understood that the opportunity to play it off as a joke was rapidly slipping from his grasp. As the seconds ticked by, the Narrator was getting increasingly more suspicious, if the narrowed eyes and scowl were any indication.

Stanley's mind was screaming at him to act. Laugh it out, pretend he'd got bored and wanted to move on, or perhaps remember the freakin' code. Literally, anything would be better than standing there saying nothing.

His hand started to tremble. Opening his mouth, Stanley was aiming for words, but all that came out was a strangled cough.

Perfect.

Chapter Text

He expected anger.

Rage was such a simple emotion. It sprung to life in violent bursts, barrelling through all logic and reason, tainting every other feeling with its immense power. There were levels, ranging from the mildest drip of annoyance, to the most overwhelming tsunami of fury. Expressing the various types one could experience was something that Stanley was familiar with.

He was prone to using his body, showing the language of his wrath through stomps, kicks and, when he was feeling particularly nasty, storming through endings that would intentionally vex his observer. Stanley's mood, at the worst of times, could be like a trigger, switching him to a foul pool of negativity in a millisecond. His anger came in bouts of physical responses because talking had never been his strong suit.

The Narrator, on the other hand, whose vocabulary and articulation rose above any skill Stanley could ever hope to achieve, did use words to display his fury. Scathing insults and cruel quips were the usual methods the Narrator was in favour of when pushed over the edge.

Stanley had always assumed it was just how the Narrator was. Some people liked to verbalise themselves with shrieks and sarcasm, airing off their hot tempers with audio, and the Narrator appeared to be one of them. It had never really occurred to Stanley that, perhaps, the Narrator showed his anger in the form of speech due to having no other outlet. Being tucked away in his control room, only having the capability of watching events playing out, stopped the Narrator from doing more.

Now, though, Stanley couldn't defend that initial assumption. Experiencing the man in person put a hole right through his beliefs. From what he could gather, the Narrator preferred to stew in silence, holding his displeasure in a securely locked prison, denying any outsiders the ability to break through the barriers he put up to protect himself. It was the total opposite of what Stanley was used to.

Peculiar; that was how Stanley would describe the feeling of having his worldview crushed so easily, if not for the fact that he was used to this sort of hoopla by now.

So, as he continued standing there, not stating the passcode that both of them knew he should have memorised, Stanley definitely expected to be treated to some sort of anger. Silence or screams. Whichever came wouldn't matter, because he was confident he could handle both.

The problem was, reality had a funny way of messing with him; what he expected to happen, and what actually happened, were two entirely different things.

He saw the moment the Narrator realised that he had, indeed, forgotten the code. The man's shoulders slumped, dragging his posture down from the ram-rod straight stance it had been in, and his features — something that had been set in a glower, indicating the anger Stanley had anticipated — smoothed over, flattening out in clear distress.

The Narrator looked hurt, as though he were in physical pain.

Frowning, Stanley attempted to voice his thoughts, his concerns, but nothing came out. He remained speechless, standing there like an idiot.

Watching as the Narrator's gaze darted to the floor, Stanley could see him swallowing thickly. Moving his arm up to wipe a hand across his mouth, the Narrator let it linger for a moment, his fingers clenching and unclenching sporadically as if he didn't quite know what to do with them. Then, after a moment, he snatched his arm back down to his side, the move unnecessarily forceful.

When the Narrator returned his gaze to meet Stanley's, there was nothing else to do but thank the stars that they weren't standing closer together. Stanley hadn't seen another human being in a terribly long time, but that didn't mean he'd forgotten what different emotions looked like. And he honestly didn't think he'd be able to handle it if he saw real tears right now. If he couldn't see the moisture covering the Narrator's eyes, then he could pretend that it didn't exist.

Right?

"I think it might be best if we restart."

Stanley's heart stopped.

Oh. That tone. That fucking tone.

It was something he only ever heard in one, very specific ending — the zen room, or more accurately, the staircase beyond it. Nowhere else and in no other way had Stanley ever done anything to produce that distinct sound in the Narrator's voice. Full of sorrow, upon hearing it for the first time, Stanley had sworn off ever going back through the red door.

Of course, that promise had promptly been broken the next time the Narrator had pissed him off.

Hearing that same tone now was startling. But that wasn't the main issue, because he could deal with it. Even if it filled him with a weighted guilt, he could push through the waves of crushing shame it bestowed upon him.

Except . . . He was currently seeing the effects of his actions, witnessing what the Narrator looked like when shoved into that state of uncontrollable misery. Struggling through and overcoming his regrets was much harder when he was forced to be in the same room as the person he was upsetting.

The Narrator shifted suddenly, signalling he was about to leave, and it brought Stanley back to the present instantly.

"Wait!" The volume was far too shrill for his liking, the pitch close on hysterical as the single word wobbled through the air. He resisted the urge to cover his ears. Under other circumstances, he would have felt embarrassed at having produced such a horrid sound. How could his voice create a call that desperate and needy? Had it always possessed that ability?

He tossed the thought aside. Right now, he didn't have time to dwell on his needless humiliation.

Shifting away from the keypad, Stanley brought his hands up, reaching out to thin air as if he could pull on an invisible rope to grab the Narrator and hold him in place. Glancing back towards him, the Narrator's eyes narrowed. Thankfully, he didn't continue to move, instead opting to watch Stanley with cautious prudence.

With his pulse racing and his breaths becoming shallow, Stanley puffed a bubble of air from his throat in some ridiculous attempt to settle the feeling of electricity tearing throughout his veins. The fine hairs on his arms and neck were standing up, and his legs were tingling, prickling with tension, holding within them the desire to be put to use.

Allowing them their wish, Stanley hurriedly kicked himself into gear, turning up his speed and rushing over to where the Narrator was still standing next to the piano. When he got within touching distance, Stanley forced his legs back into a stiff embrace of ice, freezing them in place to halt his momentum. He released a quivering breath.

"Iknowthecode," he said, words tumbling together into the open so quickly that the syllables jumbled together, throwing all sense of meaning aside.

The Narrator lifted his chin. "Then say it, Stanley."

Momentarily surprised that the Narrator had managed to understand his mash of words, Stanley found himself nodding absently.

Then, realising what the Narrator had asked him to do, Stanley felt a wash of dread take over his form. Feeling his lips begin to twitch and tremble, his tongue tripping over numbers his mind didn't know to say, Stanley was hit with a harsh reality: He couldn't win here. No matter what he did — what he was capable of doing, more like — the Narrator was going to react badly. The code was his only chance at salvation.

But Stanley couldn't even guess what the answer was. The probability of him getting four consecutive numbers correct, in a row, was statistically impossible. Or, well, it might as well be. He didn't know the exact math behind it, but he was privy enough to understand that this was an already lost battle. A soldier on the field, surrounded by ticking time bombs that were set to go off the moment he opened his mouth to speak, Stanley was at an impasse.

The silence stretched on, blatant in its presence. Losing his last ounce of patience, the Narrator grunted out a scoff that managed to sound wicked to Stanley's ears. Shaking his head abruptly, the Narrator twisted on the spot so he could begin heading back out the office door. Stanley didn't allow him a single step before reaching out to grab him.

Making contact with the Narrator's shoulder was horrifically short-lived; the man jerked out of Stanley's grip instantly, snapping his body back around until they were facing each other once more.

"Don't touch me!"

The frantic cry pierced the space between them, making the few inches feel like the expanse of a planet.

Stanley's arm shot back to his chest, curling into his body as though it'd been burnt. An involuntary gasp escaped his mouth. He noticed a hint of something — regret, maybe? — flash across the Narrator's features. Whatever the emotion was, it was immediately replaced by an all-too-familiar scowl that Stanley was, unfortunately, getting far too used to seeing.

Clearing his throat, the Narrator turned his gaze away; he crossed his arms over his chest as he did so, hugging himself.

A tight knot wound its way into Stanley's throat. He wanted to speak, but the over-use of his voice was beginning to make itself known. Unsure as to how much longer he would be able to go on without giving his poor vocals a much-deserved rest, Stanley fought through the pain, willing it to disappear.

Consequences be damned, his voice was his best weapon right now, and it was required to navigate this new predicament with as much finesse as he could muster. Given the circumstances, he didn't think it would be a lot.

"I don't understand," the Narrator said, breaking through the awkward silence. "Really, I truly don't get you, Stanley."

Though his voice was rougher than usual — were the Narrator's vocals also suffering in some way? — it had settled into a more neutral tone. Stanley was grateful for that little blessing, at least. Neutral, although not completely safe, was better than sadness.

Releasing a long exhale, the Narrator tilted his head. "Why go through all this trouble just to—" He cut himself off with an irritated mumble. Huffing out a sigh through his nose, he turned to glare at Stanley. "I really thought you cared for a moment, there. About the story, about m— Urgh, what was the point of all this? It doesn't— It makes absolutely no sense.

"I feel like I'm missing a vital piece of information, and you're intentionally withholding it from me. Is this all a game to you?"

Stanley baulked. With his fingers squeezing into fists, his nails started to dig into the soft skin of his palms, leaving indentations. He focused on the pressure, fighting off the growing panic rising within him. They were so close to everything being okay. Why did it have to go and get screwed up again? And over what? Him not remembering a bunch of digits?

This iteration of the world, or whatever place they existed in, obviously despised him for some reason. What the hell had he done to deserve this punishment? Could the universe not have provided him with a companion that was a little less clueless about, well, everything to do with socialising?

"It was just a brain fart," he supplied, his voice surprisingly stoic despite the chaos going on in his head. Plainly ignoring the incredulous look the Narrator threw his way in response to his word choice, Stanley shifted his weight slightly. Gritting his teeth together, he straightened his back and let his limbs go taut. He needed to form a solid, stable foundation. He would become a rock, allowing nothing to penetrate his walls.

The Narrator was going to get over this silly setback, stopping his tantrum in the process, because Stanley would make him.

Hopefully.

. . . Maybe.

After a moment, the Narrator's eyebrows scrunched into a frown. His arms somehow tightened even further around his body, gripping at his sides in a way that had to be hurting him.

"You've been through this path hundreds of—"

Stanley shot his hand up into the air, interrupting the obvious rant that was coming.

"So what?" he asked, his other hand coming up to join the first as they began flailing around in some kind of attempt to emphasise his point. "I'm human; sometimes I forget shit!"

He hadn't meant to use the expletive, but his temper was gaining ground, increasing exponentially, teetering on the verge of boiling over. Dangerous, was where his emotions were heading, and he knew that he needed to calm down. It wasn't that easy, though, considering he was, yet again, being written off as the bad guy.

Why was he always the one in the wrong?

Paying no mind when the Narrator flinched at the volume of his words, Stanley decided to double down and take a step forwards. He was not backing down. Not this time. He was allowed to mess up, for Christ's sake.

"Stan—"

"No!" Barking out the word with a ferocity he didn't mean, Stanley stabbed a finger in the keypad's direction. "It's just a stupid code. It's not like it's important!"

He regretted the words the second they escaped his big, dumb mouth.

An odd sound carried through the air, forcing its way out the Narrator's throat as he took an involuntary step back in a desire to create any kind of distance between the two of them. His face had contorted into a sneer, marring his features with its intensity. There was the anger that had been missing.

"Not important?" the Narrator asked, pitch becoming awfully low. "That code is literally the blockade between here and, at the very least, four separate endings. Including the true freedom you enjoy bypassing so often. How, in your infinite wisdom, is it not important, Stanley? Please, explain this masterful understanding of its paltriness."

There was red behind the Narrator. The wall above his head was lined with a beautiful, richly coloured wallpaper coated in the pigment. If Stanley were to imagine his rage in a physical form, it would be of a similar look in terms of saturation and vibrancy.

This shouldn't be difficult. At every turn, with every inch of progress they tip-toed over, somehow, in some way, Stanley did an action or said a sentence that reverted it right back to zero, plummeting them back to the bottom of the well.

However, he was starting to wonder whether he was the real problem, or if it was the Narrator being deliberately obtuse and taking things the wrong way that was causing all this hassle. Surely the Narrator could tell that Stanley wasn't intentionally trying to rile him up? It had been an accident; yes, could have been avoided, but that was beside the point.

Stanley was getting sick of it. He craved a break, to relieve his body of the stress and anger that had been converging inside of him since that stupid, stupid sneeze.

He growled, low and dark. Maybe one day, in the distant future, he'd be able to think back on this day and laugh, recalling the memories with humour and nostalgia. That was a long way away, though. Here and now, all he saw was the specific shade of red, clouding his vision and casting a silhouette over the cause of his current aggravations.

It created the perfect background, pointing down at his target.

Stanley took another step forwards. The Narrator matched his direction, trying to step back and away from him, to keep the space between them vast and open, but was stopped when he collided with the wall. A startled gasp tore out his mouth as he made contact with it.

Revelling in the sound, Stanley didn't try to hide the smirk that wanted to rise onto his lips. His brain was awash with feelings he couldn't quite describe, basking his nerves in flashes of fire and ice. One, then the other, hot then cold. There was something nasty crawling inside of him, twisting around his organs, whispering sweet nothings into his mind.

Egging him on, tempting him to advance.

Obeying the call like an obedient mutt, Stanley closed what little space was left between him and the Narrator. His smirk widened when the Narrator pushed back against the wall, pressing himself into it until he couldn't move back any further. Inching his head forwards ever so slightly until he could feel the Narrator's stammered pants against the hot skin of his cheeks, Stanley pursed his lips.

Not bothering to make another move just yet, he was content with observing, waiting.

A tiny movement caught his focus; flicking his gaze to the beads of sweat trickling slowly down the Narrator's temple, Stanley couldn't help but become transfixed by the liquid. The droplets held no significance, had no reason to capture his attention so mercilessly, yet he couldn't prevent the unnecessary focus he was giving them. They were clear, new, almost beautiful in a way.

There were two drops, side by side, trailing a smooth, clean line down the Narrator's flushed skin.

Stanley blinked.

Two.

Two?

Mouth snapping open in surprise, a loud, undignified noise shot out of it, causing the Narrator to jump. Locking his eyes with the Narrator's own, Stanley felt a fire rise within him, warm and comforting as it filled his body.

A bulb had just switched itself on inside his mind.

Without thinking, he reached up to grab the Narrator's face, cupping the man's jaw on either side with his hands. Despite the sweat, the man's skin was still cooler than his own, if only by a tiny amount. Ignoring the look of fear glimmering behind the Narrator's gaze, Stanley's mouth lifted into an enormous grin. Leaning forwards until their noses were practically touching, Stanley let out a gleeful laugh, overjoyed at his sudden epiphany.

Anger could take a hike, because he was just so freakin' happy all of a sudden. Through his excitement, he let his jaw hang wide, screaming to the world what had caused such bliss to form within him.

"2, 8, 4, 5!"

Chapter Text

It was funny, in a way, how certain things could completely change a person's perspective of what was happening, all in the blink of an eye. In one moment, he was angry, willing and actively provoking irritation and discomfort in the Narrator. The next, he was ecstatic, his skin tingling as elation bubbled around his body.

His brain did work! It retained memories, exactly like it was supposed to. Wasn't that just great?

Unfortunately, his brain also chose that moment to come to another realisation. It was a small tickle in his mind, knocking at his thoughts, whispering a suggestion that maybe he was, well . . . kind of a bit too close to the other occupant of the room.

Proximity to another person was something that could invoke a plethora of emotions. Comfort, joy, unease, annoyance.

Embarrassment.

Yet Stanley didn't feel that right now. The quickening of his heart, the heat rising to flush his cheeks with a glistening pink? Neither of those were due to a blistering shame. Quite the opposite, actually. He was rather happy here, still holding the Narrator's soft skin, their faces barely an inch apart.

As Stanley allowed his gaze to lock onto the Narrator's, he couldn't help but notice the terror residing in the man's dark irises. Behind the glasses, the Narrator's eyebrows were high and arched, his eyes wide in what could only be bafflement as he stared back at Stanley, frozen in place. If he looked deeper, put scrutiny into it, Stanley knew he'd be able to describe the more hidden feelings lurking there, but he was too distracted right now to pin them down.

Glancing down towards the Narrator's parted lips, he was hit with a sudden, unmistakable urge. Primal; that was how it would be described if given a voice. The feeling was loud and invasive, shooting through his consciousness like a bullet.

The Narrator's chest was rising and falling rapidly with the quick pants passing over his lips. Stanley could feel each breath caressing his mouth; it was a lovely breeze amongst the flames scorching his flesh.

If he leant forwards, just a tad more—

No.

No, he couldn't do that. It would be unfair. Wrong. Had the Narrator not, mere seconds ago, screamed at him not to touch? Of course, the Narrator wasn't outright complaining about them both being in direct contact right now — not that he had much say in the matter — but crossing that particular line? Hell no. It didn't matter how much Stanley's mind was pleading for it, yelling in silent anguish.

Mistakes had already been made today, but that one was something that would never be salvageable. Forgiveness for its existence would be nothing more than a dream.

Stanley's next exhale came in a shuddered mess. Licking his lips, he willed himself to take a step back. To let go and release his hold. Yes, his body desired the contact, the presence of another. A strong need to push further, to extend the length of time they were joined together was right on the surface of his wants.

Hammering vigorously under his ribs, his heart was letting its intentions known, clear as day. But Stanley wasn't a damn animal. He couldn't give in. Not like this.

Sucking in a deep breath, Stanley forced his hands down and away from the Narrator's face. The bare skin of his palms immediately felt the loss, and he fought the pull to move them back to where they'd just been. Taking a very deliberate step backwards, Stanley's lips drew into a thin line as he tore his gaze away from the Narrator's mouth — how long had he been staring? — and looked the Narrator in the eye.

The Narrator, for the most part, seemed content to continue just watching him. Stanley swallowed. Only now, with the distance between them, could he see that the other man was trembling slightly. Stanley bit the inside of his cheek, ignoring the floundering beat of his pulse.

He'd done it again, hadn't he? Gone too far; let his emotions take over, allowing him to physically grab at someone who didn't want to be handled in such a way; and pursued a path that had almost caused an action he would never have been able to explain away.

"I—" he started, voice faltering when he couldn't think of what to say. What could he say here? He couldn't magically reverse time, removing his actions from the past couple of minutes. Even a reset wouldn't erase it from their memories. Yes, the feelings would fade with time, but the knowledge of what he'd done would still be there.

Rubbing his hands together, Stanley glanced down at them in some attempt to ground his thoughts. A solid object he could focus on would hopefully settle the nausea in his stomach.

"I'm sorry."

The apology floated through the air, thick and heavy. Blinking a few times to clear his now blurry vision, Stanley's features scrunched in wonder as he realised that the voice he'd heard wasn't his own. Lifting his head back up, he locked his gaze onto the Narrator, displaying his confusion openly.

What?

The Narrator was playing with his own hands, his eyes flickering between them and Stanley momentarily before he fixed them squarely on the latter. Pulling in a shaky breath, the Narrator adjusted himself slightly as he moved away from the wall a bit. Easing himself into a more natural, relaxed stance, he clicked his tongue.

"I'm not being fair to you. I realise that this," he said, gesturing between the two of them, "is all very much new to you, too, Stanley."

The volume of his voice was infuriatingly quiet. Stanley was used to a deep, confident tone, regardless of emotion, so hearing the Narrator speak barely above a whisper made his nerves spike. Despite this, Stanley waited, content to stand there and listen as the Narrator gathered his bearings so he could continue. As the Narrator forced himself to stop fidgeting, he straightened up and prepared to carry on speaking. Thankfully, his next words were louder.

"Your supposed, ah, 'brain fart'," he started, mouth fumbling over the silly vocabulary in distaste, "was—Do we have to call it that?" He shook his head. "Anyway, well, clearly you know the code. I'm merely having difficulties navigating . . . this." Waving awkwardly in Stanley's general direction, the Narrator threw Stanley a pleading look, hoping to convey what he meant.

Nodding in acknowledgement — Stanley wouldn't exactly call his own experience with this a walk in the park — Stanley willed some of the tension in his body out through a long sigh. This was better. Progress.

The Narrator was talking openly and properly — there was none of that stupid grumbling and no single-word replies — and it seemed that Stanley's faux pas hadn't caused the friction he'd feared. Having his companion be the more socially inept of the two of them seemed to have given him a free pass. However, he still needed to sort out his own thoughts and meddled desires after all this was over. Attaching himself emotionally to the Narrator was one thing, but wanting physical access was something else entirely.

And Stanley didn't even know if the sudden want had come from pure loneliness, or an actual, growing attraction to the man standing before him.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Stanley pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, indicating towards the furniture. "Can we sit and have that talk now, then?"

The Narrator squirmed somewhat, before giving a quick affirmation. Satisfied for now, Stanley turned and began making his way over to the sofa. Making sure to push the table to create room, Stanley situated himself on the right side of the seat. His posture was rigid, and his hands felt odd as they pressed on his thighs.

He frowned as a strange coolness swept over his form. Making himself look as uncomfortable as he felt was probably not the best course of action. Contemplating his next move for no longer than a second, Stanley shuffled, easing his body down into a more slouched position. Twisting so he was facing the opposite side of the sofa, he allowed one of his legs to come up and plop itself onto the tattered cushion.

He waited patiently for the Narrator to join him; when he did, the Narrator sat himself down as far away from Stanley as possible. Stanley frowned.

He knew the Narrator was struggling. Even a child would be able to tell. This obstacle created by Stanley's screw-up over the code was just a single stepping stone in the grand scheme of things. Sure, the Narrator was talking to him, but that didn't mean he was out of the water quite yet. They still had that to discuss — his ability to speak — and he knew the Narrator was seeking an explanation.

The hard part came with one simple fact: How did he go about telling the man that, truthfully, he had no good reason as to why he'd kept it a secret for so long? Why had he? Overall, Stanley believed it came to instinct. Reacting to stimulation with expressions and hand signals, rather than with his vocal cords, had become a habit born from a defence mechanism.

He had a feeling that was not going to sit well with the Narrator.

Watching quietly as the Narrator finished getting tucked into the worn-out seat, Stanley brushed away an imaginary piece of fluff from his leg. When the Narrator was done, it was hard not to notice that he was twiddling his fingers, and looking ridiculously unhappy with the situation. A small smile crept its way onto Stanley's face.

If there was anything to come from this, at least he now knew that, somehow, the Narrator was even worse at this than he was. There were hints, here and there, of the man's anxiety when he was hidden away doing his job. But actively seeing the little twitches and twinges in plain sight, full of confirmations of insecurity deep inside the man, helped ease Stanley's own nerves. If only slightly.

The Narrator glanced his way.

"You know, Stanley," he started, voice quiet, "maybe we should have a rest first. Resetting might not be a bad idea."

Immediately wanting to protest, Stanley's attempt was halted when the Narrator shook his head.

"I don't mean we should put this off indefinitely. God, no, that would be awful," the Narrator said, scowling. "But neither of us are in tip-top shape, here. I'm tired, and I'll be damned if I let your physical body deteriorate any more than it has. It requires refreshing."

Stanley blinked. That was a bizarrely clinical way of putting it. Was that all the Narrator thought of him as? Some product or code in a game? Stanley shook his head, trying not to think about it too hard. They could have a conversation about that later.

Now, what was the best way to demonstrate that he did not want to restart the game?

Sure, thinking about it, he was thirsty, and kind of hungry too. That was of no concern, though. He could go for hours more without fixing either issue. Would it be easier if their basic human needs were being met? Obviously. Did that mean he wanted to delay the inevitable even more and partake in a reset that may or may not result in him never seeing the Narrator again?

Hell fucking no.

He had a feeling that the Narrator wanted this reset so he could, intentionally or not, use it as an excuse to hide himself away again, away from Stanley's prying eye. The Narrator was prone to irrationality right now, considering his state of mind. Protecting himself, regardless of whether it would hurt Stanley, was probably at the top of his priority list. The man could be selfish at the best of times, meaning it wasn't out of the question for him to run away once more.

Stanley rightfully deserved comfort and security too. And he quite enjoyed the company of another, present person. A bodiless voice just didn't have the same effect.

"We could get a drink. The vending machines work, right?" he suggested, hope springing through him.

The Narrator mumbled something under his breath, and Stanley found himself almost pouting in response.

"I'd need my controls for that."

Stanley raised an eyebrow. "And you don't need them to restart the game?" He was completely unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Come on, this was silly. He did not need the Narrator to play this game right now.

Scrunching his eyebrows in annoyance, the Narrator leant back into the seat and grunted out, "Naturally. I'm not omnipotent, regardless of what you may think."

Was the snark uncalled for? Yes. Did Stanley care? Not really. All this meant was that, if the Narrator insisted on sorting Stanley's, er . . . physical health first and foremost, then going to his control room was a necessity. Stanley could argue the point — he wasn't on the verge of collapse, or anything close to it — but would it work? Trying would just waste more time, wouldn't it?

Maybe giving in was his best option here. At least, it'd be the lesser of two evils, in any case. Unhappy with the outcome, but unable to come up with a better solution, Stanley accepted his fate, knowing this could be a mistake.

"We'll go and turn on the vending machines, then." He waited, making sure he had the Narrator's full attention. When it was given, Stanley continued with, "But you don't reset the game, okay?"

He spoke with finality, leaving no room for protest. If the Narrator wanted his control room, so be it. Stanley could give the man that, as long as he accepted the conditions for it.

When the Narrator gave no reply, Stanley reiterated, "Okay?"

The Narrator's features pulled into an unfamiliar expression. It was unnerving, wrong. Regardless, he opened his mouth to finally answer Stanley's question.

"Of course."

Chapter Text

Stanley wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. After they'd returned to the cargo area, Stanley had been surprised when he'd been directed towards the door at the end of the walkway he normally jumped down to. He'd never paid much attention to the doors that were locked, blocking him from their passageways.

It took him a moment to process, to come to terms with the fact that the Narrator had always been so close. His assumption had always been constant, a vivid image in his mind of the Narrator perching himself atop the parable, high above the mediocre rooms and hallways that Stanley was subject to reside in. The man's ego was large enough for him to believe himself superior to anything in the game itself.

That notion, the fantasy, was now broken.

As the men traipsed through the door and down some unfamiliar corridors, Stanley was hit with a dark sorrow. These hallways were identical to those normally accessible to him, with no variation in colour or pattern. Why? If these back rooms were only supposed to be viewed by the Narrator, then why hadn't he changed them in some fashion? Added personality, flair?

The dull shades were comforting, yes, but . . . Stanley absently wondered if beige was the Narrator's favourite colour. He'd always thought the Narrator would be drawn to the brighter, dramatic hues, like a stark yellow or garish pink. Perhaps he was wrong? He hoped not.

"Don't touch a thing."

The demand startled him. The Narrator had stopped in front of another door; it was white, with no discerning features to make it stand out from any other door in the parable.

The Narrator turned to look at him. "I mean it, Stanley. If I let you in here, you have to promise to keep those grabby little fingers of yours from anything beyond this door. I know you're dreadfully fixated on pressing buttons."

Stanley felt hot all of a sudden. "I promise I won't touch anything."

Despite keeping his words loud and his tone serious, Stanley wasn't sure whether he'd truly stick to the promise or not. Breaking it immediately wouldn't be an issue, but if he were to be left to his own devices for too long . . . Well, he couldn't help it if he was just a tiny bit curious, right? Goosebumps began to line the skin on his arms, making the fine hairs on them stand on end.

'Stay calm,' he reminded himself, willing his excitement to ease. He knew there was a risk here, bringing the Narrator back to his control room. A reset could literally be seconds away, and there would be nothing Stanley could do to prevent it. However, on the bright side, if one existed, a restart didn't mean a complete return to their previous ways. Stanley had been shown something new, had met the Narrator. No amount of resets could reverse that.

And, even better, the Narrator had shown Stanley the location of where he conducted his work. The man couldn't hide anymore, even if he wanted to.

Seemingly satisfied with Stanley's answer, the Narrator proceeded to open the door and make his way inside. Following rapidly, Stanley halted once he'd passed through the entrance. Giving himself adequate time to take it all in, Stanley glanced around, absorbing as much as he could.

The room was big. The ceiling, white and pristine, was high — not as much as the boss's office, but close — and the walls were lined with pale green paint. Located in the far left corner of the room was another door; this was also painted in green, albeit a tad darker. A large desk stood on the opposite side to which they'd entered.

Monitors were covering the entire wall above the desk, varying in size, and each was lit with the image of a room inside the parable. Scanning them, Stanley wasn't at all surprised to see multiple areas he'd never stepped foot in before. He wondered if they were unused places, or if the Narrator was going to add them to the game at some point.

He walked over to the desk, stopping before it. Different switches, buttons, and devices were strewn across the oak surface. Stanley licked his lips, unable to deny the thrill that shot through him upon gazing at the multitude of shiny, pretty objects.

Breathing deeply to calm his shaking limbs, Stanley was acutely aware of the presence of the other occupant in the room. The Narrator had rushed over to one of the keyboards, shoving a chair out of his way as he did so, and was now confidently typing away. Information blared onto the monitor directly in front of the man — data that Stanley had no hope of understanding — and the Narrator seemed mesmerised by it.

Moving his focus back to the desk, Stanley caught sight of two very distinct buttons lying smack bang in the centre of it. One was black, the other white; on the wall behind them, written in bold, red letters, was the word 'RESET'.

Stanley froze. For a moment, the only sound in the room came from the clicks and taps as the Narrator worked.

Feeling his body begin to tremble, Stanley reached for the desk, grabbing its edge in order to anchor himself to the world around him. Leaning heavily against the solid wood, Stanley tried to steady his breathing, lest he start hyperventilating. A hiccup threatened to escape his throat. Gulping it back down, Stanley shifted his attention to a couple of stickers that had been placed neatly underneath each reset button.

Etched onto the stickers in green, inked calligraphy, were the words 'soft' and 'hard'.

Stanley blinked.

. . . Huh?

"One resets the game whilst keeping assets from the current run," the Narrator piped up, causing Stanley to nearly jump out of his skin. "You are completely refreshed, but materials and arrangements in the game stay the same until manipulated by either of us. Think the Adventure Line."

Stanley looked at the Narrator, dumbfounded. Was he some sort of freakin' mind reader now? What the hell? Stanley frowned. The Narrator hadn't even glanced his way, and was instead still concentrating on the monitor in front of him. Show off.

The Narrator continued, clearly not concerned with Stanley's bemusement. "The other resets the game back to its defaults, so we can begin anew without troubling ourselves with debris or broken components, or any such other nonsense."

Stanley mulled over this new information. It wasn't like he required knowledge of how the resets took effect, but at least now he knew why there were two of the bastard buttons. Storing the details he'd been told to the back of his mind, Stanley manoeuvred his hand away from the desk and twisted slightly so he could lean against it. Appearing casual was his goal, because what else was there to do?

Opting to ignore the existence of the buttons from this point on, Stanley decided that he had better things to occupy himself with. There was a much more interesting thing in this room to observe, anyway; the switches and monitors and whatever could take a hike.

Stanley hummed. The Narrator was just an ordinary guy, wasn't he? British as all fuck, kind of stuffy and awkward, and as shit at this as Stanley was. It was comforting, in a way.

His gaze moved to the man's hair; he admired the frazzled strands for a second, smiling. Lowering his gaze slowly, he took a second to cherish this moment before it would be interrupted. The Narrator's profile was nice, his nose and jaw sharp lines that would make a fantastic silhouette if drawn on paper. The Narrator's eyes were squinted in concentration, and it appeared he was fully immersed in his task.

Stanley's lips tugged up further. The lighting in this room certainly was flattering; it made the Narrator look good.

Handsome.

Failing to catch that thought before it could manifest as an entire entity, Stanley tried clearing his parched throat. The sound that emitted was rough, and he coughed when the Narrator's eyes flickered to him momentarily, before darting straight back to the monitor.

He should probably remove his focus; it would help in maintaining some semblance of distance between the two of them. Knowing why he was so intrigued with the Narrator was still a mystery. Okay, so that was a lie, but he was trying incredibly hard to convince himself otherwise.

Stanley wasn't above admitting that, over time, he'd come to see the Narrator as a friend. The voice in the parable had been by his side through, well . . . everything. All the hurt and pain, all the laughs and jokes, they'd added up, producing a unique relationship they alone shared.

Having a real, tangible person to put the voice to was affecting him in ways he hadn't anticipated. Stanley had always hoped the Narrator was human, like him. That wish becoming reality, coupled with the companionship they'd developed over countless resets . . . Was it weird that, upon meeting, Stanley would find the man attractive?

No, of course not. He was only human. Call it loneliness, or something else. But he couldn't trick his mind, couldn't escape the obvious. The Narrator wasn't unpleasant to the eye, and Stanley couldn't pretend that he was, because Stanley wasn't blind.

"Stanley?"

Hearing his name, Stanley refocused his attention until his eyes were locked with the person who had spoken. Confusion welled up within him. The Narrator's features were arranged in puzzlement; he had an eyebrow raised as if waiting for an answer to a query that Stanley was not aware of.

Shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny, Stanley swore under his breath. Shit. He'd been staring, hadn't he? Adding to that, he'd also missed whatever question the Narrator had apparently directed his way.

"Um, what?" he asked dumbly, his mouth spitting out the first sound it could think to create.

The Narrator eyed him warily. Pursing his lips, the Narrator turned back to the monitor that had been occupying his time for the past few minutes.

"If you could take the time to listen, I was explaining that the vending machine in the lounge is now operational. I figured you'd be most comfortable there to have our . . . discussion." His tongue wrapped around the last word in distaste, making it come out harsher than probably intended. "I've installed a couple others temporarily, in case your tastes have changed since the last time you required a recess."

The Narrator glanced back at Stanley and folded his arms. "I'd appreciate it if you could refrain from commenting on their appearance. Perfection can't be produced with such a time limit, you know."

Stanley had no clue what he was talking about, but nodded regardless. The Narrator's mouth twisted strangely.

"Now, I ask again, are you ready to depart from this room?" His lips lifted into a cheeky smile. "Or shall we continue to stand here so you can continue gawking?"

A faint blush trickled over Stanley's face. He was, undoubtedly, very happy that the Narrator had found his voice once more. Ecstatic, in fact. The man's confidence had sky-rocketed upon entering this room — this was clearly the man's safe zone — and Stanley couldn't be happier to be hearing some of the old, natural teasing coming back.

But on the other hand, Stanley's mind was awash with panic and hysteria. The Narrator had noticed him staring?! Fuck, fuck, fuck, why. Was that bad? It didn't have to be bad. Did it? The Narrator was smiling. He wasn't angry. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe—

The Narrator peered back at his monitors. "It is impressive, isn't it? This room always has been a masterpiece, if I do say so myself."

. . .

Stanley's mind went blank. The Narrator had spoken softly and proudly, his expression warm and happy. He looked pleased, all of a sudden.

Hold on . . .

The Narrator thought that Stanley had been admiring the room?

What?

"I wasn't looking at the room!" he blurted, reeling in disbelief at the conclusion the Narrator had come to. Had the man not been paying the slightest bit of attention?

Instantly the Narrator's eyes were back on him. Startled at the outburst, he unfolded his arms and blinked up at Stanley in bafflement.

"Pardon?"

Stanley moved away from the desk and waved at the monitors haphazardly. "I don't care about any of this stuff," he said, words high and loud as he tried to understand how the person in front of him could be so oblivious.

Stanley had practically been drooling! Well, no, okay. That was exaggerating slightly. But still, come on! Was the Narrator that socially inept? Did he need new freakin' glasses or something?

Taking offence at the Narrator's ignorance was, in all honestly, silly. A little speck of logic was floating through Stanley's skull, trying so very hard to make him notice it and see that he should be thankful the Narrator was being so dense right now. It was a blessing, and not even in disguise.

But Stanley was quickly starting to realise that he was not the most rational person on the planet. How could he be, when his reality was merely a game of choosing lefts or rights?

"Then why were you staring?" the Narrator asked, his features scrunching into a frown. "Surely you weren't daydreaming? I've never seen you partake in that frivolous habit before."

"I wasn't." Stanley's body was radiating with energy. There was a strange feeling of electricity pulsing through his veins, a thick layer of warmth coating his skin, and a desire ebbing in his bones and muscles that made him want to grab the Narrator and shake him thoroughly to try and get him to understand. It was frustrating, unnerving in a way he hadn't experienced before.

Why was this bothering him so much? The Narrator was giving him a freebie.

He. Should. Be. Happy.

So, why wasn't he?

Growling in annoyance when the Narrator opened his mouth to question him once more, Stanley allowed his body to act of its own accord. His mind was battling with itself, so why not let the physical self take control for a moment? What was the worst that could happen?

Taking a step forwards to close the distance between them, Stanley reached out to place his hands on the Narrator's shoulders. Bringing his face down until they were centimetres apart, Stanley wanted to open his mouth to explain the situation. It was the correct thing to do. He wanted to tell this clueless man exactly what he'd been staring at. He wanted the Narrator to understand, wanted the Narrator to tell him it was fine, wanted the Narrator to roll his eyes at the absurdity of Stanley getting all worked up about nothing.

Stanley wanted that. Wanted to do it that way. In that order.

The problem was, that Stanley should have known by now that his body and brain weren't on the same wavelength; they hadn't been for quite a while now.

Therefore, when he did lean forwards, Stanley found that he didn't stop when he was supposed to. He continued, despite the Narrator freezing under his grip, despite the look of shock crossing the Narrator's face.

And, against all rational thought, instead of talking, like his brain told him he was supposed to, Stanley chose to press their lips together instead.

Chapter Text

He should have seen it coming.

He really should have seen it coming.

Why didn't he see it coming?!

The Narrator's arms were stuck. Pinned to his sides, the traitorous appendages would not budge, despite his desire, his need for their submission. His entire body had stopped functioning, leaving his mind ablaze with—nonononononoNONO—

His face was boiling. The centre of the inferno was the point at which Stanley had made contact — whywhy—damn, whydidhedoit — and the Narrator was struggling. Struggling. He was struggling. To. To . . .

To breathe.

Hm.

How unfortunate.

This snippet of time, a mere second in reality, felt like an eternity.

It had already been too long.

Removing Stanley from his vicinity was now a requirement.

There was a noise. A loud drum. Banging. Smashing. Drowning him in its volume. It wouldn't shut up. Thud. Thud. Thud, thud, thudthudthud—

He began shaking.

Excellent. His body could do that, but for some unfathomable reason it still wouldn't push Stanley away.

The Narrator needed to think. To rekindle the control of his mind. His arms and legs had become nothing more than useless stumps, but that didn't mean his thoughts had to follow the same course.

Think. Think.

The signs had been there, hadn't they? The looks. The proximity. The touching. God, it always came back to the touching, didn't it? Stanley was tremendously insistent with it. From the very beginning, every thread of communication Stanley opted to propose — comfort, rage, annoyance — was accompanied by some form of physical connection. Who knew the man was this deprived, this starved for support?

Another second passed.

Something changed. The contact was released, withdrawn without his input. Stanley had removed himself.

Oh. Wonderful. What a generous fellow Stanley was being.

Once the pressure was off his lips, the Narrator's body reacted immediately as his mouth parted to suck in the air he'd been denying himself. The gust flashed down his throat, ferocious in its desperation, before swelling his lungs. Ravenous for more, the Narrator found his body far too willing to oblige. A lump formed at the back of his airway, building pressure until his body was wracked with an aggressive cough.

He couldn't comprehend the attack.

Why was breathing suddenly painful? Every inhalation was like dragging razor blades through his mouth. It wasn't right, and neither were the horrible tremors plaguing his once motionless limbs. A harsh chill soared down his body, from head to toe, and the Narrator felt pain shoot across his torso as he continued rapidly pulling in breaths. Regardless of how much it hurt, he needed the air.

Another cough spewed out of his mouth.

All at once, there were hands upon him. Gripping at his shoulders like vices, fingers squeezed into him, holding him in place. The Narrator whined. Were his movements a problem? He didn't believe so. Yet the thing holding him seemed to be attempting to stop his shaking. He'd wanted to be able to move, though. Why would anyone want to force him still once more?

He needed it to release him. To—letgopleaseIdon'twantthispleasepleaseplease—

Could it not hear him? He was pretty certain he'd said that out loud . . . Right?

There was a noise next to him. Muffled and deep, the Narrator couldn't quite make out what the hell the sounds were meant to be. Ignoring them seemed pertinent considering his priority right now was regaining the ability to — inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale — breathe correctly.

Could his heart kindly be quiet? It felt as though it wanted to break free from its prison; surely his ribs couldn't stand that much abuse. The hammering was unbearable. For Heaven's sake, why wouldn't it relent?

The noises — words, he could now decipher — were getting louder.

"Calm do—

—lease—

—m sorry, pl—"

What on Earth was this man trying to communicate? Something cold grabbed at his face, dousing the heat in his cheeks. Choking out in relief, the Narrator's hands came up to clutch at whatever the saving grace had been. Curling his fingers around the cool flesh of his saviour, the Narrator found his breaths begin to drop in intensity. Flooding his system with an abundance of oxygen didn't seem all that necessary anymore.

Concentrating fully on the beautiful ice touching his skin, the Narrator allowed his body to relax in an attempt to halt the electricity surging through his nerves.

"Narrator?"

The call was delicate, yet unmistakable. Finally, finally he could understand the noise.

It was Stanley.

. . . Stanley.

Ah, of course.

The Narrator blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision. Why . . . Why was there a fog covering his sight? Drawing in a shaky breath, the Narrator closed his eyes momentarily in some silly attempt to dry them. When he opened them once more, he was met with the distinct image of his protagonist.

Suppressing the urge to cower under Stanley's intense gaze, the Narrator cleared his throat to remove the tickle lingering there.

Oh, dear. That . . . probably shouldn't have happened. Honestly, how had he not seen it coming?

Stanley backed up a little, dropping his hands from the Narrator's face as he did so. The Narrator watched quietly. A shiver ran down his spine. He was still trembling. Damn his ridiculous body and its limitations. His feelings weren't important here. Stanley was the one who mattered; the Narrator making a fool of himself was a pitiful display of weakness.

He couldn't help but reprimand himself when he took note of Stanley's expression.

Knowing the physical well-being of his protagonist was a single, minuscule component of truly understanding the man. The Narrator had neglected something precious, a part of humanity that was an immensely irritating necessity for the health of any given individual. Emotional stability was such a large section of the human condition, with intricacies and subtleties that required absolute respect.

"Sorry—I, shit." Stanley was saying things, jumbling words together. "I'm so sorry, I didn't, I don't—"

The Narrator remained silent. This wasn't how any of this was supposed to go. Stanley was apologising for something that was, presently, nigh on impossible for the Narrator to wrap his head around. Not that he was attempting to understand, anyway. He was too focused, too busy concentrating on how much of a moron he'd been.

It was rather annoying, wasn't it? Social interaction, tiny bouts of talking, snippets, brushes, a touch here and there — all that jazz, plus everything else was pathetically important in the requirements for emotional happiness, and the Narrator hadn't even bothered to consider it. What a disaster. How long had Stanley been left wanting? He'd been mistreated, and regardless of whether it was intentional or not, it was not acceptable.

The Narrator had always prided himself on how well he kept the parable and the story. Stanley's upkeep had never been on the back burner; it wasn't something he'd intentionally disregarded. But he had failed to give the man something he needed.

Stanley's voice carried on warbling around the area, but the Narrator wasn't hearing it.

He continued staring, eyes blurred, not really seeing the man before him. This was the first time Stanley had seen or had the privilege of touching another person in . . . How long had it been? The poor creature becoming attached to the first person he saw was an inevitability; one that the Narrator shouldn't have been blind-sided by. This little tick had slipped under his belt, but how?

It didn't matter now, because all that was left was this broken excuse of a person, clinging desperately to the first dabble of joy he could manage to gift himself.

The Narrator felt his heart finally start to slow as he realised something. This problem, this issue.

Required correction.

If he let it continue, allowed Stanley to walk this path, things would become complicated. Messy. And his own emotions had already been squeezed through the wringer enough for a lifetime, thank you very much.

He was only vaguely aware that the room was now silent. Stanley had ceased his unnecessary whispers and appeared to be standing there doing absolutely nothing. Glancing away from Stanley's face, the Narrator felt an overwhelming need to offer words to explain that it was fine. Alright. He wanted to placate Stanley and encourage him to forgive himself, because really, it had been a mishap born from the Narrator's negligence.

The Narrator crushed the desire into oblivion. Speaking wouldn't fix this, but he had an idea of what could. It just required some time. Time that Stanley probably wouldn't be willing to give freely.

Wetting his lips with his tongue, the Narrator frowned when a peculiar tingle washed over the still scorching flesh. He needed to be fast, else Stanley would see what he was about to do and attempt to stop him. And he now knew, from experience, that he had no chance of fighting out of Stanley's grasp if the man decided to get physical.

Letting his gaze rise back up to meet Stanley's eyes, the Narrator forced a small smile onto his lips. Then, parting his mouth in a very deliberate show that he was going to talk, the Narrator waited for just a second to capture the anticipation in Stanley's features.

It came in the widening of his eyes, the hope behind his irises. The bluff landed. Feeling horrible all of a sudden, the Narrator didn't dare wait a moment longer before lunging forwards to duck around the other man so he could slam his hand on the reset button.

When contact was made, the only indication that Stanley realised what had happened was the cry that pierced the air, before everything went black.

Stanley was, upon reflection, a very patient man. Whether he'd developed the patience over the many runs of the game, or whether he'd always had it didn't matter. It was a trait set in stone, enveloping his being in a nice, warm blanket.

Unfortunately for the Narrator, a person could only hold so much patience within them until their limit was found. And Stanley's line had just been crossed.

Immediately after jolting back into his starting position in the office, Stanley jumped up and went to storm out of the room. Before crossing the threshold, however, a thought bellowed into his mind, reminding him that he probably had no one to blame but himself. He'd done something stupid, something wrong. He hadn't asked, hadn't sought permission. And the result had been catastrophic.

Did he deserve this? Possibly. Did that mean he was going to allow the reset without objection? Fuck no. Tempering his rage with the growing prickle of guilt caressing his mind, Stanley drew in a deep breath and stepped out of his office.

Nothing happened. He blinked, shuffling his feet absently as he waited. After a moment, he came to the conclusion that the Narrator wasn't going to recite the dialogue here. That was okay. It was rare, but the usual introduction wasn't always present. And yet . . . The lack of the phone call that usually accompanied the Narrator's absence was rather worrying.

Stanley tried to convince himself that he didn't care, regardless. He had a mission; fueled by concern, guilt, and maybe more vehemence than necessary, keeping his focus on his objective should not be too much of an issue.

Letting his legs carry him onward, Stanley didn't bother to run. Walking — stomping, more like — was adequate. Though his pace was faster than normal, it was controlled. He had a destination, and racing there would be a waste of energy. It wasn't like the Narrator's control room was going anywhere.

Stanley wondered whether he sounded like a deranged predator right now. Despite his best efforts, his breaths were still shallow, his pulse blustering under his skin. But containing his emotions took effort. He could be forgiven for acting slightly manic, if just for a moment.

He plainly ignored the rising panic that entered his mind when, upon getting to the two doors, silence remained as his sole guide. It was fine. The Narrator was probably just taking a run to collect himself, to regain some sort of control after his burst of anxiety earlier. Stanley was dead set on not letting it get to him. There was nothing wrong. Choosing not to acknowledge it when his stride quickened, Stanley pushed on through the right door.

Once he got to the lounge, Stanley's momentum came to an abrupt halt when something caught his eye. Freezing in place, Stanley stared at the large, additional items occupying the space next to the vending machine. His brain kind of short-circuited for a second as he took in the image. What in the hell?

Why were there three vending machines? The two new items looked ridiculously out of place next to the original, with their missing textures and lack of cohesive dimensions. Did they even have shadows? One looked to be another drink machine, with additional flavours and soda choices compared to the usual machine in the room. The other was filled to the brim with snacks and chocolate brands Stanley didn't recognise.

His hand twitched. Shaking his head, Stanley forced his attention away from the new items, the distractions, and forced himself onward. He could interpret their existence at another time when more pressing matters weren't taking precedence. Reluctant to leave the room without trying out the toys, Stanley willed his head to not shift around, strained to keep his eyes set straight ahead because, if he looked back, he knew he wouldn't be strong enough to resist.

Briskly making his way through the next door, Stanley entered the loading bay and made a beeline for the cargo lift.

It wasn't there.

Pausing mid-stride, Stanley's heart stuttered momentarily as his gaze rapidly sought out where the object had disappeared off to. Staring in disbelief when he caught sight of his prize, a strange sound emitted from his mouth as he realised the lift was at the opposite side of the room, up and away, completely out of his reach. Fighting the urge to vocalise his horror, Stanley's face paled considerably as he realised he was screwed.

How the hell was he supposed to cross the gap without the necessary platform?

Chapter Text

The place was in a ruckus. This backroom had never been the cleanest area in the parable, but the catastrophic disarray of papers currently occupying its confines was far from the norm for the small space. Documents were strewn all over, covering desks and tables, piling on cabinets and boxes, and smattering the floor like a second carpet. Filing cabinets had been left open with their folders leaking out, and standing in the middle of it all was the Narrator.

Flicking his gaze over the papers, he swept a hand through his hair; his mouth twitched slightly as his finger caught a lug and pulled it accidentally. Forcing his hand back to his hip, he tutted as he fought the desire to swipe at his mouth. Again. Grumbling an unpleasant expletive under his breath, the Narrator licked his lips in the hope that the moisture would detract from the strange flames brushing over them.

Clenching his jaw when that didn't work, he closed his eyes and shoved his glasses up so they could rest atop his head and out of the way. Then, scrubbing his palms across his face, he groaned. Why was he so warm? And why, oh why was his mind hyper-focusing on something that wasn't the solution he was trying to achieve right now? Fixating on anything was a nuisance, but why on Earth was his mouth suddenly taking priority in his thoughts?

The energy that was required to rid himself of the distraction was absurd.

Stanley was undoubtedly upset with the turn of events that had transpired. The poor chap was probably spending his time screaming obscenities at the ceiling — not that the Narrator would be able to hear any of it. He'd made sure to mute the audio output to the control room the moment the reset had gone through.

He released a shaky breath.

Stalling on his job was unacceptable. Considering how lacking in importance this pesky new irritation was, it was abysmal that he was allowing it to steal so much of his time. The bothersome sensitivity of his lips was not worthy of a passing thought.

And yet . . .

"Can you stop!?" He barked out the words without thinking, without caring that there was no audience. Not that anyone listening would understand why he'd spoken, of course.

Opening his eyes, he removed his hands from his face and stepped over to the desk closest to him. Leaning down, he slammed his palms flat against the wood and splayed his fingers out, marvelling at how cold the smooth material felt under his scorching flesh. A grimace graced his features.

A thrumming noise, not unlike a drum, was the only sound accompanying his controlled breaths. The Narrator's fingers curled into the wood under his hands; his nails scratched at the fine oak, threatening to leave abrasions and imperfections on the pristine surface.

Perchance, had something gone wrong with the reset? He felt fine in himself — the dry throat and exhaustion in his bones had dissipated, just like it was supposed to — but maybe the refresh system had malfunctioned somehow? It would explain the incessant need to fiddle with his hair, his clothes, his anything to make himself feel comfortable again.

Fighting the urge to close his eyes once more, the Narrator bit his lip; it did nothing to alleviate the craving for relief he was so desperate for.

There had to be something amiss. His meeting with Stanley could have destabilised a piece of code, or caused a peculiar log entry to—

No. Stop it.

Focus.

Whatever he was physically going through right now didn't matter, because another reset would probably fix it. Yes, most assuredly. This wasn't the first time a restart had ended with a weird niggle of an issue; that was all this was. He needn't worry himself with the hassle of it all.

Taking a deep breath, the Narrator swallowed the hiccup that wanted to trickle up his throat. Pushing himself away from the desk and back to his full height, he glanced around at the mess he'd created. Decidedly ignoring the jittering under his ribs, he placed his glasses back into their rightful position and snatched up a document at random to inspect.

Its words were pointless; this wasn't what he was looking for. Dismissing the paper immediately, the Narrator chucked it aside, allowing it to float and twirl erratically before landing on the pile on the floor.

Feeling his eyebrows scrunch into a frown, his gaze darted around at the large stockpile surrounding him. Hm. Perhaps flinging everything around in his haste to find answers to Stanley's problem hadn't been the most productive of actions he could've taken. He sighed.

Knowing the issue and understanding the solution was all well and good, but if he couldn't find a way to implement what he needed into the parable so Stanley could benefit from it, then he was stuck. Creating extra vending machines or making usually locked doors functional was one thing, but inserting an additional person? That required knowledge the Narrator was severely limited in, much to his own dismay.

How did one even go about making another being? Sure, Stanley was technically part of the game, but he hadn't actually brought the man to life — that kind of power was something left to biology and nature and all that nonsense. Claiming the worker as his creation had always been a part of the script, something to add flavour to the narrative, to try and bring some form of deeper meaning to the bond between protagonist and speaker.

The Narrator's mouth thinned as he began rubbing a thumb and finger together. Despite everything, Stanley had still been left wanting. And the Narrator wasn't sure he'd be able to help, now that Stanley was so aware of what he'd been lacking all this time.

"Reset the cargo lift right the fuck now!"

Stanley was being a stubborn ass. He fully admitted it. He'd been at this for the better part of . . . what, ten minutes? Twenty? It was ridiculously obvious that the Narrator was not going to reply. Hell, it'd become apparent after he'd gotten to this location without hearing a single peep from the Narrator. But again, Stanley was stubborn. And kind of desperate.

Having started with a nice, sweet request, Stanley's polite demeanour had slowly but surely transformed into irritation.

Eventually, he'd settled on pure rage. Considering that normally elicited some kind of reaction from the voice, Stanley opted for it being his best bet. It wasn't working, however. Nothing was.

He needed the Narrator to listen. To acknowledge his demands and allow him access to the other side of the loading bay. Why was he being ignored? Stanley couldn't remember a time, in his entire existence within the parable, in which the Narrator had failed to respond in some manner to his calls for attention. Regardless of what mood the man was in, he always answered.

Well, that had been the truth . . . Right up until Stanley had gone and opened his mouth for the first time since waking up in this damn office.

Shifting his weight, Stanley's head fell back against the hard wall that he was currently pressed against. He glanced at the ceiling despondently. There was a tingle at the back of his mouth — probably a consequence of his yelling — and he blew out a deep sigh. He didn't know what to do. How long was he supposed to wait before he got a reply?

Sagging slightly as weariness dug into his bones, Stanley sniffed. He closed his eyes, willing the fuzziness in them to disappear. Taking a moment to concentrate on himself, Stanley's eyebrows knit tightly together when he realised something. The dry ache his throat once held was no longer there. The grumble in his stomach had quietened down to a flat nothingness. His whole body felt empty of needs, as if the hunger and thirst he'd developed over the past few hours had all but vanished from existence.

Physically, he felt good. Fantastic. Perfect.

Stanley choked out a mirthless laugh. He'd never paid much attention to how healthy he was whilst doing runs of the game. His body was simply a tool used to get around the place. Point A to point B. Its upkeep didn't require effort or input from himself in any form, because a reset always fixed whatever damage or harm that came to it. Death wasn't a concern, so why would anything else be?

He tried to quell the shudder that threatened to tear up his spine. Until now, Stanley had never felt less than human. Everything was wrong. Unnatural. He wanted to feel hunger. Thirst. Hell, even pain was fine, if it made him feel alive. All the odd, annoying sensations that other people got to experience every single day of their lives . . .

He craved normality.

But Stanley wasn't a stranger to their predicament. That wish was unobtainable. For both of them. Swallowing the bile that had suddenly appeared in his throat, Stanley pushed himself off the wall and opened his eyes. He stared at the expanse of space before him. The familiarity of it was not offering comfort; he quickly moved his focus to something else in fear he'd actually start crying. Falling into a pit of despair was not going to help. He needed to do something, to act. To keep moving forwards.

Contemplating his next move, Stanley wondered whether it was even worth trying to get to the other side so he could try the door. Would it be locked? It had to be. The Narrator wouldn't just let him waltz back in and confront him again, obviously. So, what was the point?

He hummed in thought.

The Narrator hadn't spoken yet. Stanley's journey here had been met with complete peace and quiet. And somehow, the silence had been deafening. It was concerning, honestly, how much Stanley relied on the constant presence of noise, whether it was reciting practised dialogue, or ranting about Stanley making him go off-script.

But . . . Did it only need to be a curse? Maybe there was a benefit to the absence of a voice.

He frowned. If the Narrator wasn't talking, then perhaps he wasn't watching either. That would explain the lack of response to Stanley's increasingly obnoxious calls for attention.

It was a long shot, but maybe Stanley's initial assessment was wrong. Moving his gaze to the door that held the passageway to his friend, Stanley's fingers twitched idly. A theory was brewing in his mind, and he considered a way in which he could test it. Immediately, there was a flickering light vying in opposition, trying to bring attention to how stupid the idea was, negating it before it could become whole. Because, really, the Narrator wouldn't trip up that badly.

There was just no way.

But the dark specks erupting the snippets of light . . . A prickle of hope rushed through him, and he shook out his arms to release some of the energy brimming on the surface of his skin. There was evidence present, right? Two additional vending machines, no doors closing behind him once he had passed through them, the cargo lift being out of reach . . .

They all gave merit to his theory. Everything was adding up, bubbling into a truth that Stanley was only just now realising.

He had to be right. No other explanation fit. Rolling his shoulders, Stanley moaned in satisfaction as they cracked audibly. The relief was minuscule, but needed. Deciding on a new path, he turned away from the loading bay and proceeded to backtrack to the corridor leading to the lounge. Halting in front of a door that was currently closed — the one he and the Narrator had come rushing through earlier in their journey back here — Stanley evened out his breathing and reached for its handle.

The door opened.

A gasp of a laugh exited his mouth, making his body bounce with elation. Holy fuck. What kind of luck was this? His theory, right here, was proven correct! Not bothering to bask in the glory of being right, Stanley yanked the door fully open and tore his way through the hallways beyond. He needed to get back to the loading bay through the section that started at door 2B1.

If he could remember the directions, Stanley was sure he could get back to the control room without the assistance of the cargo lift. This would make the thing obsolete.

Stanley felt electricity pumping through his veins as he ran through corridor after corridor. He didn't care that he was almost tripping up over his own feet in his haste, because this was his only chance; he was not going to screw it up.

After a short while, he barged through one final door and came hobbling out into a familiar area. A shriek of joy poured out of him when he recognised where he was, and Stanley didn't even try to stop his mouth from lifting into a giant, open grin. Taking a moment to just stare at the loading bay — the other side of it — Stanley let his breaths settle down until he was no longer panting from the sprint he'd just made.

When a few seconds had gone by, he made his way over to the grating and stepped onto it. Not bothering to focus on anything else, his eyes were glued to the door at the end of the walkway as he made his way over to it. As he got close enough to touch the barrier, Stanley hesitated. Licking his lips, he found his gaze quickly flicking to the ceiling and back again.

Then, reaching out, he grabbed at the handle and turned it slowly. As the door creaked open, Stanley felt his body begin to tremble ever so slightly.

The Narrator had made a colossal mistake, and Stanley was going to do everything in his power to make sure he got to the man before he realised it.