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‘I want to try sleeping together.’
“Excuse me?!”
The Narrator is hit with a terrible sense of déjà vu. Despite finding saliva equally as revolting as human tongues (not counting Stanley’s, and the innovative things he can do with his, of course), he wishes he had the proverbial glass of water from which to daintily sip in order to perform what they call a “spit-take.”
“You want to try what?!”
Stanley blinks owlishly up at the ceiling until the meaning of his words (thoughts) register. He makes a face and quickly waves his hands around.
‘No, not like that! Well, maybe some other time… But I mean like taking a nap together, dummy.’
There is a part of that sentence the Narrator does not even want to begin to unpack. A part that should better stay locked away in a box and stored on a shelf in the back of the warehouse where no one can ever find it. He is not quite ready to address that aspect of their… their existence together.
Ever since that kiss, already an undefined multitude of resets ago, their relationship has changed.
Or not changed, rather shifted.
Or not shifted, rather evolved.
Or not evolved, rather… spoken out loud. Made obvious. Translated from subtext into actual text.
All in all, it’s not too different from how they were before. They still fight, they still bicker, they still go through the motions of the game whenever the Player logs on. Stanley will try to defy him in one cycle and humor him in the next, he will jump in holes and push buttons and pretend to choose the correct door before changing course last-second just to get a rise out of him.
Same old, same old.
What’s new is those sparse moments of rest in-between.
Stanley sitting down and leaning his cheek against the wall, the Narrator pausing his narration just to feel the rise and fall of breath against him. Stanley’s thoughts dissolving into a vague sense of warmth and contentedness, of action momentarily paused to seek out true connection.
Stanley glancing up at the ceiling with an almost indescribably fond look in his half-lidded eyes (which is quite a feat considering it is in the Narrator’s nature to come up with descriptions), distracting him to the point of forgetting what he was saying mid-sentence.
Stanley kissing him. Or at least, attempting to.
Stanley, like clockwork, will get this Look in his eyes, a silent request, an unspoken promise, barely concealed excitement. The Narrator, in much the same vein, will suggest they don’t necessarily need to stick to the known paths, that perhaps they can try and look for a new Ending, and oh hey was that door always open, and did it always lead to a cosy candle-lit room?
The Narrator will never state his own desires outright- he’s only indulging Stanley, playing along with his folly- even though Stanley’s meaningful eyebrow-raise tells him the man sees right through it. But he has to keep it up on principle, clinging to that last sliver of dignity to upkeep his status as the God of this world. He is the puppetmaster, not Stanley’s hapless plaything.
Not all their attempts are successful. In fact, they fail more often than not. Either the mood isn’t right or they get interrupted by the game turning on or Stanley will get distracted or the Narrator will get stuck in his own head. But it’s in the trying that the Narrator feels closest to his creation, in the all-consuming desire to touch and experience and gaze upon one another’s essence laid bare…
Not that Stanley can ever truly know the Narrator’s essence, of course. It would probably fry his feeble mind like a piece of flashpaper flung into an open fire.
But it’s the thought that counts. The wanting, the trying, hand in hand on this untrodden road.
And as this instance proves, Stanley will forever continue to surprise him.
“Stanley,” the Narrator says, trying to go for patient but missing his target and landing smack-dab in the middle of belittling, “you do know you don’t need sleep.”
Stanley puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side, unamused. ‘Yeah, I KNOW, I’m not an idiot.’
“I would beg to differ,” the Narrator smugly teases, but Stanley ignores him and barges right on through.
‘It’s just something I want to try. Different kinds of touch. Like hugs.’
“Hm. Non-sexual intimacy, you mean?”
Stanley smiles far too broadly at that. His thoughts get all jumbled up, going too fast for the Narrator to try and pluck one out from the mess that is his head.
“Slow down, slow down! Why is this exciting you?” the Narrator sighs. “Is it that I used the word ‘sex’? Stanley, are you a child?”
‘No, it’s intimacy,’ Stanley clarifies, eyes twinkling.
“Ah.”
The Narrator feels a sudden flush or embarrassment, and to his alarm the lights of the office flicker. Just once, a brief flash, but it is New and thus cause for trepidation.
Are their little experiments somehow causing more of his essence to seep into the physicality of the office? Or is it simply that Stanley’s making him experience things he’s never felt before, hence the Parable seeking a new way of expressing his current state?
Whatever it may be, Stanley doesn’t seem to notice. Thank goodness. He merely bats his pretty eyes up at the ceiling and coyly wiggles his body from side to side.
‘I want to be intimate with you too, Narrator,’ Stanley thinks, and for the umpteenth time the Narrator wishes he had a head which he could bash against a wall.
-
o
-
Stanley stands before the bed in the Apartment Ending, scrutinizing it. Tilting his head left then right, tapping a finger to his chin.
“Something wrong, dear?” the Narrator asks, ever-present, always vigilantly onlooking. (Except for those few times when he isn’t, when he feels dreadfully alone and out of control, watching the minutes tick away until they’re reunited once more.)
‘I was thinking about how we’re going to do this.’
“This” being the sleeping together, of course. Literal sleeping together, as in, sharing a bed. Because the Narrator decided to indulge him, because he is very kind and patient and wants nothing but the best for his creation. And if you don’t believe that, he’ll come up with something else to convince you.
‘Do you want to be the blankets and pillows again?’
The Narrator joins Stanley in his scrutiny, considering the bed. He’s never done any sleeping himself, doesn’t need to. Stanley doesn’t either, but he still likes the occasional nap to pass the time. The Narrator doesn’t care for those times very much. While it’s true they give him some precious moments to simply observe the man he spends so much time chastising and attempting to guide, he finds himself growing restless long before Stanley wakes up.
He must admit it makes him quite anxious, having Stanley go where he can’t follow. To sleep, perchance to dream. Perchance to imagine a life outside the Parable, away from him…
He’s never had to think about the possibility of joining Stanley on his escapades to the land of rest and relaxation. Doesn’t even know if it’s possible for him to join.
“I don’t know.” A painful admission. “Perhaps we can try different angles and see what works best.” It’s said in a non-committal tone, making it more for Stanley’s benefit than his own. Never mind the fact that he is curious whether or not sleep will be able to find him once they lie down together.
Stanley sits down on the bed, mattress dipping beneath his form. The Narrator makes it a point of staying close to him rather than observing from high above, on the lookout for opportunities to shift his perspective.
Stanley bends over to take off his shoes, pushing them aside with socked feet. It will never stop being novel to see Stanley like this, literally stepping outside his base model. Showing assets no Player will ever see (to the Narrator’s delight).
Stanley sits cross-legged on the bed and looks around, searching.
‘Where are you right now?’
The Narrator softens his voice into a whisper, a hush on the wind that tickles at Stanley’s ear.
“I am everywhere all at once, Stanley. You know this.”
The corner of Stanley’s mouth struggles not to twitch up, a smile barely kept at bay. He holds his arms out in front of him at chest-level, as if cradling an invisible form. The Narrator nestles himself in the crook of Stanley’s shoulder and neck, observing.
“What are you doing?” he asks softly, content for once not to point out the futility of Stanley’s attempts at conventional touch.
Stanley has his eyes narrowed to tiny slits, hands caressing the empty space up and down.
‘If you were a human, I think you’d be shorter than me.’
The Narrator huffs. “And what makes you think that? Who says I couldn’t be tall enough to fill this entire room?”
Stanley curls one arm inward, mapping out a shape only he can see.
‘But then I wouldn’t be able to hold you like this. You wouldn’t fit in my lap.’
“I, er… ahem.” The Narrator once again thanks whatever force brought him into existence for his inability to blush. “I thought you wanted to sleep? Not… hug empty air?”
Stanley drops his hands in his lap. ‘I was trying to make myself sleepy. Imagining me hugging you often does the trick.’
Stanley does not need to know about the onslaught of feelings that particular thought causes. Bashfulness and pride and longing and overwhelming affection.
It is a strange thing, to be jealous of yourself. Of some imagined other version, perhaps existing in a far-away universe where things are simpler and one doesn’t have to jump through hoops to achieve something as mundane as a shared moment of respite.
How simple it would be then, to have a body. To sit in Stanley’s lap, reach out and cup his cheek, watch as that silly man leans into the touch. To adore him and be able to show said adoration through action rather than words.
But for now, words are all he has.
“I could sing you a lullaby,” the Narrator says roughly, only half teasing.
Stanley’s eyes immediately light up at the prospect. He shuffles back until he’s spread-out on the bed, lying down comfortably with a pillow propped under his head and his hands folded over his stomach.
‘Ready.’
“Aren’t you just,” the Narrator says, and is instantly horrified by the affection dripping from his words. He might as well start serenading Stanley’s too-large eyebrows and waxing poetic about his bad posture.
Stanley’s smile is a little too knowing as the Narrator scrapes his throat (by manner of speaking). Stanley closes his eyes, waiting.
Rock-a-bye Stanley, lying in bed
When the game turns on, we will be met
When the bed breaks, our Stanley will fall
And down will come Stanley, Parable and all!
Stanley opens his eyes again to frown.
‘Why are you singing about the bed breaking? That’s not very reassuring.’
The Narrator tsks. “I was simply adapting the lyrics of the song to become more prevalent to your situation, Stanley. It is to be expected that my efforts would go unappreciated. Hmpf.”
‘Also you said my name like, three times.’
“Repetition does wonders for memorization,” the Narrator smoothly lies. He’s not about to tell Stanley that he simply likes the sound of his name. It is a fine name, after all, one the Narrator chose himself. “Now if you’ll stop interrupting, there is in fact a second verse to this lullaby.”
Stanley rolls his eyes, but expectantly lies in waiting for the second verse.
Stanley is drowsy, cozy and fair
Narrator sits near in his metaphorical chair
Forward and back, the bed it will swing
And though Stanley sleeps, will hear what He sings
‘“Metaphorical chair” might be a bit of a stretch.’
“Oh hush, I’m doing the best I can. You try thinking of lyrics that both fit the original cadence and rhyming scheme of the song and still apply to the Parable.”
‘Also, what does “fair” mean in this sentence?’
“Let’s see… ‘Fair’ can mean just or right, impartial, as in a fair ruling by a judge in court or a fair game. It can also mean bright and cloudless weather, as in a fair summer’s day, or lovely, beautiful, pretty.”
Stanley smiles, blushes a pleasant and pleased pink. ‘You think I’m beautiful?’
The Narrator splutters in protest. “That’s in the original song, Stanley! I barely adapted that verse save for putting your name in place of the word ‘baby’. Do you want me to think of you as an infant? Because I most certainly can!”
Stanley shrugs. ‘I think you’re beautiful,’ he boldly proclaims. In his thoughts.
The Narrator is rendered momentarily speechless. He can do nothing but stare, trying to process the words that are swimming around in the thick soup of Stanley’s mind.
“Stanley,” the Narrator hisses, trying to keep his voice from adding any form of squeak or hiccup. “Beauty is most commonly used to describe physical attributes! That hardly applies to me. Unless… unless you’re saying the Parable is beautiful, well, in which case I must wholeheartedly agree, but I never expected to hear anything like that from you-”
Stanley rolls over onto his side, stifles a yawn in his closed fist. ‘You’re right, I take it back. You’re not beautiful. More obsessive and proud.’
The Narrator makes an indignant noise, closely resembling the squawk of a parrot.
“I don’t need to sit here and let you insult me! In fact, that’s it. I’m leaving, have fun with your nap-”
‘No wait, I’ll be good,’ Stanley immediately thinks, waving the Narrator back over.
“Will you behave?” the Narrator prompts, to which Stanley eagerly nods his head.
“...Fine. But I’m not singing you any more lullabies.”
‘That’s okay,’ Stanley thinks, and his thoughts are starting to come slower. Groggy, syrupy thoughts, coaxing the Narrator to slow down alongside them.
Stanley pats the bed, and the Narrator chuckles.
“I still can’t lie down, Stanley. We’ve been over this.”
‘If you can’t lie down on the bed, can’t you become the bed instead?’
“I… huh.”
That is not an option he’s ever considered before. “I don’t know, Stanley. What if you flatten me with your heavy weight?”
‘Hey,’ Stanley thinks in a bit of a whine.
The Narrator chuckles, and decides once again to humor him. Because it’s not like he has anything to lose, anything other than his dignity.
The Narrator shifts his perspective. One moment he’s looking down at Stanley’s prone form, a perfect inverted comma with knees tucked in and hands kept close to his chest. The next moment, the Narrator looks up and right into Stanley’s sleepy face.
He’s never imagined himself a bed before. It would have been pointless, without anyone there to lie in said bed.
Now, however. Now he simultaneously feels the hard unyielding wood of the luxurious headrest and the springy mattress on which rests a warm and welcome weight. He can feel the exact shape of Stanley on top of him, muscles relaxed and chest moving with each breath. He can feel the places where he and Stanley touch, little nodes where energy coalesces, like pinpricks of light on the dark canvas of the night sky.
It feels, all in all, rather like he’s lying down and Stanley is lying on top of him. Stanley’s cheek mushed against him, his hair lightly fanning out (for as much as it is able to, with how short it is), calm and safe and oh so close.
The Narrator feels something gooey inside him, something that has its breath stolen away, a bird come home to nest. Home. That is the keyword.
Oh. He gets it now. This is why human beings make such a big deal out of sharing a bed.
Stanley squirms a little until he’s lying in a more comfortable position. ‘How are you doing down there?’
“I…” The Narrator coughs a little. “Would you mind terribly getting under the covers? That is something that… yes.”
Stanley smiles, pleased that the Narrator voiced his desire. He easily obliges, the Narrator watching on with adoration as Stanley moves about right on top of him. Stanley wants to simply draw the blanket up over himself, but the Narrator interrupts.
“No, er, not like that- could you, I mean, that is to say, what I would like-”
‘Yeah?’
The Narrator bites through the shame of simply stating what he wants.
“If you could move the lower half of the blanket under your legs, and then… er, have the upper half like two wings that you can fold around you, I think that would… yes.”
He trails off a little awkwardly, but from the way Stanley’s brain lights up he knows they understand each other.
Stanley arranges the blanket as requested, and it’s once he’s fully tucked in that the Narrator allows the weight of this feeling to fully hit him.
Like this, it feels rather like he’s holding Stanley in his arms. Two blankety arms, completely enveloping his lover- his creation. Holding Stanley close to where his heart would be, beating in a chest, rising and falling with respiration. Warm and safe and comfortable.
And he knows Stanley feels the exact same way, if the blissful expression on his face is anything to go by.
‘Say something,’ Stanley thinks, and he somehow manages to make it sound like a whisper.
“Like what? I thought you were trying to sleep.”
Stanley smiles and closes his eyes, nuzzling closer.
‘It feels like the bed is rumbling when you talk. I like it.’
This comes rather as a shock to the Narrator. He knows there have been instances in the past where something he felt was so all-encompassing that it became palpable in the Parable itself, and that Stanley would then be able to feel it too. He just didn’t think he was feeling something like that right now, when they’re simply lying close together, two beings breathing in tandem.
“I’m still not singing you another lullaby,” the Narrator says after a moment, but quieter, letting the bed vibrate without disturbing Stanley.
Stanley doesn’t think anything, just gives off a general sense of fondness as he rubs his cheek against the mattress. The Narrator pretends it’s against his own cheek, pretends they’re simply two lovers falling asleep in one another’s arms.
Or at least, Stanley falls asleep. Sleep does not come to claim the Narrator, after all. But that’s alright.
Because this time he’s not merely an observer, impatiently waiting for Stanley to wake up. This time he’s Stanley’s guardian, caressing his cheek and holding him close and knowing with complete certainty that he’s not going anywhere.