SOTF Archive/SOTF Classic

This was nice. They were not under any delusion that this was normal, that there was a future here, that there was any backdrop of decency or goodwill for them to fall back on. There was no longer any delusion - or any hope of delusion - that this was all perhaps some elaborate hoax, a trick of the senses, a nightmarish and overly convoluted dream allowed to drag on too long. This was really the emotional equivalent of palliative care, a cynical and nagging voice at the back of Nick's mind was saying. They both knew that. An unspoken shared knowledge. At least, that's how Nick perceived things. He had no reason to suspect that Marco's sense of perception was warped any more - at least, no more warped than his own.

So Nick knew that they weren't going to settle down exactly, live out a peaceful life, turn the waterfall cave into an island of idyllic suburban bliss. But they could relax together. Support each other. Have some fun together. Temporarily turn off their need to fret and panic, safe in the knowledge that they could trust each other, that if they couldn't finding someone else to trust was a futile task, that if they were ambushed during a moment of relative tranquility then at least they were well-prepared for it and as happy as could be up until that moment. Maybe Nick was overthinking this. Maybe he was attaching too much to this. Or maybe too little. It didn't really matter. Nick used to think that such internal contemplation had some real significance, but now he doubted such a notion.

"You being louder?" Nick said with a smile. "Sure. I'm down for that."

He could deal with this. It was a selfish kind of contentment, a myopic and insular and ultimately trivial form of 'victory' within the confines of the island, but he could take that.

((Nick Ogilvie continued elsewhere.))

Marco had been here before, not as himself but as a reader. Sit him down with something to keep notes on and he could have dozens of fics that closed on a moment like this before the hour was up, no sweat. It was a good visual. The afterglow alone had some compelling aesthetics. Draw the camera the right way as he gathered up his clothes with Nick's eyes still on him and you could evoke transformation. There was an implication of confidence, or at least acceptance, in the way he moved without covering himself. Comfort in the small talk they made while he put himself back together. The centerpiece of the closer could be when he pulled his shirt over his head and came out still smiling. Growth, resolution, intimacy, and enough uncertainty to keep you curious. He would have eaten it up if he hit the right tags on Ao3, and he probably wouldn't have been alone.

Ask him to name how many got happy endings or even happy sequels though and he'd be in a tougher spot. The pithy wisdom would be to say it was easy to capture one happy moment in time, but that was disrespectful to the creative effort. Moments like this were not easy, not to create or to live in, he knew that from how many times he had tried and failed at both. Moments like this were work. They required effort he had not found the courage to commit, and they were so fragile. The impulses weren't gone. Leaving the cave already had him starting to feel them again. When they stepped into the light Nick would see what he had done and the disgust would show, it did not matter how many times they had walked in the sun before because Nick had not really seen him before now, there would be reflection, then distaste, then abandonment. If not from Nick then from himself, it was ludicrous to think he could keep up this facade, he hadn't changed, he wasn't better, he was putting on another act and it would fall apart as soon as real stakes were raised again. It was all there. He didn't believe it, but he heard it. It turns out one good fuck did not cure mental illness.

He laughed again just for himself. Familiar as all the self-loathing was, that was new. Marco wasn't sure if he liked it, but it was a change. It teased possibilities. He knew, like he imagined so many people who sat down to follow up on a passage like this knew, that few if any of them ended happily. If your goal was to please the audience and leave them wondering wistfully about what might have been, it was best to leave those possibilities open ended. This was not a story for anyone else, though. It was his. A messy story without room for edits, but one he had sole authority to author. It wasn't the first time he was coming to this revelation, he knew that too. There was a fair position to bet that like so many other missed opportunities he would be left staring at blank pages. The deadline was approaching though, and anyone who was as good at procrastination as Marco was could tell you what a looming deadline did to your output.

He'd force something out. Might not be good, but it would be real.

((Marco Hart Continued In We're All Excited, We Don't Know Why, Maybe It's 'Cause, We're Gonna Die))