There wasn't much for Nick to do. This wasn't his lane. Wasn't his moment. These weren't his people - and that meant he would not need to fight, not need to defend myself, not have to put himself in any danger. He could watch. Spectate. Sit there, like in reserve, like a substitute on a football team, just in case Marco called on him. Just in case Marco decided that there was a situation that called for Nick's talents, or, more likely, a situation where Marco needed Nick's support.
It was an odd thought, knowing that he had become...important. To someone new. That he had made something with Marco that previously wasn't there. That Nick was capable of building new relationships, actually becoming valued by new people. An odd thought, really. Still struck Nick as alien. Of course, there was a lot going on in Nick's life right now that was weird, odd, to be treated with a mixture of bewilderment and contempt. But all the other weird thoughts and concepts sorta meshed together. He understood, in the abstract, what it meant to be on Survival of the Fittest, how that changed everything. Yet that that existed in the same...week as someone falling for Nick...
But now wasn't the time to sit there and think about himself, mope about his predicaments, muse about his own futile path to personal growth.
Princess was lying there, sick. Someone was suffering, right in front of him. Not just Princess, but Katelynne and Marco too by association. He had to be there. Just in case Marco needed him. He looked at Marco. He was in his element. Helping people, with a tenderness and kindness that Nick knew he could never replicate, that just wasn't able to flow organically and truthfully from his talents. Nick listened to Marco's words. He didn't know if they were helping Princess but...
They were helping Nick.
And that wasn't the main goal, but it mattered. Nick could accept that now. He blinked. There were tears in his eyes. He had an amazing boyfriend. An amazing partner. Again. He'd had them before, but not earned them, not deserved them, not been worthy of their time and energy. And for once, maybe he could actually...act in a way to deserve that. Just once. Nick looked at Marco. He smiled softly, barely perceptible beneath his ill-kempt beard, but visible in his eyes nonetheless.
Princess of the Night
Day 9 sometime overnight to day 11 post-announcements, private
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General Goose
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Would it matter?
Of course it would; Katelynne wouldn't be trying if Princess didn't. But Katelynne couldn't find those words or really any words and just stood there with crossed arms while Marco took over lady-in-waiting duties. Some sorta sigh huffed out as she shared a glance with him that lasted no more than maybe a quarter of a second.
Marco spoke for her, anyway, so she just let him speak. Instead her head and eyes turned up to Nicholas, hiding in the back like a kid listening to their parents fighting in the middle of the night. He was crying, too.
Katelynne turned away quick like she wasn't supposed to see something, back to Princess and back to the ground along with another huff. "If, uhm... if y'all don't mind giving us your water and stuff, y'all can stay. It's okay."
She nodded, raised her head and pushed the stray hairs out of her face and looked at Marco. This time with a smile, or rather half of one, its radiance swallowed by the oppressive darkness. It was about the best she could muster.
Of course it would; Katelynne wouldn't be trying if Princess didn't. But Katelynne couldn't find those words or really any words and just stood there with crossed arms while Marco took over lady-in-waiting duties. Some sorta sigh huffed out as she shared a glance with him that lasted no more than maybe a quarter of a second.
Marco spoke for her, anyway, so she just let him speak. Instead her head and eyes turned up to Nicholas, hiding in the back like a kid listening to their parents fighting in the middle of the night. He was crying, too.
Katelynne turned away quick like she wasn't supposed to see something, back to Princess and back to the ground along with another huff. "If, uhm... if y'all don't mind giving us your water and stuff, y'all can stay. It's okay."
She nodded, raised her head and pushed the stray hairs out of her face and looked at Marco. This time with a smile, or rather half of one, its radiance swallowed by the oppressive darkness. It was about the best she could muster.
Delirium melted like overripe cake frosting- really, Princess vaguely wished her failing health felt like a sugar high. Might have been more tolerable. Princess felt Marco's hand with a weak mouse nibble of a fingernail, slightly overgrown by a week or so. Princess mused on an acute and fresh guilt among many, then. The hand in her own, enveloping her own despite being too small to, it was a familiar size and shape. A reminder that the past was their most frightening ghost...?
Something in that vein- it was a line among many she'd tried.
"Thanks." 'What you want'. Wanting something and having it were two different states of being. Marco, Princess dearly appreciated, had unified through the difference. Maybe. Maybe she was just seeing his best side. Groaning right at his best side, her limp throat, as a fresh surge of pain bubbled up through the cracks and holes left in her skull from birth. Forced an involuntary blink, a long and tense one, her sallow cheeks briefly caving in to highlight the unique agony of the moment. "... Needed that."
A stabilizing breath, of many that had yet to finish the job.
"Let me get a look. At you... Hard to see." She turned her neck towards him as much she could manage, which wasn't much. She wondered if it was day or night. It was hard to tell the difference from her perspective. She could see everyone in their varying states of liveliness, but she couldn't make out the details. Kate asked a question Princess heard but didn't understand. "I'm finally seeing the world brighter, y'know. But it's too bright."
She tried to focus on Marco's face, to understand, to celebrate what little this island had managed to grow on all its' bloodied acres. The effort just soured her connection to reality. Bombs bursting behind her eyelids, as involuntary wetness surged over her dry pupils, turned to crusty tears. She shut everything out again, hiding in darkness that still seared as light poured through too-thin skin that had once been prettied to the best of her ability with all her trickery.
"Sorry- I..." A sigh. Her eyes fluttered open. Gaze once more unfocused, neutral.
"We're satisfied then. With this. It's enough."
A whine of her old veneer. Grump and pomp and railing against the inanity of life, never having appreciated how short it truly could be.
Something in that vein- it was a line among many she'd tried.
"Thanks." 'What you want'. Wanting something and having it were two different states of being. Marco, Princess dearly appreciated, had unified through the difference. Maybe. Maybe she was just seeing his best side. Groaning right at his best side, her limp throat, as a fresh surge of pain bubbled up through the cracks and holes left in her skull from birth. Forced an involuntary blink, a long and tense one, her sallow cheeks briefly caving in to highlight the unique agony of the moment. "... Needed that."
A stabilizing breath, of many that had yet to finish the job.
"Let me get a look. At you... Hard to see." She turned her neck towards him as much she could manage, which wasn't much. She wondered if it was day or night. It was hard to tell the difference from her perspective. She could see everyone in their varying states of liveliness, but she couldn't make out the details. Kate asked a question Princess heard but didn't understand. "I'm finally seeing the world brighter, y'know. But it's too bright."
She tried to focus on Marco's face, to understand, to celebrate what little this island had managed to grow on all its' bloodied acres. The effort just soured her connection to reality. Bombs bursting behind her eyelids, as involuntary wetness surged over her dry pupils, turned to crusty tears. She shut everything out again, hiding in darkness that still seared as light poured through too-thin skin that had once been prettied to the best of her ability with all her trickery.
"Sorry- I..." A sigh. Her eyes fluttered open. Gaze once more unfocused, neutral.
"We're satisfied then. With this. It's enough."
A whine of her old veneer. Grump and pomp and railing against the inanity of life, never having appreciated how short it truly could be.
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Emprexx Plush
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"No."
It surprised him how quick the response came. "I mean, not about the water and stuff," he fumbled to Kateylnne, "we can share. I meant, I, I'm not satisfied." Marco's gut reaction to the word was yearning. In theory to be satisfied was to have everything needed. To be content if not happy. There were worse ways to end up. He'd be lucky to be satisfied, wouldn't he? Find some undisturbed, cozy spot up on a cliff off the island's upper levels, wrap his arms around Nick, watch the sun go down and think 'Yes. This is enough.' It sounded like a great way to end a story. Better than he'd ever expected for himself. Imagined, sure, with some of the details left morer obscure he could have pictured that scene hundreds of times in fantasies before but he never dared believe he could make it real.
Because back home the fear that kept Marco from reaching for what he wanted was the fear of losing what he had. It was enough to be loved rather than understood. He didn't need others to know a self he wasn't sure enough to make real. Marco-mm.
Nona had been satisfied.
"I didn't tell them my name until after...after Kayla." He expected to hear his voice shake. "I thought she was going to hurt me. Then that she couldn't be real, then..." Expected a rise in his pitch, a nervous whine. "Somebody, if, if people really watch this stuff, somebody's probably said it. That I went crazy. I'm some...psychotic break, split personality, Jekyll and Hyde situation." Expected to trip over every other word. "If that was the only thing they saw, I guess I get it." Expected to sound weak. "But saying my name was the only sane thing I did, because I accepted I was gonna die," expected to sound afraid, "and that I killed her. Whether I meant to, or, or wanted to, or, I killed her. I was satisfied with the lies I told myself, so I lashed out when somebody tried to take them away."
Marco defied all of his expectations. From start to finish his words stayed sure, until he was ready to look at Princess again. "I'm not satisfied anymore." If the Marco who could pull himself out of a puddle of viscera and vomit and find something stable, desirable even, with Nick in the aftermath of all they'd done was the best version of himself the Nona who'd torn Kayla's throat open could imagine, then what was the next order of magnitude? Who was the best Marco he could picture? Who was that Marco's best Marco? And the next's? And the next's?
He knew he'd never make it to that next version of himself, nevermind another dozen hypothetical iterations down the line.
"I don't think I'd want to be if I could."
He was going to keep reaching anyway.
It surprised him how quick the response came. "I mean, not about the water and stuff," he fumbled to Kateylnne, "we can share. I meant, I, I'm not satisfied." Marco's gut reaction to the word was yearning. In theory to be satisfied was to have everything needed. To be content if not happy. There were worse ways to end up. He'd be lucky to be satisfied, wouldn't he? Find some undisturbed, cozy spot up on a cliff off the island's upper levels, wrap his arms around Nick, watch the sun go down and think 'Yes. This is enough.' It sounded like a great way to end a story. Better than he'd ever expected for himself. Imagined, sure, with some of the details left morer obscure he could have pictured that scene hundreds of times in fantasies before but he never dared believe he could make it real.
Because back home the fear that kept Marco from reaching for what he wanted was the fear of losing what he had. It was enough to be loved rather than understood. He didn't need others to know a self he wasn't sure enough to make real. Marco-mm.
Nona had been satisfied.
"I didn't tell them my name until after...after Kayla." He expected to hear his voice shake. "I thought she was going to hurt me. Then that she couldn't be real, then..." Expected a rise in his pitch, a nervous whine. "Somebody, if, if people really watch this stuff, somebody's probably said it. That I went crazy. I'm some...psychotic break, split personality, Jekyll and Hyde situation." Expected to trip over every other word. "If that was the only thing they saw, I guess I get it." Expected to sound weak. "But saying my name was the only sane thing I did, because I accepted I was gonna die," expected to sound afraid, "and that I killed her. Whether I meant to, or, or wanted to, or, I killed her. I was satisfied with the lies I told myself, so I lashed out when somebody tried to take them away."
Marco defied all of his expectations. From start to finish his words stayed sure, until he was ready to look at Princess again. "I'm not satisfied anymore." If the Marco who could pull himself out of a puddle of viscera and vomit and find something stable, desirable even, with Nick in the aftermath of all they'd done was the best version of himself the Nona who'd torn Kayla's throat open could imagine, then what was the next order of magnitude? Who was the best Marco he could picture? Who was that Marco's best Marco? And the next's? And the next's?
He knew he'd never make it to that next version of himself, nevermind another dozen hypothetical iterations down the line.
"I don't think I'd want to be if I could."
He was going to keep reaching anyway.
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Nick was just thinking about what he could do to support Marco. That was what he was meant to do here. Support Marco, stand by his side, help him get through this emotionally trying time.
Nick stayed silent. This wasn't his place to talk. There was nothing that he could say. Nothing insightful, or sensitive, or relevant to what anyone was thinking and caring about in that moment. This was time to listen. To be there for Marco during this very important time for him. To support Princess and Katelynne, if that was what Marco wanted, if that was what Marco decided was the best thing to do in that moment.
He wouldn't think. He'd just do. Right now, he'd be a follower. An ally. Nothing more. Kinda relaxing, he supposed. A break from more high adrenaline, high intensity pursuits. A display of trust in Marco, in Marco's moral reasoning, in Marco's strategic considerations.
They wanted water, and Marco was willing to help. Nick produced a bottle of water from the bag, half finished. Held it out. A wordless offer for whoever needed it to take it.
This was an important conversation.
And he looked down as he heard about what happened to Kayla. Just a silent expression of support, a silent display of mourning.
Nick stayed silent. This wasn't his place to talk. There was nothing that he could say. Nothing insightful, or sensitive, or relevant to what anyone was thinking and caring about in that moment. This was time to listen. To be there for Marco during this very important time for him. To support Princess and Katelynne, if that was what Marco wanted, if that was what Marco decided was the best thing to do in that moment.
He wouldn't think. He'd just do. Right now, he'd be a follower. An ally. Nothing more. Kinda relaxing, he supposed. A break from more high adrenaline, high intensity pursuits. A display of trust in Marco, in Marco's moral reasoning, in Marco's strategic considerations.
They wanted water, and Marco was willing to help. Nick produced a bottle of water from the bag, half finished. Held it out. A wordless offer for whoever needed it to take it.
This was an important conversation.
And he looked down as he heard about what happened to Kayla. Just a silent expression of support, a silent display of mourning.
Was that are there was to it? Murder and metamorphosis and the story went on and it still wasn't done. It almost felt like an impolite reminder, a rude turn of conversation (this was a conversation? Only one of them could even string together sentences without needing to gasp for breath every other syllable) that a Princess might have rejected had she been herself in any other circumstance of being. Telling the dying girl it would be a long time coming before the neat resolution of an ending was looking for would ever be confirmed unattainable, snatched from her as part of her birthright.
Pre. Ten. Tious. Marco had spoken his truth into being. Princess couldn't have done it if she'd tried.
"Makes too much sense."
If she'd even known, which she of course did not. Barely had the lung capacity to think, let alone understand.
"Like in the- ... I wish I'd figured that out. In that way."
Marco... wasn't looking at her? He was still right by her, still holding onto her. As she continued to lazily drift down the Styx the people watching from the banks she floated away from grew hazier and hazier, less distinct. She hadn't yet traveled that far.
"Guess we needed more time. Which we're not getting."
Crick. Creak. Her bones made noises as she tried to move them. It was easier to melt in place than it was to actually shift positions- gravity did the work for her easier, as she slumped a bit deeper into Marco's side.
"If you want to steal time... wouldn't blame you." It turned out that finding something to live for and on was surprisingly simple. As much as a simple turn of phrase that somehow made someone who looked and smelled exactly the same be entirely different. A different name. A different identity. Those were beautiful words. Not the ones that polluted Princess' skull until it rotted stiff. It must have been the simplicity that had thrown her off. It had never been her strong suit. She really did not deserve Kate. "Everyone's lying to themselves somehow. Then we figure it out different times... too late, some..." Princess' hair, a pile of dry corn husks post harvest, tumbled over Marco's shoulder. Princess was warm enough to light tinder, her weight distributed over him through no conscious decision of her own as she continued to stare off into the undefined distance.
"Glad you figured it out. Maybe just in time."
Pre. Ten. Tious. Marco had spoken his truth into being. Princess couldn't have done it if she'd tried.
"Makes too much sense."
If she'd even known, which she of course did not. Barely had the lung capacity to think, let alone understand.
"Like in the- ... I wish I'd figured that out. In that way."
Marco... wasn't looking at her? He was still right by her, still holding onto her. As she continued to lazily drift down the Styx the people watching from the banks she floated away from grew hazier and hazier, less distinct. She hadn't yet traveled that far.
"Guess we needed more time. Which we're not getting."
Crick. Creak. Her bones made noises as she tried to move them. It was easier to melt in place than it was to actually shift positions- gravity did the work for her easier, as she slumped a bit deeper into Marco's side.
"If you want to steal time... wouldn't blame you." It turned out that finding something to live for and on was surprisingly simple. As much as a simple turn of phrase that somehow made someone who looked and smelled exactly the same be entirely different. A different name. A different identity. Those were beautiful words. Not the ones that polluted Princess' skull until it rotted stiff. It must have been the simplicity that had thrown her off. It had never been her strong suit. She really did not deserve Kate. "Everyone's lying to themselves somehow. Then we figure it out different times... too late, some..." Princess' hair, a pile of dry corn husks post harvest, tumbled over Marco's shoulder. Princess was warm enough to light tinder, her weight distributed over him through no conscious decision of her own as she continued to stare off into the undefined distance.
"Glad you figured it out. Maybe just in time."
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Katelynne shook her head at Nick with the water bottle. She was fine. Her throat was drier than the Sahara, but she was fine.
She slinked back in the shadows, arms crossed and ears idly listening to Marco and Princess's back and forth pitter-patter of words she only half heard and a quarter understood.
"Time", though... there was something he always said when he was still alive. Katelynne didn't really get it back then, but it was really making sense more and more, even moreso these past few weeks.
"Yeah, better now than never," the words just poured out, to no one in particular other than Katelynne's own ears. "I don't think I'd want to steal more time, even if I could. We all got plenty; it just feels little after you already spent it."
She cleared her throat before wandering away. Princess was the one who needed this time. "I'm, uh... I just need a minute. Make yourselves at home, though there ain't much."
She slinked back in the shadows, arms crossed and ears idly listening to Marco and Princess's back and forth pitter-patter of words she only half heard and a quarter understood.
"Time", though... there was something he always said when he was still alive. Katelynne didn't really get it back then, but it was really making sense more and more, even moreso these past few weeks.
"Yeah, better now than never," the words just poured out, to no one in particular other than Katelynne's own ears. "I don't think I'd want to steal more time, even if I could. We all got plenty; it just feels little after you already spent it."
She cleared her throat before wandering away. Princess was the one who needed this time. "I'm, uh... I just need a minute. Make yourselves at home, though there ain't much."
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Emprexx Plush
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Katelynne was stepping away before he could agree with her, so Marco nodded in her absence. "It's only too late when you can't spend anymore." He'd been talking a lot about himself, since she'd been asking, but Princess was running out of time too. Faster than the rest of them probably. Or maybe she'd wake up tomorrow morning feeling better than she ever had. He wasn't a doctor. Marco remembered reading a lot about how outlook can have a big impact in medicine, though; it's why placebos were often effective. People who believed they would get better sometimes beat impossible odds, like if they were sure enough that their body could recover that truth would be imprinted right down to a cellular level or something. It sounded magical or spiritual or something when he thought about it like that, but how did that law of fiction go? Any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic? Cut down to its simplest, most logical explanation, there was something in a human being's ability to recover that responded positively to hope.
Marco wasn't a doctor and they didn't have any better medicine in their bags than what Katelynne had already been giving her for who knows how long. But it appeared she was responding to his ideas were stirring her. She was up and forcing her way through the conversation. She was happy for him, and while Marco wasn't a therapist or a life coach or a motivational speaker or anything of the sort either, it seemed the least he could do was follow the train of thought and try to help her be happy for herself for as long as he had left.
He held on to her against his side. Brushed the hair back from her forehead. "Out here it's kind of like...when you see the first of the month coming, and you know you're not going to make rent anyway, so, so fuck it, you deserve to spend what you've got on what you need to get by." Marco'd never had to worry about rent. He'd heard the stories from his parents though, all the years they had to wait for him because they could barely cover themselves, the missed bills, the threatening letters, nights lying awake wondering if they'd still have four walls in a week, and nights spent dancing, drinking, laughing when they felt like they didn't deserve it because it gave them the will to get up the next day and scrape harder. His mother's words came out in a voice that sounded too much like hers still. "If you've got time left on the clock, why burn it off doing nothing? And if you don't, why not make your last night your best night?"
The conviction in his voice was wavering. He shrugged against her. "That's what my mom used to tell me about running out of time, at least. What I'm asking, I guess, is..." he hesitated with a deep breath to steady himself. "One step at a time. What's the next step to make this your best night? There's a lot of steps and a lot of nights still coming, but right now we just have to focus on the next one. Right?"
Marco wasn't a doctor and they didn't have any better medicine in their bags than what Katelynne had already been giving her for who knows how long. But it appeared she was responding to his ideas were stirring her. She was up and forcing her way through the conversation. She was happy for him, and while Marco wasn't a therapist or a life coach or a motivational speaker or anything of the sort either, it seemed the least he could do was follow the train of thought and try to help her be happy for herself for as long as he had left.
He held on to her against his side. Brushed the hair back from her forehead. "Out here it's kind of like...when you see the first of the month coming, and you know you're not going to make rent anyway, so, so fuck it, you deserve to spend what you've got on what you need to get by." Marco'd never had to worry about rent. He'd heard the stories from his parents though, all the years they had to wait for him because they could barely cover themselves, the missed bills, the threatening letters, nights lying awake wondering if they'd still have four walls in a week, and nights spent dancing, drinking, laughing when they felt like they didn't deserve it because it gave them the will to get up the next day and scrape harder. His mother's words came out in a voice that sounded too much like hers still. "If you've got time left on the clock, why burn it off doing nothing? And if you don't, why not make your last night your best night?"
The conviction in his voice was wavering. He shrugged against her. "That's what my mom used to tell me about running out of time, at least. What I'm asking, I guess, is..." he hesitated with a deep breath to steady himself. "One step at a time. What's the next step to make this your best night? There's a lot of steps and a lot of nights still coming, but right now we just have to focus on the next one. Right?"
Princess heard Kate plainly as she'd spoken- awkward time for a life's first, wasn't it? Princess, for a moment misinterpreted Kate's intentions. A minute, the briefest iteration of time needed to leave. Tyrell had only needed a minute. Lucas had only needed a minute. She herself had only needed a minute, when she'd abandoned Megan, Claudeson, Thomas...
"Kate," Princess squeaked. A bit needy, a bit whiny, a bit pathetic.
Then, of course, she felt embarrassed when she vaguely understood Kate was still there. That didn't stop Princess from missing her friend, of course. She had many of those to miss. A bit too fucking late for it, but as it were. Princess didn't blush. She did, however, note that she never really made an entreaty that desperate sounding in ordinary circumstances. It sounded like the sort of plea a little girl made when hoping mommy wouldn't go.
Princess never had talked to her own mother, not that particular way. Marco tried to help adjust the disaster Princess called bedhead. It stubbornly went back the way it was put, almost as needlessly resistant as the girl it was attached to.
Oddly practical metaphor, that. Mom had complained about that particular day of financial reckoning all the time, abetted by a mature enough Princess reminding of the obligation and the need to not blow money on the latest grungy boyfriend Princess hated. Must have started... age ten, eleven? Young enough to be one of the many things she was force-trained to be practical about when nobody from school was looking. She breathed deep, when he did. He, of course, sounded much less like a corpse deflating.
"Right. Not getting more time. But we might... have enough."
She didn't know if she believed it.
"It sounds so simple." Thus that she was ultimately too cynical, too polluted by 'aesthetics' to really buy in the way that would have satisfied her brain tumor of a thought process. What with all the motifs and symbolism and the atrocious pentameter, so on. "I don't think... I need much. For a best night." Not true. She was the sort of girl who needed the world and then some. She couldn't possibly believe herself, believe the things she was saying.
She believed him. He deserved that much from her.
"One step at a time," Princess softly repeated. "Could I... help you with that? Let me see your face...?" A long moment, as the chasm in her mind that demanded her thoughts for tribute bubbled with magma that was increasingly becoming less agony and more a particularly disturbing comfort.
"I could... I have stuff in the bag. Not useful for me... Just for you."
"Kate," Princess squeaked. A bit needy, a bit whiny, a bit pathetic.
Then, of course, she felt embarrassed when she vaguely understood Kate was still there. That didn't stop Princess from missing her friend, of course. She had many of those to miss. A bit too fucking late for it, but as it were. Princess didn't blush. She did, however, note that she never really made an entreaty that desperate sounding in ordinary circumstances. It sounded like the sort of plea a little girl made when hoping mommy wouldn't go.
Princess never had talked to her own mother, not that particular way. Marco tried to help adjust the disaster Princess called bedhead. It stubbornly went back the way it was put, almost as needlessly resistant as the girl it was attached to.
Oddly practical metaphor, that. Mom had complained about that particular day of financial reckoning all the time, abetted by a mature enough Princess reminding of the obligation and the need to not blow money on the latest grungy boyfriend Princess hated. Must have started... age ten, eleven? Young enough to be one of the many things she was force-trained to be practical about when nobody from school was looking. She breathed deep, when he did. He, of course, sounded much less like a corpse deflating.
"Right. Not getting more time. But we might... have enough."
She didn't know if she believed it.
"It sounds so simple." Thus that she was ultimately too cynical, too polluted by 'aesthetics' to really buy in the way that would have satisfied her brain tumor of a thought process. What with all the motifs and symbolism and the atrocious pentameter, so on. "I don't think... I need much. For a best night." Not true. She was the sort of girl who needed the world and then some. She couldn't possibly believe herself, believe the things she was saying.
She believed him. He deserved that much from her.
"One step at a time," Princess softly repeated. "Could I... help you with that? Let me see your face...?" A long moment, as the chasm in her mind that demanded her thoughts for tribute bubbled with magma that was increasingly becoming less agony and more a particularly disturbing comfort.
"I could... I have stuff in the bag. Not useful for me... Just for you."
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Emprexx Plush
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Marco did not think much about his face.
He would describe it as ‘average,’ which in fairness was more charitable than he was with most of his features. It did not usually trigger the same sort of unease in him that the rest of his body did. That was not because he was particularly at peace with it; his face like all faces had the advantage of requiring effort to perceive. He could not accidentally glance at it while undressing, it did not linger on the edges of his vision when he looked into his personal space, and if it tried to meet him in reflection he could look away. Without direct contact it faded into a generic enough shape. ‘Average’ as a composite, a gestalt of blurred glimpses smoothed into approximations. Eyes that were a color. A nose that stood above flatter features. Lips that could part to a mouth. Eyebrows, presumably, full cheeks, a chin, a brow, a pimple here and there. Ears. Large ears, those he had never been able to blur so well unless he hid them away. With a scarf around his head the abstract picture of his face was complete. He did not need any further detail day to day.
At home he almost never wore make-up. When he did it was simple things, a little bit of foundation, an evening of his eyebrows, anything more and he felt...it was the way his mother looked at him. How her fingers trailed over his face describing this brand or that paired with pictures from all over her life of styles she’d done for herself, for her sisters, for friends, for people she barely knew who just happened to ask. Marco wondered often if his mother had missed her calling in cosmology, before correcting himself to cosmetology, since she seemed to be able to look at a person and have a vision about what their most beautiful self looked like in that moment. It was a gift. One she’d tried to share with him an uncountable number of times. Not judgmentally. Not manipulatively. His mother had never tried to make him feel bad for his appearance, she told him often how beautiful he was, how he was perfect just as he was, but it was obvious how he avoided looking at himself. The way he covered up every inch he could said more than he would ever speak aloud about his body. His mother heard him. She thought she understood.
Tara Hart had a thousand and one ideas about the sort of woman her daughter should be to be happy with herself.
He had tried. More for her than for himself.
As Princess stared into his face and spoke of steps he felt the turn in his stomach. Uneasiness churned and rose into his chest as a burning sensation. Then choking. Pressure behind his eyes as they shut and he could see it.
Blue eyes. An upturned nose. Strong chin. Chubby cheeks, the left dimpled with her smile. Shiny painted nails. Black eyeliner. Ruby red lipstick. Sparkling gold eyeshadow.
His left arm itched.
Marco swallowed and opened his eyes.
“Okay.”
He didn’t know what Princess saw when she looked into his face. Where she saw potential. How she would change him.
“I think...I think I’d like that.”
But she saw Marco. Some version of him, at least.
“Can you bring us her bag, Nick?”
He wanted to see him too.
He would describe it as ‘average,’ which in fairness was more charitable than he was with most of his features. It did not usually trigger the same sort of unease in him that the rest of his body did. That was not because he was particularly at peace with it; his face like all faces had the advantage of requiring effort to perceive. He could not accidentally glance at it while undressing, it did not linger on the edges of his vision when he looked into his personal space, and if it tried to meet him in reflection he could look away. Without direct contact it faded into a generic enough shape. ‘Average’ as a composite, a gestalt of blurred glimpses smoothed into approximations. Eyes that were a color. A nose that stood above flatter features. Lips that could part to a mouth. Eyebrows, presumably, full cheeks, a chin, a brow, a pimple here and there. Ears. Large ears, those he had never been able to blur so well unless he hid them away. With a scarf around his head the abstract picture of his face was complete. He did not need any further detail day to day.
At home he almost never wore make-up. When he did it was simple things, a little bit of foundation, an evening of his eyebrows, anything more and he felt...it was the way his mother looked at him. How her fingers trailed over his face describing this brand or that paired with pictures from all over her life of styles she’d done for herself, for her sisters, for friends, for people she barely knew who just happened to ask. Marco wondered often if his mother had missed her calling in cosmology, before correcting himself to cosmetology, since she seemed to be able to look at a person and have a vision about what their most beautiful self looked like in that moment. It was a gift. One she’d tried to share with him an uncountable number of times. Not judgmentally. Not manipulatively. His mother had never tried to make him feel bad for his appearance, she told him often how beautiful he was, how he was perfect just as he was, but it was obvious how he avoided looking at himself. The way he covered up every inch he could said more than he would ever speak aloud about his body. His mother heard him. She thought she understood.
Tara Hart had a thousand and one ideas about the sort of woman her daughter should be to be happy with herself.
He had tried. More for her than for himself.
As Princess stared into his face and spoke of steps he felt the turn in his stomach. Uneasiness churned and rose into his chest as a burning sensation. Then choking. Pressure behind his eyes as they shut and he could see it.
Blue eyes. An upturned nose. Strong chin. Chubby cheeks, the left dimpled with her smile. Shiny painted nails. Black eyeliner. Ruby red lipstick. Sparkling gold eyeshadow.
His left arm itched.
Marco swallowed and opened his eyes.
“Okay.”
He didn’t know what Princess saw when she looked into his face. Where she saw potential. How she would change him.
“I think...I think I’d like that.”
But she saw Marco. Some version of him, at least.
“Can you bring us her bag, Nick?”
He wanted to see him too.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Nick let his arm be pulled down gently by gravity with only the bare minimum of resistance from his body, until the bottle of water was placed on the floor. There for the taking, if somehow taking it from his hand was the barrier that was holding them back. It was very unlikely to be the source of any reluctance, but Nick was mentally accepting of that prospect now. He scared people. He was big and a killer and people would naturally be wary of supposed acts of kindness from him. Especially if they had encountered him or heard about him in any depth from the days before the island. Nick accepted that. He felt no grudge over that possibility, when it was just a little irksome nuisance at the back of his mind, or if it was expressed ambiguously and sensitively through actions that could just be viewed as self-preservation.
Maybe there was the possibility that Katelynn didn't want water right now.
Or had a general reluctance, perhaps borne from some vestigial traces of etiquette and good manners, to take water from another person.
Or perhaps a general cautiousness about drinks from others had been built up. An understandable reaction. Nick had heard about the poisonings. The names evaded his mind. Not that he'd forgotten who died, but for the most part he didn't care for remembering all the methods that people died, or mentally keeping track of the intricate spider-web of kills and body counts that drew every one together.
Important stuff, just not for him. Just wasn't important to how he'd decided to spend his final days.
All of these thoughts, all of these possibilities, were at the front of Nick's mind, and yet they didn't move him in the slightest. He knew they were there, but as a casual aside. A reminder that, were pettiness or paranoia or an inquisitive zeal to overanalyse take hold upon him, he'd have plenty to look at, plenty to observe and pick apart. 'Here are all the things you could be overthinking', his mind was saying to him.
He left the bottle of water on the floor.
NIck would touch it later, but only if he got thirsty himself, or someone asked him to pass it over, or they had to move.
He was asked to bring Princess's bag. He did so. Somehow this task - which entailed an embarrassing amount of searching around the room to find a bag that he'd definitely spotted earlier and had forgotten the placement of, an awkward interval of hesitation as he moved extra judiciously so as not to accidentally disturb Katelynn's possessions or treat Princess's bag with anything but the utmost delicacy - entailed less thought than putting the water down. All the thought that went into it seemed to happen at an unconscious level of Nick's mind. Like it was happening, but he wasn't really properly engaging with it.
He brought the bag over. Rested it by Marco and Princess. Nick stepped back into the background.
Maybe there was the possibility that Katelynn didn't want water right now.
Or had a general reluctance, perhaps borne from some vestigial traces of etiquette and good manners, to take water from another person.
Or perhaps a general cautiousness about drinks from others had been built up. An understandable reaction. Nick had heard about the poisonings. The names evaded his mind. Not that he'd forgotten who died, but for the most part he didn't care for remembering all the methods that people died, or mentally keeping track of the intricate spider-web of kills and body counts that drew every one together.
Important stuff, just not for him. Just wasn't important to how he'd decided to spend his final days.
All of these thoughts, all of these possibilities, were at the front of Nick's mind, and yet they didn't move him in the slightest. He knew they were there, but as a casual aside. A reminder that, were pettiness or paranoia or an inquisitive zeal to overanalyse take hold upon him, he'd have plenty to look at, plenty to observe and pick apart. 'Here are all the things you could be overthinking', his mind was saying to him.
He left the bottle of water on the floor.
NIck would touch it later, but only if he got thirsty himself, or someone asked him to pass it over, or they had to move.
He was asked to bring Princess's bag. He did so. Somehow this task - which entailed an embarrassing amount of searching around the room to find a bag that he'd definitely spotted earlier and had forgotten the placement of, an awkward interval of hesitation as he moved extra judiciously so as not to accidentally disturb Katelynn's possessions or treat Princess's bag with anything but the utmost delicacy - entailed less thought than putting the water down. All the thought that went into it seemed to happen at an unconscious level of Nick's mind. Like it was happening, but he wasn't really properly engaging with it.
He brought the bag over. Rested it by Marco and Princess. Nick stepped back into the background.
Princess wasn't sure what she was looking at. She didn't need to be. This wasn't her moment, this wasn't her narrative, it was his. Just this once. She could stop pretending she knew how to hog a spotlight, she-
was still talking about herself goddammit
Marco had never talked much about his applique. His aesthetics had always been shrinking, reluctant. In hindsight, that should have made too much sense. He'd tried, hadn't he? All the expectations. His home had been littered in photos, the few times Princess had stepped foot into their house. It had been inescapable, then. It had been the tragedy of his existence, repeated in every one of the corners of his eyes like a mockery puppet show, all muppet mouths and distorted teeth. To think it would have to come to this so he could have even a moment for his story to actually take place and to move forward... In a classical sense, anyways. A proper heroes journey with a proper resolution. Post modern bullshit loved to linger on and on with the same formless, timeless moment of vague malaise for no reason, which was why Princess hated the stuff. Wait, no, she was talking about herself again.
It was okay, anyways. No need to think. Marco's history was his own. She just had to play her part in it.
She heard a footstep somewhere distantly near her, and then she had her bag. She searched for whatever it was she might have had- whoever had packed this had been a girl, that had been clear enough, it was-
She recognized the shape of the compact as her trembling, cackling fingers closed a half-formed circle. Easy enough to do that when you had so few actual friends, right? Kate and Marco were right out, Violet used a very different palette, so that left...
The Megan in Princess' mind didn't need it, anyhow. And Princess did nobody good crying for her, much as she absolutely wanted to give up and adhere herself by the bones against the floor for an excessively melodramatic moment in time.
She emerged from the bag with fingers that lost brushes that hit the floor that spilled powder everywhere and god she couldn't do this, the one time she actually lifted her finger on this island to accomplish something and she was still trapped on the wrong side of her head, watching herself marionette her way through a pathetic display worth no accolades and no reviews and herself once more drowning in self-pity while her friends were right there waiting for her, the ones that had lived this long anyways, long enough to be disappointed by her one last time before-
"Kate. Nick. Please help."
She couldn't see Marco for what he looked like, as the blur of her failing optic nerves only continued to degrade her connection to the reality she'd once swore she'd conquer. She could see what she wanted to see, and she dearly hoped that was what he wanted to see too. Princess had no hands, no eyes. She didn't need them. She was enough of a loudmouth to make up the difference- that had always been her thing, hadn't it?
was still talking about herself goddammit
Marco had never talked much about his applique. His aesthetics had always been shrinking, reluctant. In hindsight, that should have made too much sense. He'd tried, hadn't he? All the expectations. His home had been littered in photos, the few times Princess had stepped foot into their house. It had been inescapable, then. It had been the tragedy of his existence, repeated in every one of the corners of his eyes like a mockery puppet show, all muppet mouths and distorted teeth. To think it would have to come to this so he could have even a moment for his story to actually take place and to move forward... In a classical sense, anyways. A proper heroes journey with a proper resolution. Post modern bullshit loved to linger on and on with the same formless, timeless moment of vague malaise for no reason, which was why Princess hated the stuff. Wait, no, she was talking about herself again.
It was okay, anyways. No need to think. Marco's history was his own. She just had to play her part in it.
She heard a footstep somewhere distantly near her, and then she had her bag. She searched for whatever it was she might have had- whoever had packed this had been a girl, that had been clear enough, it was-
She recognized the shape of the compact as her trembling, cackling fingers closed a half-formed circle. Easy enough to do that when you had so few actual friends, right? Kate and Marco were right out, Violet used a very different palette, so that left...
The Megan in Princess' mind didn't need it, anyhow. And Princess did nobody good crying for her, much as she absolutely wanted to give up and adhere herself by the bones against the floor for an excessively melodramatic moment in time.
She emerged from the bag with fingers that lost brushes that hit the floor that spilled powder everywhere and god she couldn't do this, the one time she actually lifted her finger on this island to accomplish something and she was still trapped on the wrong side of her head, watching herself marionette her way through a pathetic display worth no accolades and no reviews and herself once more drowning in self-pity while her friends were right there waiting for her, the ones that had lived this long anyways, long enough to be disappointed by her one last time before-
"Kate. Nick. Please help."
She couldn't see Marco for what he looked like, as the blur of her failing optic nerves only continued to degrade her connection to the reality she'd once swore she'd conquer. She could see what she wanted to see, and she dearly hoped that was what he wanted to see too. Princess had no hands, no eyes. She didn't need them. She was enough of a loudmouth to make up the difference- that had always been her thing, hadn't it?
V8 Vibes:
V7 Vibes:
Katelynne barely had time to finish wiping the tears away from her own face before being called back to the frontlines.
"I'm sorry. I got ya. I'm here. I'm here." She nodded at Nicholas and enveloped one of Princess's hands inside a shell made of her own.
"Tell us what we gotta do."
"I'm sorry. I got ya. I'm here. I'm here." She nodded at Nicholas and enveloped one of Princess's hands inside a shell made of her own.
"Tell us what we gotta do."
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
It was, fundamentally, an odd thing for someone not named Marco to treat Nick with such a degree of trust. To allow him to play a role in their life when they were at the most vulnerable, when they were most in need of a light touch and a certain refined delicacy that Nick had never exhibited except when pulling an attention-grabbing illusion. That was just...it struck Nick as an intrinsically odd decision. One that was erratic, bizarre, one hard to understand even within the manic strain on human rationality presented by life on the island.
Yet here Princess was, trusting him to help her in a task that, whatever it was, required sensitivity and warmheartedness. Care. Palliative care, perhaps, but that just sharpened the importance of it, Nick supposed. To be invited, even out of a set of admittedly limited options, to be part of what might well be her final moments. And Princess had done this without true knowledge of Nick's character. Without demanding an explanation of Beryl or Jeremiah, with only Marco's character reference to call upon.
Nick was not expecting this. To be tolerated was what he was used to. Nick knew that to be tolerated was a patronising and resentful and disdainful status. You tolerate someone you hate, someone who is nasty or immoral or repugnant. But it was the best he could ask for. Was what he expected. Was what, with as impartial and objective a view of his behaviour as he could muster, he deserved. More than he deserved. So to be called upon, to be treated as someone to be trusted, respected. Someone who could make a positive contribution. That wasn't something he was expected. So it was only when Katelynne's nod - confirmation that he had indeed heard Princess correctly - that he moved into action.
He knelt down by Princess.
"Yeah."
That was all he could think to say.
Yet here Princess was, trusting him to help her in a task that, whatever it was, required sensitivity and warmheartedness. Care. Palliative care, perhaps, but that just sharpened the importance of it, Nick supposed. To be invited, even out of a set of admittedly limited options, to be part of what might well be her final moments. And Princess had done this without true knowledge of Nick's character. Without demanding an explanation of Beryl or Jeremiah, with only Marco's character reference to call upon.
Nick was not expecting this. To be tolerated was what he was used to. Nick knew that to be tolerated was a patronising and resentful and disdainful status. You tolerate someone you hate, someone who is nasty or immoral or repugnant. But it was the best he could ask for. Was what he expected. Was what, with as impartial and objective a view of his behaviour as he could muster, he deserved. More than he deserved. So to be called upon, to be treated as someone to be trusted, respected. Someone who could make a positive contribution. That wasn't something he was expected. So it was only when Katelynne's nod - confirmation that he had indeed heard Princess correctly - that he moved into action.
He knelt down by Princess.
"Yeah."
That was all he could think to say.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
There were so many hands. Four pairs working under the direction of a strained conductor. Steady hands. Stiff hands. Small hands. Cold hands. Soft hands. Familiar hands. In time Marco could not say confidently which descriptor applied to which, even his own, anymore than he could name the roster of tools dancing across his face. It was not necessary for him to be here; here here at least in any manner more direct than following the occasional instruction. He could drift inattentive without consciously participating in the process. It was better this way. He would squirm less. Question less. If his mind was elsewhere it could not make connections in memory that would send him flinching.
There was something wrong.
Marco wasn't conscious enough to have picked up the signs as they appeared. They stacked up in the back of his head, sort of like a printer that refused to admit it was jammed. Confusion probably belonged at the top of the stack. Katelynne and Nick would have been the first to notice when the foundation Princess directed them to apply did little at first. When Princess didn't notice and Marco did not react to his reflection, they probably applied more. Uncertainty came next. The initial spots would not look right, any of them could see that but they all had their reasons to doubt. If something was being done incorrectly surely someone would speak up, any of the four of them could point it out? So they would have continued as all doubted themselves more than they doubted each other. Uncertainty would grow into desperation; who had screwed up? By not speaking had they already ruined the entire project? Was it too late to turn back? Or were they over-reacting? It was a process after all, should they wait until the end? How much longer could it take? It had been minutes, not so much was lost.
Between each intersperse anything between one and a dozen twitching glimpses of himself in the mirror. That was the queue that came tumbling across his brain when he caught Nick's hand.
"This, this isn't working."
He squeezed tight, one hand on Nick's wrist and the other in his shirt. Two hands. His hands. They needed to be anywhere but near him. Nick was safest. "It's," the lump in his throat wouldn't go down. "The shade. It's wrong."
That wasn't what he meant. He could latch on to it though. "It's way too light. That's, um, why you're using so much. I, I uh, in my." He tried to swallow again. "My bag. Not the number, the, the one they put our stuff in. In there under, um, all the other stuff." There wouldn't be much, it was too small. "There's a pouch. Polka dots." It could be mistaken for a wallet. He'd started leaving it on his dresser when he first got it, but his mother kept seeing it there. After that he buried it in his drawers somewhere, only taking it out when they went out together. She had to know he wasn't using it and he hadn't put in the work, he didn't get to know why but he could suppose from a narrative lens that she might hope for some great event, a chance encounter, an invitation, a moment of quiet fury, dozens upon dozen of possible inciting incidents for his character growth that would make him reach for it and come home transformed.
Before he left for the trip she was in his doorway. It was in her hands. Chances were near to zero she hadn't known all along. Prom probably encouraged her. Marco hadn't been out much, it had only been a week. She had smiled and offered it to him. "You can't leave your face behind, sugar.."
Concealer. Primer. Foundation. He was only vaguely aware of the difference. Nothing else stood out much on the rare occasion he opened the pouch. He imagined his mother's smile in the doorway again, playful, knowing, the kind of smile she wore all the time near his birthday when conversation brushed against a gift she was preparing for him.
He imagined her smile, and with it hints of gold and ruby red.
"Could you get it for me?"
He hoped they would not be inside.
There was a version of events where Marco blinked and suddenly his friends were crowded in front of him with the compact concealed behind their back, waiting with breathless anticipation for him to see his new self. The moment would linger between fear and excitement with at best vague montage recollection of what brought them all to this point. Someone, likely Nick, would slowly reveal Marco's reflection and he would gasp. He would be transformed. Nigh unrecognizable even to himself. Fantastic fulfillment beyond anything he could have imagined for himself. Well and truly Marco without so much as a suggestion that he had ever been anything else. He had seen it in many stories over the years, but he had never dared to envision it for himself.
Now he didn't want it for himself. It might be possible, if improbable, to reach that version of events with a certain amount of luck and delusion, but that was a different story. A better story? A more compelling story? He couldn't answer. He only knew it wasn't the story they were sharing.
Marco did not let himself drift away the second time. It did not get any easier. There was fidgeting. Tools touching his face led him to lean away more often than not. His voice stuttered and ran dry often enough to waste even more water than what they had used to clean up after the first attempt. All in all he would not say he was a very useful part of the process to paint his face, but he stayed grounded. Asked questions here and there when they came to mind, particularly about how to recreate things when he saw them in Princess's mirror. Nick and Katelynne did most of the work but he paid as much attention as he could manage to the instructions. Their hands did not blur indistinct together, which was easier now that his own were taking notes each step. Progress came slower with all the stopping to accommodate his thoughts, but it was important that he knew.
At the end of it all he could smile at Princess. There were a thousand and one ways racing through his head to thank her for what she'd done. They could hug, if she was feeling that kind of way, and he could stare into the mirror, and if they were all feeling up to it he could ask her to do it again sometime. None of that would cover up the obvious discomfort he was expressed. Marco just wasn't the actor that she was; even if he came out the other side truly appreciative of what she had done his struggle to get here would taint the success, invert the service in a sense so that rather than doing something good and useful for him he was indulging her in spite his own objections. Marco couldn't change those details. However, he could shift their context. He could be present. He could give her his interest as well as his gratitude. By dissecting the process for reproduction he hoped to say without being so direct that the discomfort was worth it. To recognize what she was doing for him and say that every stroke was valuable. That even if they were...separated...he would try to remember what she offered him.
He would remember her.
He would be grateful that she gave him her best night.
There was another divergence between the fantasy montage and their reality. Montages were easy and ended in total transformation. They led into scenes where someone was reintroduced to the cast as an unrecognizable but objectively superior other. Certain expectations were set that for just a split second one could even mistake their own reflection for a stranger, for better or for worse. Marco found the idea tempting to a degree. He'd spent a lot of time uncomfortable with the person he was; how much worse could it be to be someone new? Since he spoke his name aloud though he'd grown attached to being himself. It had taken shotgunning years of catch-up into a few traumatic days, but he had accepted that Marco was not some wholly different and unobtainable state of being. There were things about him that were worth keeping. Maybe even treasuring.
There were also changes. Slow, measured changes. Princess accentuated the squareness of his facial shape. Smoothed the blemishes from his skin. Thickened and straightened his eyebrows. Covered the rings under his eyes. Added shadows to his brow, his cheeks, his chin, he could not cover it all without referencing his notes. It was not the sort of masterful makeover that deserved a glamorous before and after shot in high definition, but it was more change to his appearance than he had ever consciously participated in. Yet when the mirror came his thoughts crystalized to a single statement: despite everything, he was still him.
Dysphoria wanted to twist that thought immediately. There were so many places he could zero in on that were revealing, slips real or imagined that told a version of the truth from an unpleasant perspective. Reassurances whispered without words that he would never see what he wanted, and anyone reasonable would clock the lie he told within seconds. In another time he might hear it. He might still in as little as a few minutes of contemplation. If he made it a few minutes, then it could come in a few hours. If he made it hours, it might come in days. If he made it days, well, he'd probably have bigger things to think about than his reflection.
Right now he was him.
He was Marco.
He was Marco as his friends saw him and supported him.
He was hoping his sudden sobbing wouldn't ruin all of their hard work, and that he could thank them sincerely enough to be believed through the tears.
He would do it again in the morning, just to be sure.
There was something wrong.
Marco wasn't conscious enough to have picked up the signs as they appeared. They stacked up in the back of his head, sort of like a printer that refused to admit it was jammed. Confusion probably belonged at the top of the stack. Katelynne and Nick would have been the first to notice when the foundation Princess directed them to apply did little at first. When Princess didn't notice and Marco did not react to his reflection, they probably applied more. Uncertainty came next. The initial spots would not look right, any of them could see that but they all had their reasons to doubt. If something was being done incorrectly surely someone would speak up, any of the four of them could point it out? So they would have continued as all doubted themselves more than they doubted each other. Uncertainty would grow into desperation; who had screwed up? By not speaking had they already ruined the entire project? Was it too late to turn back? Or were they over-reacting? It was a process after all, should they wait until the end? How much longer could it take? It had been minutes, not so much was lost.
Between each intersperse anything between one and a dozen twitching glimpses of himself in the mirror. That was the queue that came tumbling across his brain when he caught Nick's hand.
"This, this isn't working."
He squeezed tight, one hand on Nick's wrist and the other in his shirt. Two hands. His hands. They needed to be anywhere but near him. Nick was safest. "It's," the lump in his throat wouldn't go down. "The shade. It's wrong."
That wasn't what he meant. He could latch on to it though. "It's way too light. That's, um, why you're using so much. I, I uh, in my." He tried to swallow again. "My bag. Not the number, the, the one they put our stuff in. In there under, um, all the other stuff." There wouldn't be much, it was too small. "There's a pouch. Polka dots." It could be mistaken for a wallet. He'd started leaving it on his dresser when he first got it, but his mother kept seeing it there. After that he buried it in his drawers somewhere, only taking it out when they went out together. She had to know he wasn't using it and he hadn't put in the work, he didn't get to know why but he could suppose from a narrative lens that she might hope for some great event, a chance encounter, an invitation, a moment of quiet fury, dozens upon dozen of possible inciting incidents for his character growth that would make him reach for it and come home transformed.
Before he left for the trip she was in his doorway. It was in her hands. Chances were near to zero she hadn't known all along. Prom probably encouraged her. Marco hadn't been out much, it had only been a week. She had smiled and offered it to him. "You can't leave your face behind, sugar.."
Concealer. Primer. Foundation. He was only vaguely aware of the difference. Nothing else stood out much on the rare occasion he opened the pouch. He imagined his mother's smile in the doorway again, playful, knowing, the kind of smile she wore all the time near his birthday when conversation brushed against a gift she was preparing for him.
He imagined her smile, and with it hints of gold and ruby red.
"Could you get it for me?"
He hoped they would not be inside.
There was a version of events where Marco blinked and suddenly his friends were crowded in front of him with the compact concealed behind their back, waiting with breathless anticipation for him to see his new self. The moment would linger between fear and excitement with at best vague montage recollection of what brought them all to this point. Someone, likely Nick, would slowly reveal Marco's reflection and he would gasp. He would be transformed. Nigh unrecognizable even to himself. Fantastic fulfillment beyond anything he could have imagined for himself. Well and truly Marco without so much as a suggestion that he had ever been anything else. He had seen it in many stories over the years, but he had never dared to envision it for himself.
Now he didn't want it for himself. It might be possible, if improbable, to reach that version of events with a certain amount of luck and delusion, but that was a different story. A better story? A more compelling story? He couldn't answer. He only knew it wasn't the story they were sharing.
Marco did not let himself drift away the second time. It did not get any easier. There was fidgeting. Tools touching his face led him to lean away more often than not. His voice stuttered and ran dry often enough to waste even more water than what they had used to clean up after the first attempt. All in all he would not say he was a very useful part of the process to paint his face, but he stayed grounded. Asked questions here and there when they came to mind, particularly about how to recreate things when he saw them in Princess's mirror. Nick and Katelynne did most of the work but he paid as much attention as he could manage to the instructions. Their hands did not blur indistinct together, which was easier now that his own were taking notes each step. Progress came slower with all the stopping to accommodate his thoughts, but it was important that he knew.
At the end of it all he could smile at Princess. There were a thousand and one ways racing through his head to thank her for what she'd done. They could hug, if she was feeling that kind of way, and he could stare into the mirror, and if they were all feeling up to it he could ask her to do it again sometime. None of that would cover up the obvious discomfort he was expressed. Marco just wasn't the actor that she was; even if he came out the other side truly appreciative of what she had done his struggle to get here would taint the success, invert the service in a sense so that rather than doing something good and useful for him he was indulging her in spite his own objections. Marco couldn't change those details. However, he could shift their context. He could be present. He could give her his interest as well as his gratitude. By dissecting the process for reproduction he hoped to say without being so direct that the discomfort was worth it. To recognize what she was doing for him and say that every stroke was valuable. That even if they were...separated...he would try to remember what she offered him.
He would remember her.
He would be grateful that she gave him her best night.
There was another divergence between the fantasy montage and their reality. Montages were easy and ended in total transformation. They led into scenes where someone was reintroduced to the cast as an unrecognizable but objectively superior other. Certain expectations were set that for just a split second one could even mistake their own reflection for a stranger, for better or for worse. Marco found the idea tempting to a degree. He'd spent a lot of time uncomfortable with the person he was; how much worse could it be to be someone new? Since he spoke his name aloud though he'd grown attached to being himself. It had taken shotgunning years of catch-up into a few traumatic days, but he had accepted that Marco was not some wholly different and unobtainable state of being. There were things about him that were worth keeping. Maybe even treasuring.
There were also changes. Slow, measured changes. Princess accentuated the squareness of his facial shape. Smoothed the blemishes from his skin. Thickened and straightened his eyebrows. Covered the rings under his eyes. Added shadows to his brow, his cheeks, his chin, he could not cover it all without referencing his notes. It was not the sort of masterful makeover that deserved a glamorous before and after shot in high definition, but it was more change to his appearance than he had ever consciously participated in. Yet when the mirror came his thoughts crystalized to a single statement: despite everything, he was still him.
Dysphoria wanted to twist that thought immediately. There were so many places he could zero in on that were revealing, slips real or imagined that told a version of the truth from an unpleasant perspective. Reassurances whispered without words that he would never see what he wanted, and anyone reasonable would clock the lie he told within seconds. In another time he might hear it. He might still in as little as a few minutes of contemplation. If he made it a few minutes, then it could come in a few hours. If he made it hours, it might come in days. If he made it days, well, he'd probably have bigger things to think about than his reflection.
Right now he was him.
He was Marco.
He was Marco as his friends saw him and supported him.
He was hoping his sudden sobbing wouldn't ruin all of their hard work, and that he could thank them sincerely enough to be believed through the tears.
He would do it again in the morning, just to be sure.