[For the past week or so Fiddleford has been conspicuously quiet. He hasn't opened the workshop. He hasn't cooked. He hasn't even left his box to bathe, despite the hot water being one of the best things for him as the temperature cools. He binged on a couple of unlucky humans immediately post-concert and once he settled in to digest he just sort of never got back up. Part of it's his natural snaky instinct to hibernate this time of year. Most of it was the music deadening the self-motivation that would usually keep him from doing that.
It takes him a while to come up out of it and it's with the unsettling feeling of having lost time. He hasn't felt that in a long while and he doesn't much like it. He knows he hasn't -- it's more a case of days and nights blending together as he snoozed through them-- but the effect is the same.
He's not angry. If he was angry Marco would know it. He's just... upset. Disappointed, more than anything. So instead of bursting into the master bedroom guns blazing he just knocks softly on the doorframe before letting himself in.]
[Marco has been preparing himself for this - or trying to, anyway.
It didn't sink in right away. When it first became apparent that something went wrong, his first concern was how to fix it. As the week went on, however - as the full magnitude of what he did hit him, and especially as he saw the effect it was having on Fiddleford - he realised what this all meant: he ruined everything. He's barely been married for a month and now it's over and it's all his fault.
He's sitting in bed, practically hugging his knees, and for the moment, he can't quite bring himself to look at Fiddleford. The part of him that tells him - sometimes literally - that he should have figured, that he doesn't deserve the happiness Fiddleford brought to his life anyway, feels loud and clear right now.]
I'm sorry. I-- I know I probably should have packed up by now. But I thought... I thought I should wait until you were - you know. Actually able to say something to me..
[Fiddleford settles some of his coils onto the bed and puts his hands on Marco's shoulders. Already a good sign, probably. He's not so upset that he wants a minimum amount of distance between them.]
I don't want you to leave. I just want to know-- I want to know what you were thinkin'.
[His mouth hangs open for a good few seconds before he even starts thinking of an answer to Fiddleford's question, stunned as he is. He forces himself to relax to Fiddleford's touch; of course, forcing yourself to relax never works out quite like it's supposed to, but it's a genuine attempt. His shoulders feel stiff, but he's taking deep breaths.]
I... We thought...
[But as he shakes off his surprise, the self-loathing starts creeping in again. A part of Marco berates him for even beginning to consider ways to soften the blow, to do damage control; once the head of a business, always the head of a business; heartless, wretch, hypocrite.
The hands on his shoulders ground him.]
It was supposed to be... a mix of things. A-A display - a peaceful display - in contrast with what the Fog's people - some of the Fog's people, sorry - have been doing. Just a moment of peace, just during the show, just-- no fighting, no worries... [He's already beginning to trail off, unswayed by his own arguments.] A helping hand to the neutral people...
... I don't know why I thought it was a good idea. I should have known better.
[He isn't saying it to be mean. He's saying it because it's true.]
I know you meant well. [Probably, to begin with, even if meaning well should have led him to not doing the thing in the first place. Fiddleford can recognize that urge to do something, the kind of desperate desire to help that gets a man to dress in tight pants and sing on stage in front of hundreds of strangers. He can even respect it. It's there in him too. And that's why he knows how much trouble it can cause.]
But you -- you know you can make people happy without... [MmmMMM he doesn't know how to phrase this well] ... without not givin' them a say in it?
And as they sink in - and as they're true, - Marco feels an overwhelming tightness in his chest. He knows exactly where Fiddleford is coming from, he knows he's speaking from experience and from regret and--
Marco throws his arms around Fiddleford, clinging to him. He looks like he should be crying, but he isn't. He kind of wishes he were.]
What was I thinking? Why do I-- Why am I like this?!
[He squeezes Fiddleford like he's hoping it'll make his chest feel lighter.]
[A loop of Fiddleford's tail slides around to press against Marco's waist and his arms curl around Marco's shoulders. One of the best parts of being a naga is that he's great at giving hugs, which works out nicely right now because both of them need one.]
If I had to take a guess, it's because you're desperate for somethin' to work.
[The weight of his past hangs heavy in the air. He's not going to say it outright. They both know. There's no point rehashing it in detail.]
Speakin' as someone who never feels like he's doin' enough.
[He means it, but the truth is the apology leaves him too quickly for him to be entirely sure what he's sorry about. Is this about what he did, or the unfortunate fact that Fiddleford understands? Is it a little bit of both?
Marco takes a deep breath and his chest hurts.]
I-I won't... I want to say I'll never do anything like this again, but-- but I already promised that before, didn't I? And... And I still did it.
[It takes some effort to look Fiddleford directly in the eye, but he does it.
Sometimes, Marco's face isn't quite in tune with what he's feeling - through no fault or deliberate attempt of his own, but as part of the whole package of things that have gone a little bit askew in his brain. Here, his expression isn't what one might call anguished, by any means, but his eyes are on the verge of bursting into tears.]
[Yeah. Yeah, Fiddleford can't argue that. He also can't bring himself to really be mad about it. How could he? He's the man who started a cult, found out what that cult did and how horrible it was for everyone involved, and still stuck with the fourth god for over a year. Still insisted that was different. That it was better. And look at him now, officially throwing his lot in with the Haze. He feels like it's different. He wants to believe it is. He still expects the other shoe to drop at any second.]
Sweetheart.
[He raises one hand to cup Marco's cheek.]
I don't want to kick you while you're down. Don't got legs to kick you with anyway. [Haha. It's joke.] ...You really thought I was goin' to kick you out?
[His mouth moves in response to the joke. Or maybe it's just a nervous twitch.]
I... Well...
[A small nod. Of course he thought it was over - and he wouldn't have blamed Fiddleford if that were what he wanted. When the reality of what Marco did sank in, the part of him that still can't believe he's married, still can't believe Fiddleford loves him - that same vicious, self-hating part of him that tells him he'll never be fit for a high-level job again and he'll never be as quick-thinking and well-spoken and capable as he once was - began speaking too loudly.
But he won't say that. Especially because, now that he's in his husband's arms, another part of him chimes in, telling him so many of those dark, suffocating thoughts are nothing more than just that and he's not alone and he doesn't have to be - and as a result, he realises that walking Fiddleford through the entire emotional journey he's been through this past week would just cause unnecessary distress.
Marco leans into Fiddleford's touch. Letting out a breath, he closes his eyes.]
I thought wrong, huh?
[There's a joke to be made there, but Marco isn't ready to make it yet.]
[He rubs his thumb across Marco's cheek, careful of his claw. Given that it's been several years he's pretty good now at working around them.]
And I wouldn't have asked to if I didn't mean to stay. I'm not... I'm not happy about this, but we're goin' to keep movin' forward together. And the next time you get an idea like this, you just run it by me first. Alright? I'm your husband. You can talk to me.
[Marco stamps down the part of him that says this wasn't his idea alone, but then he has to rein in the part that did the stamping, too, because it's all too eager to make his head hurt and his chest feel tight again. To fight it, he brings his own hand to the hand on his cheek, leaves soft kisses at the base of Fiddleford's thumb. You're not eating yourself today, Brain. Not now.]
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backflips in. immediately post-firewall
It takes him a while to come up out of it and it's with the unsettling feeling of having lost time. He hasn't felt that in a long while and he doesn't much like it. He knows he hasn't -- it's more a case of days and nights blending together as he snoozed through them-- but the effect is the same.
He's not angry. If he was angry Marco would know it. He's just... upset. Disappointed, more than anything. So instead of bursting into the master bedroom guns blazing he just knocks softly on the doorframe before letting himself in.]
Marco? I think we oughta talk.
no subject
It didn't sink in right away. When it first became apparent that something went wrong, his first concern was how to fix it. As the week went on, however - as the full magnitude of what he did hit him, and especially as he saw the effect it was having on Fiddleford - he realised what this all meant: he ruined everything. He's barely been married for a month and now it's over and it's all his fault.
He's sitting in bed, practically hugging his knees, and for the moment, he can't quite bring himself to look at Fiddleford. The part of him that tells him - sometimes literally - that he should have figured, that he doesn't deserve the happiness Fiddleford brought to his life anyway, feels loud and clear right now.]
I'm sorry. I-- I know I probably should have packed up by now. But I thought... I thought I should wait until you were - you know. Actually able to say something to me..
no subject
[Fiddleford settles some of his coils onto the bed and puts his hands on Marco's shoulders. Already a good sign, probably. He's not so upset that he wants a minimum amount of distance between them.]
I don't want you to leave. I just want to know-- I want to know what you were thinkin'.
no subject
[His mouth hangs open for a good few seconds before he even starts thinking of an answer to Fiddleford's question, stunned as he is. He forces himself to relax to Fiddleford's touch; of course, forcing yourself to relax never works out quite like it's supposed to, but it's a genuine attempt. His shoulders feel stiff, but he's taking deep breaths.]
I... We thought...
[But as he shakes off his surprise, the self-loathing starts creeping in again. A part of Marco berates him for even beginning to consider ways to soften the blow, to do damage control; once the head of a business, always the head of a business; heartless, wretch, hypocrite.
The hands on his shoulders ground him.]
It was supposed to be... a mix of things. A-A display - a peaceful display - in contrast with what the Fog's people - some of the Fog's people, sorry - have been doing. Just a moment of peace, just during the show, just-- no fighting, no worries... [He's already beginning to trail off, unswayed by his own arguments.] A helping hand to the neutral people...
... I don't know why I thought it was a good idea. I should have known better.
no subject
[He isn't saying it to be mean. He's saying it because it's true.]
I know you meant well. [Probably, to begin with, even if meaning well should have led him to not doing the thing in the first place. Fiddleford can recognize that urge to do something, the kind of desperate desire to help that gets a man to dress in tight pants and sing on stage in front of hundreds of strangers. He can even respect it. It's there in him too. And that's why he knows how much trouble it can cause.]
But you -- you know you can make people happy without... [MmmMMM he doesn't know how to phrase this well] ... without not givin' them a say in it?
no subject
And as they sink in - and as they're true, - Marco feels an overwhelming tightness in his chest. He knows exactly where Fiddleford is coming from, he knows he's speaking from experience and from regret and--
Marco throws his arms around Fiddleford, clinging to him. He looks like he should be crying, but he isn't. He kind of wishes he were.]
What was I thinking? Why do I-- Why am I like this?!
[He squeezes Fiddleford like he's hoping it'll make his chest feel lighter.]
no subject
If I had to take a guess, it's because you're desperate for somethin' to work.
[The weight of his past hangs heavy in the air. He's not going to say it outright. They both know. There's no point rehashing it in detail.]
Speakin' as someone who never feels like he's doin' enough.
no subject
[He means it, but the truth is the apology leaves him too quickly for him to be entirely sure what he's sorry about. Is this about what he did, or the unfortunate fact that Fiddleford understands? Is it a little bit of both?
Marco takes a deep breath and his chest hurts.]
I-I won't... I want to say I'll never do anything like this again, but-- but I already promised that before, didn't I? And... And I still did it.
[It takes some effort to look Fiddleford directly in the eye, but he does it.
Sometimes, Marco's face isn't quite in tune with what he's feeling - through no fault or deliberate attempt of his own, but as part of the whole package of things that have gone a little bit askew in his brain. Here, his expression isn't what one might call anguished, by any means, but his eyes are on the verge of bursting into tears.]
no subject
Sweetheart.
[He raises one hand to cup Marco's cheek.]
I don't want to kick you while you're down. Don't got legs to kick you with anyway. [Haha. It's joke.] ...You really thought I was goin' to kick you out?
no subject
I... Well...
[A small nod. Of course he thought it was over - and he wouldn't have blamed Fiddleford if that were what he wanted. When the reality of what Marco did sank in, the part of him that still can't believe he's married, still can't believe Fiddleford loves him - that same vicious, self-hating part of him that tells him he'll never be fit for a high-level job again and he'll never be as quick-thinking and well-spoken and capable as he once was - began speaking too loudly.
But he won't say that. Especially because, now that he's in his husband's arms, another part of him chimes in, telling him so many of those dark, suffocating thoughts are nothing more than just that and he's not alone and he doesn't have to be - and as a result, he realises that walking Fiddleford through the entire emotional journey he's been through this past week would just cause unnecessary distress.
Marco leans into Fiddleford's touch. Letting out a breath, he closes his eyes.]
I thought wrong, huh?
[There's a joke to be made there, but Marco isn't ready to make it yet.]
no subject
[He rubs his thumb across Marco's cheek, careful of his claw. Given that it's been several years he's pretty good now at working around them.]
And I wouldn't have asked to if I didn't mean to stay. I'm not... I'm not happy about this, but we're goin' to keep movin' forward together. And the next time you get an idea like this, you just run it by me first. Alright? I'm your husband. You can talk to me.
no subject
[Marco stamps down the part of him that says this wasn't his idea alone, but then he has to rein in the part that did the stamping, too, because it's all too eager to make his head hurt and his chest feel tight again. To fight it, he brings his own hand to the hand on his cheek, leaves soft kisses at the base of Fiddleford's thumb. You're not eating yourself today, Brain. Not now.]
... I can trust you. I know I can.