Marco's Heart

[peccatore]

You find yourself in a bright white, circular room. It's nearly empty; too bare, almost clinically so. But the bareness of it means that what is visible here stands out:

A podium in the center, where a familiar figure sits, head buried in his hands. Three paths running from the podium to three different spots near the edges of the room - not corners; circles don't have corners - where three doors leading seemingly nowhere stand with no regard for their complete lack of structural support.

It doesn't take you long to figure out where you are, does it? You only have to decide where to start.

Comments

[want_not]

. . .


[sits . . . with him?]

[peccatore]

There... isn't a LOT of room on the podium for two people, and Marco feels stiff as a rock, but it's not, like. Physically impossible or anything.

"Mi-- Mithrun?"

[want_not]

. . .

Yes. Still me.

[peccatore]

"..."

A little fearfully, he says:

"Adrien was here earlier."

[want_not]

[gets a bit more alert, eyes narrowing]

Okay?

[peccatore]

"He's-- He's seeing a lot. He went through that door -" Marco points to the west with a trembling finger.

"... I hope everything will..." No. He shakes his head. "He-- couldn't get hurt in here. So, so the only thing I could worry about is... I have nothing I should worry about."

[want_not]

What does that mean.

[peccatore]

"... I'm always so terrified that he'll hate me. But I have to accept it, if it comes to that."

[want_not]

You can't change the past. And you can't change how he reacts to learning about your past.

All you can control is how you act now and what you do in the future.

[peccatore]

He nods hesitantly.

"You're... not worried about him, then?"

[want_not]

. . .

I hate—the thought of him hurt or suffering at all. I don't like it. And if he was in trouble that he couldn't get out of, or needed support, I'd want to be by his side.

But he is clever and brave and his own person, too. I don't know if this is a scenario where he needs me to protect him from anything.

[peccatore]

"That's... good. That's good. I just wanted to make sure."

[want_not]

. . . thank you.

[quiet for a bit]

. . .

Do you—want me to . . . do anything, here?

[peccatore]

"... I'm not sure."

And he really does look like he's not sure. He's not just saying that.

"How much... do you really want to know?"

[want_not]

. . . you're my friend. I don't want you to feel like you have to hide anything from me, or like you're—keeping secrets.

But I also think you're allowed to have your privacy if you want that, too.

. . . and if there's something that's hurting you, I want to. Help you?

[peccatore]

"I'm... the one that's hurt people."

[want_not]

Both things can be true.

[peccatore]

"I... S-Still..."

He tries to take a deep breath.

"I'm not sure that I... deserve... help. But I shouldn't keep what happened from you either. So-- So please explore as you wish."

[want_not]

What's your alternative?

[peccatore]

... He shakes his head cluelessly.

[want_not]

. . .

That's . . . the problem, I think.

You—live your life saying that you can't be forgiven, that you don't deserve help, and things like that.

But—. . . that's not. A choice. That's just—frustrating. It's not living and it's not dying. It's just—suffering, for no reason, and imposing that suffering on other people too.

There's plenty of things someone—can do. Even after—being greatly hurt. Or doing great hurts. Restitution. Rehabilitation.

[peccatore]

"..."

A little nod. A less little nod. More nodding.

"Restitution. I like that."

[want_not]

. . .



[a little suspiciously]

I'm not sure you know what it means . . .

[peccatore]

"I-- Uh, isn't it like reparations? That... sort of thing?"

[want_not]

[why are you like this]