The Head In My Hands

Marley opened the little red mailbox at the front of the property to find a small pile of letters and junk mail that had accumulated over the past week. He pulled it out, and as he walked back into the house, he thumbed over the envelopes to find which ones were his, which could be tossed, and which he would need to set on the counter for Emrys to get to whenever he had a moment.

Three envelopes down, a letter from his parents sat. He paused at the front door, his foot pushed in between the door and the wall, holding it open. They hadn’t sent one, not in months. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him with his hip.

His gaze lingered on it, on the way the edges were crumpled and the ink from the return address had started to smudge. He moved into the kitchen, setting the rest of the mail down in a neat pile on the counter, but the letter from his parents stayed in his grip. It felt heavier than it should.

For a moment, he considered tossing it into the trash along with the junk mail. It would have been easy, wouldn’t it? Out of sight, out of mind.

He didn’t want to open it. Not really. But he knew he would.

Marley debated with himself.

What would it say this time? He pressed his thumb under the seal, and the paper parted with a small tear. Another apology? No, they wouldn’t do that. More vague, unnecessary pleasantries? His parents were never exactly the pleasant type.

He hadn’t spoken to them in ages. He hadn’t seen them in person either, always afraid they’d trap him within those small, hollow, familiar walls. He didn’t really see a reason to.

It wasn’t like they were bad. Some of his friends had drawn much worse cards when it came to parents.

But they weren’t good either. He didn’t think they had ever tried to be. They just threw everything on someone else—usually him—and refused to take the blame. As if it were his duty, as the eldest son, to bear the burden of their recklessness.

Marley sighed, closing his eyes and running a finger over the envelope.

What was the point of reading it, really? They never thanked him for all the things he did for them—making meals, cleaning up after tantrums, picking out clothes for school. Never acknowledged the weight they’d placed on his shoulders while they were off working to pay for the messes they’d gotten themselves into.

He didn’t think he’d ever forgiven them for that. And, honestly, he didn’t think he should have to.

The envelope is beneath his thumb, and opens. He pulls the letter out.

It's written on lined-sheet parchment, a single sheet, with a tear in the corner. It was the paper he used for school, the type he knew his siblings were using now, most likely. The paper crinkled as he unfolded it, revealing neat but indifferent handwriting– His mothers.

His eyes hovered the first line, and he bit his lip as he read it.

Marley turned the letter over in his hands, the familiar weight of it sinking into his palms. The greeting, as usual, was distant and impersonal—"Marley," scrawled hastily across the top. After the obligatory "How are you?" there was barely a line of pleasantries before it slipped, predictably, into complaints. This time, it was about his siblings—their behaviour, the chaos that came with managing them, the never-ending disorder that seemed to flourish in his absence.

Nothing new, he supposed. It was always like this.

His parents had written in the same tone since the day he’d left for private school at eleven. Every letter, every strained conversation, always circled back to the same underlying point: how much harder things were without him. How his siblings were more difficult, the house was more chaotic, life was just... worse. They never outright said it, of course, but the meaning was always clear. Marley was the glue that had held their household together, and without him, everything unravelled into disarray.

It stung. Not because they missed him, but because they missed what he did for them. It had never really been about him at all, had it? His absence wasn’t felt in the way a parent might miss their child, but in the way one might miss the convenience of a well-oiled machine. He wasn’t their son; he was their fixer, their problem-solver, the one who picked up the pieces they left behind.

Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Marley huffed under his breath, his lips twitching. Shouldn’t have had five kids, then.

“No one does it quite like you—”

No, they didn’t, did they?

“You were a natural with them!” The words struck him, stark and jarring, leaping off the page in dark ink. Again, he was reduced to a babysitter rather than a son. His siblings were described as a chaotic and rambunctious group of monkeys, rather than the children he had longed to nurture and love.

He felt a strange mix of pity and love for them, a bond that only he could truly understand. Yet, at the same time, he mourned the loss of what could have been. He was free now, liberated from the burden of caretaking, but—

There was an unmistakable expectation woven into their words, as if they anticipated that he would read this letter and drop everything to come to their rescue. As if.

A huff escaped his lips, leaving a bitter taste lingering with every line he read. “Summers are chaotic—” He knew that chaos all too well. How unfortunate it was for them to grapple with the very children they had brought into the world. Big whoop.

The letter concluded with yet another tangent, this time on the rising costs of babysitters and after-school activities. They lamented how much easier life would be if his siblings attended a private school like he did—after all, they would save money that way. It felt like a punch to the gut. Marley felt a surge of anger rise within him, but he swallowed it down, forcing it back into the depths of his chest.

All his parents seemed to care about was money, their obsession with finances overshadowing any semblance of family connection. It was precisely that fixation that had compelled him to step up and raise his younger siblings, shouldering responsibilities that should never have been his. They were the reasons he had sacrificed so much of his own childhood, the reason he didn’t get medical help until it was far too late. Their needs always took precedence, while his own pain remained unaddressed, festering quietly beneath the surface.

Marley remained sick, for years, because of their negligence.

As his grip tightened on the letter, the paper crinkled under the pressure, echoing the frustration building inside him. He shouldn’t be surprised by their self-centeredness; it was as predictable as the seasons. Every letter felt like a monologue, a chance for them to whine about their own poor decisions without ever acknowledging the sacrifices he had made or the burdens he had borne. It was as if they wrote to him solely to vent their grievances, using him as an emotional sounding board while they continued to evade responsibility for the chaos they created.

There was a time when he might have felt empathy for their plight, but now it only fueled his bitterness. They had chosen to have more children, to plunge into financial obligations they couldn’t handle, and yet somehow, it was Marley’s fault that they felt overwhelmed.

The resentment bubbled beneath the surface.

He found himself grappling with a complex mix of anger, disappointment, and a lingering sense of betrayal. He had wanted to be a child, to be cared for and loved in the way he was meant to be, but all they ever wanted was a lifeline when things got tough—they were why he was like this– they were–

Again, he found himself locked in a mental debate.

Should he write them back?

A part of him felt compelled to maintain some semblance of politeness, to adhere to the social niceties that had been ingrained in him since childhood– or, at least, those he engrained himself.

After all, he had always written them letters in return, a habit that had become almost ritualistic over the years. Each time, he included questions about his siblings—how they were doing in school, what new interests they had picked up, and whether they were behaving for them. Not that those inquiries ever earned him sincere responses. Certainly not kind ones.

Then again, why should he feel compelled to check in on them when their letters dripped with self-pity and blame?

“---ley, did you see–?”

They never seemed interested in how he was faring, nor did they acknowledge anything about him. His parents had mastered the art of turning their correspondence into a one-way street, with Marley serving as the emotional sounding board for their grievances.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. It would probably just be more of the same. The very idea felt exhausting. Perhaps it was better to let the silence linger, to break free from the cycle that had defined so much of his childhood. After all, they had made their choices, and he was no longer obligated to carry the weight of their decisions.

“Marley?”

Emrys's voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He had forgotten the other man was just ten feet away, reclined on the couch.

“What did you need?” Marley asked, shaking off the weight of his thoughts, lowering the letter onto the counter.

“I just wanted to know if you saw that letter from my boss, he was supposed to send one,” Emrys replied, his tone casual but curious.

Marley nodded, reaching for the envelope that had been set aside with the rest of the mail. “Yeah, I did. Here—”

But before Marley could take a step toward him, Emrys held up a hand. “No, it's fine. I’ll look at it later.” He settled back into the couch, a relaxed expression on his face.

Marley paused, glancing back at the pile of mail before turning his attention to the kitchen. Emrys’s gaze shifted from the couch to Marley, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. “What had you just standing in the middle of the kitchen like that?”

Marley hesitated, the heaviness of the letter still clutched in his hand. “Just... reading the letter my parents sent me,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “You know how it is.”

Emrys frowned slightly, hair spilling out onto the couch back in rivets. “Not really.” He admits,” Want to talk about it?”

Marley sighed. “It’s just the usual guilt trip about how hard things are without me around.”

Emrys sat up, giving him his full attention. “What did they say?”

Marley shifted on his feet, uncertainty creeping in. He—wasn’t sure he wanted to dive into it. But ah, what the hell. Emrys was his best friend; he could vent a little, right?

“They went on about how difficult things have become without me here to help,” he said, the weight of the words hanging heavily in the air. “You know, the same old complaints about the chaos with my siblings and how they wish I could just come home and fix everything.”

Emrys’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, a supportive presence in the room. “That sounds exhausting, dude. They can’t just keep expecting you to solve their problems.”

He pursed his lips. “Well, they do.”

He sets the mail aside, pushing it to the edge of the counter– out of the way for when he starts cooking later, before walking over to Emrys. “Its not any different to how they were in school.”

“But you’re an adult now!” Emrys argued. “Not that they should’ve been like that to you before– that's still dumb but– they should have their shit together by now.”

Marley raised his eyebrows and closed his eyes, sitting down beside Emrys. The cushion sinking beneath his weight. “One would think.” He said with a sigh.

Emrys’ expression tightened and he leaned closer, concern etching into his face. “You don’t have to deal with their shit anymore. They made their choices– that's not your responsibility.”

He chuckled, albeit humorlessly. “You know how they are. They think I owe them something”

Emrys cut him off, "That's bull.” His voice firm. “You didn’t ask for that and they have no right to continue to expect that of you when you’re already out on your own.”

“I’m not even a part of their lives now.” He argues weakly. “They’re struggling and I just– I can't do anything for them. Even if I wanted to— which I don't, by the way, it's just–”

“You don't need to do anything for them Blue.”

“I feel like I have to!” Marley says with a huff, waving his arm to the side. “Thats all I’m good for– at least in their eyes, so I feel like, I don’t know, like I have to at least respond!”

“But you don’t! Thats– shit, is that why you’re always dropping everything to clean up around here?

The juxtaposition in topics disorient him, and Marley turns his head to stare at emrys with wide eyes.

“What?”

Emrys looks frustrated, an almost angry expression furrowing his brows and making dark eyes look like black pits. They stare into Marley's very soul– he feels bare.

“You– you always are cleaning, o-or cooking, or fixing something–”

Marley stares right through him.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he breathed, the defensive edge creeping back into his voice.

Emrys took a deep breath, his frustration boiling over. “It has everything to do with it, Blue! You’re treating this place like it’s your job, like you’re responsible for keeping everything running smoothly—”

“Because someone has to!” Marley interrupted, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

“No, it doesn’t have to be you!” Emrys shot back, his voice rising. “Do you really think you have to prove yourself to me? That you need to earn your place in my life by constantly doing things for me? That’s just—” he paused, exasperated. “That’s bullshit!”

Marley flinched abc into the couch, the harshness of Emrys’s words landing heavily. “I’m just trying to help—”

“Help?” Emrys nearly laughed, but there was no humour in it. “You think this is helping? You’re running yourself into the ground, and for what? Because you’re scared you won’t matter if you’re not busy? That’s so messed up! You’re not some background character in my life, Marley!”

Marley looked taken aback, a mix of confusion and hurt flashing across his face. He doesn’t think he’d ever seen Emrys so stressed– and for him.

“What do you mean? I’m just doing what I can—”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem!” Emrys cut in, his frustration spilling over. “You’re not just some caretaker. You deserve to be cared for, too. You think if you stop cleaning or cooking, I’m going to toss you aside like you’re nothing? I–Im not your parents, Marley! It’s like you think I can’t stand you unless you’re constantly doing something!”

Marley shook his head, denial etched across his features. “That’s not—”

“Then what is it?” Emrys snapped, his voice firm. “Because it sure feels like you’re trying to earn your spot in my life by taking care of me! You cook, you clean, you make sure that when I’m home I don’t have to worry about anything–”

Emrys runs a hand through his hair and tugs. “How didn’t I notice?-- You’re my best friend, Marley! You don’t need to prove anything to me! I care about you for who you are, not for what you do for me.”

Marley felt the heat of Emrys’s words sink in, and it left him momentarily speechless. The realisation of how he had been viewing their relationship began to dawn on him, and his gut twisted with shame.

Emrys loved him. Marley knew that– he did and yet–

“I just… I don’t want to be a burden to you,” he admitted quietly, his voice trembling. Back pressed back tightly to the couch.

Emrys’s expression shifted, but the intensity remained. “You are not a burden!” He obviously tried to lower his voice from there, but it was shaky. “Y–you’re allowed to be yourself around me, and that includes being vulnerable. It’s okay for you to share your fears and to feel overwhelmed. You don’t have to constantly prove your worth to me! You’re worth so much more than that.”

He seemed to notice that he was hovering over Marley at that point, and backed off slightly, but not enough to create any real distance.

Marley could barely breathe.

“I’m sorry–”

“Dont! Don’t– Don’t be sorry–” Emrys wiped a hand down his face. Marley felt lost. “Things are just– making a lot more sense now. I’m not mad at you–”

“It– It kind of feels like you are–”

“I’m not.”