The Head In My Hands

“--ow could you–” “--aria it's not what you think!–”

The box flickered, the light reflecting off Emrys' face in Marley’s peripheral. On the screen, the two main characters argued– as was typical in any romance-comedy movie they ended up watching—about what Marley couldn’t tell, as his focus was solely on Emrys.

They were curled up on their two-seater pleather couch, thrifted from some old woman's garage sale two years prior, with a large blanket covering them both. Marley’s legs were folded beneath himself, and he had rested his head on his knees up until that point.

Emrys had a mug of cider in his hands and was leaning forwards in his seat, the blanket falling off his shoulder and resting on his lap. Enraptured.

“--eft me! On Christmas Eve! To hang out with some slag fro–!” ~a door slams

Marley resisted the urge to pull the blanket back up onto Emrys, worried that in doing so, he’d alert his friend to the fact that he’d been staring at something else than the TV screen.

Frankly, though, how could he not? When Emrys was sitting right next to him, pressed against his side, and practically glowing in the blue light?

Surely, Emrys wouldn’t be upset for Marley’s lack of attention. The man never was. He understood, he was so—so very good like that. So wonderful and lovely in a way that made the cold Marley felt, feel so much less so. And so, he let himself indulge.

That night, Emrys’ hair was down. Typically, Emrys wore his hair up—or, half of the way up, and out of his face. But that night, it lay down and messy, framing his face in curling strands that practically begged, begged, for a hand to brush through them, to push them back.

As if to still his thoughts, Marley wet his lips and wrapped his arms around his knees, firmly. Tugging the blanket over himself a bit more. Emrys didn’t notice.

A woman talked on the phone in the background, there were multiple other voices in the room

In fact, Emrys’ eyes—a chocolate brown and deeper than any chasm Marley had thought about throwing himself down before—had yet to so much as even flicker from the screen.

He liked Emrys’ eyes; they happened to be his favourite.

~a door creaked open “ohn?--” “--aria…” “John!”

Emrys jolted, “Finally!” he said excitedly, turning so fast to face Marley that he hardly had enough time to turn away. Looking just in time to see the couple on screen share a very, very passionate kiss.

As if he’d been watching, Marley looked back to Emrys, avoiding his eyes. “Took them long enough.” He commented.

Emrys laughed, wholesome and warm, turning back to the screen, holding the remote. There were 45 minutes of the movie left. “Can’t rejoice yet though–”

He exhaled a deep breath through his mouth, before inhaling. “It’s a rom-com. They’ve got about four more miscommunications to go through before they work things out. You know that.” He teased, leaning into Emrys’ shoulder.

Emrys seemed to think about that, putting the movie back on play, before responding with a poke to Marley’s side.

“Hey!–” “Shhhh—”

The movie continued playing, and for a couple of minutes, Marley stared at the screen without processing it. Suddenly grateful for the dim lighting, because he could only imagine how deep the colouring on his face might have been.

Marley picked at the frayed edge of the blanket, absentmindedly twisting the loose string between his fingers as his thoughts drifted. The sounds of the movie—more arguing, more misunderstanding—faded to nothing but a murmur. His gaze lingered on the screen for a moment, but his mind had already wandered far from it.

His life would never be a romance. Certainly not a romantic comedy. With the way things had been going for him, there wasn’t anything remotely funny about it. The weight of his illness, the endless days of exhaustion and pain, had long stripped away the idea that love could be easy or lighthearted.

Still, he couldn’t help but imagine it. What would it be like—him and Emrys in the places of the characters on the screen?

He pictured them bickering, but in that playful way the movie couples always did. Imagined Emrys throwing out sarcastic jabs, his voice carrying that rough, teasing edge, while Marley rolled his eyes and shot something back, too flat for most people to tell if it was a joke or not. Emrys would laugh, that loud, genuine laugh that always seemed to fill the room, the one that never failed to tug at something deep in Marley’s chest.

They’d have their moments—ones filled with tension, of course. Maybe even a dramatic misunderstanding like the one playing out now on-screen. But Emrys would never really leave. Not like the character in the movie. Emrys wasn’t like that. Sure, he could be brash, and yeah, maybe a little possessive, but Marley knew deep down that Emrys was loyal to the core. The kind of person who wouldn’t give up on someone, even when things got hard.

It was a ridiculous thought, really. Marley knew his life wasn’t like the rom-coms they watched together, but in the quiet moments like this, wrapped up under the same blanket, he let himself imagine. Just for a second.

Marley shifted his gaze to the screen again, watching as the couple on the TV shared a tender, fleeting moment—one of those perfectly timed, cinematic kisses that never happened in real life. He saw the way the characters looked at each other, with such open affection, no hesitation, no fear.

For a brief second, his chest tightened with longing, a pang of something bittersweet twisting deep inside him.

It wasn’t that he was envious of the characters—he just knew better than to compare his life to the polished, scripted perfection of a movie. But still, he couldn’t help but ache for the simplicity of it all. The way things just… fell into place.

A smile…? A kiss…? A moment of pure, uncomplicated connection.

His eyes flickered over to Emrys.

Just for a second. The man was leaning forward, completely absorbed in the film, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. The glow of the screen danced across his features, highlighting the scar on his cheek, the messy fringe of his dark hair, the way his broad shoulders moved when he shifted his weight. Marley looked away before Emrys noticed, swallowing the sudden warmth that rose in his throat.

He wanted that. More than he was willing to admit. Wanted the warmth of someone else’s love to melt away the coldness that had settled into his bones. To be able to give his affection freely, without the constant fear that he was too much, too broken, too sick.

But life wasn’t like the movies. Not in magic. Not in love. Not in anything. – Not for him, at least. Not with the weight of everything he carried. He glanced at Emrys again, so close, so bright and alive next to him, and felt the yearning settle in his chest. Maybe, one day... but not today.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Marleys finished his shift a couple of minutes early, washing his hands in the bathroom sink when he caught his reflection in the mirror. He says ‘caught’ because he hadn’t really meant to look. In fact, his reflection was something he tended to avoid, eyes usually cast down to the tiled floor as if the act of looking away might make him forget what he felt.

But now, as his eyes flicker up, it surprises him how haggard he looks. The exhaustion that’s been weighing him down for days—weeks, maybe longer—has crept into his expression, settling in the lines around his eyes and mouth. The weariness he’s been ignoring now seems impossible to overlook. He notices the scars on his skin too, contrasting sharply against his pale complexion, standing out like reminders of battles fought—some physical, some not.

His hands, already scrubbed clean, keep moving under the cold water. Back and forth. Over and over, like the action itself could wash away more than just the surface grime. They’ve turned red from the chill, but he doesn’t stop. In his moments of staring, he’s lost track of time, the repetitive motion becoming almost mechanical.

A grimace builds in his chest, rising up slowly until he can feel it threatening to tug at his face. He bites his lip, refusing to let it show. He doesn’t want to see that expression—doesn’t want to acknowledge it. So he quickly turns the tap off, shaking his hands dry with a sharp breath, breaking away from the mirror before it can reflect anything more than he’s willing to face.

He feels himself spiral, a sway tilting his vision to the side as he turns away from the mirror.

That's not– That's not him. It's not. It never is, no matter how many times he looks, it’ll never be him, not really, it can't be. And realistically he knows he's changed because he’s grown, he knows that. But… It scares him.

Marley is sick—he knows that he’s sick. This godforsaken illness has been ruining his life since he turned 16, but he—he didn’t—he didn’t want it to change him. He’s gotten so used to throwing everything under the rug, he wasn’t expecting it to be so obvious. Wasn’t expecting to look at himself and see the wear, the tear, the exhaustion etched into every part of him.

He bites his lip again, harder this time, as though the sting might pull him out of the quiet panic slowly building in his chest. But how long? The question burns at the back of his mind. How long until this gets even worse? Until he’s no longer himself? He swallows hard, his throat dry and tight.

Marley can’t shake the gnawing thought that this illness, this unrelenting weight, will take everything from him. Will take his time, his energy, his life. It already feels like it’s robbed him of so much—his independence, his ability to work in a facility, his ability to go through a single day without thinking about the limitations that gnaw at him.

The world spins. He wonders, vaguely, if he’ll ever amount to anything more than he already does. Wonders if his illness will take away the only life he has left. What if this is it? What if this is the best he’ll ever feel, the best he’ll ever be? He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as if trying to hold onto something, anything.

Unbidden, Marley’s thoughts drift, to that ever present longing that has been sitting in his chest for so long. That yearning.

How could he ever afford to belong to someone else like this? How could he burden someone with his love, like this…? The thought weighs heavily on his chest, a mix of longing and guilt twisting inside him.

He wants it. He wants to be close to someone, to share the quiet moments of everyday life—the simple comfort of sitting together, talking, even the shared silence. But then reality always crashes back. The thought of someone else having to witness the moments when he’s not strong, when the illness takes its toll, makes him sick to his stomach. Who would want that? Who would want him like this?

His affection is real, deep—it's not something he can just let go of. He thinks about it more often than he wants to admit, the warmth that comes with simply being near them. The laughter they share, the understanding in the smallest gestures, the way everything feels easier in those moments. But how could he let himself want more? How could he ask for that, when he’s so afraid of becoming a burden?

He presses his palms into the sink, the coolness grounding him for just a moment. He craves connection, and the thought of giving that part of himself, and dragging someone down with him, feels selfish. But God, does he want it.